by Kirsty Ferry
‘Oh. Sorry, I meant to tell you, I have an early start tomorrow,’ I suddenly say, in, I feel, an inspired fashion, ‘so would you mind going home tonight?’ I give her what I hope is a winning smile.
‘But it’s Saturday tomorrow!’
‘Yeah.’ It’s my turn to pull a face. ‘But I have to go away early. I’ve got a research trip. I’ve got to meet someone about something and it’s over in Perthshire.’
‘Perthshire?’ she says, in surprise. I suspect she’s trying to think of which clubs I’ll be working in, in Perthshire. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind going there. I’ve heard there are some – um – nice shops there. Yes. Some nice shops.’
‘Perthshire,’ I say. ‘Not Perth. Not the town.’
Ferns stares at me blankly. ‘But I like shops.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’ I glug the last of the wine into her glass, simply to use it up. ‘But we both live in Edinburgh. We have good shops here.’
‘You’re an author. You don’t have to leave the house to meet people,’ says Fern, trying a different tactic. I have half an eye on her glass and half an eye on the window. I want to pull back those curtains again and see what Nessa is up to; there’s some God-awful caterwauling going on and I’m not sure if it’s her or Schubert.
‘There’s no substitute for speaking to people,’ I say, slightly distracted by thoughts of Nessa dancing around the garden. In my thoughts, she is naked.
Fern drains her glass and looks at it in some surprise. ‘Oh. It’s empty.’
‘What a shame,’ I say. ‘Here, let me call you a taxi. It’s late and I’ve had wine too so I can’t drive you home.’
Fern blinks at me. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ she asks accusingly.
‘Of course not,’ I lie.
‘Because if it’s her…’
‘It’s nobody. It’s nothing except that I have to be up early!’ I tell her. Smoothly, I hand her a cardigan, or a shrug, or whatever they’re called.
She takes it, but I’m not sure if she believes my story. It was a rather ingenious story though. And there is something I want to look at in Perthshire. But it isn’t going to run away. And it does seem a lot more appealing to head to Perthshire and not live in my head, in a dingy London club, for another weekend, trying to put words into Vinnie’s mouth.
NESSA
I can hear Schubert making that horrendous noise he’s so fond of when he’s out trying to impress the lady-cats. Poor sod, he’s never going to get a girlfriend with that noise coming out of his mouth.
I think he’s on next door’s roof. If you can imagine the scene in Mary Poppins when Dick van Dyke is singing about chimney sweeps, then that’s what the roofline of our terrace looks like. We have a ton of old chimneys and nooks and crannies galore – because the houses used to be big old three-storey mansions and they aren’t any more but nobody told the chimneys that.
From Ewan’s flat, you can actually climb out of the attic window and onto the roof. I have done this on a few occasions when Schubert has got stuck. I can always tell when he’s stuck because he stops singing and starts whimpering instead. Bloody stupid animal that he is; I mean Schubert, not Ewan, of course.
Ewan uses part of the top floor as his workspace. He writes books, and he’s rather famous now, but I’ve never read any of his books. I think he likes to concentrate on detective novels or crime stories because he used to be in the special branch or something until he made it big. Mr Hogarth, my boss, speaks very highly of Ewan and his family. Ewan’s dad was in the business as was his granddad and blah blah blah and so on through the generations. And as Mr Hogarth is Ewan’s godfather, of course he’s going to be proud of him. Mr Hogarth is also our landlord, but we don’t use the word “nepotism” at all around here; however, it’s very handy if I’m late with my rent, which has happened on one or two occasions. But still, I bet one of Ewan’s relatives would have put Aggie on trial if she’d been around in the 1600s.
The rest of Ewan’s extra floor is storage, divided up by a soundproof door, because he DJs as well and he’s got turntables or mixers or a recording studio or whatever it is in there. The soundproofing obviously works because he doesn’t make a great deal of noise with his music.
I sort of wish I had the basement flat for my workspace. I don’t actually have a need for a workspace, but it would be nice to have it, wouldn’t it?
But a young couple live in the basement flat and they seem to be in a perpetual haze of marijuana. They’re very friendly, but I don’t think they always know who they’re talking to. They’re a bit like hippies, I suppose and she always wears a kaftan thing. We smile and nod, and they travel to a lot of festivals. I know this because they have a tiny pop up tent and they use the paved area in front of their flat to dry the tent out after Glastonbury and the like. It can stay there for days until they drift out and realise it’s probably become wetter with the Scottish rain than it had been when they put it there.
At least the rain washes the mud off.
Oh, and it stinks inside the tent. I know this, because last week I had to get Schubert out of there after a bad-boy tom cat chased him in and I could hear him crying. Schubert has a distinctive cry – cat-like yet pathetic. Pizza usually cheers him up no end, and sometimes I wonder if he just does the crying thing to make me feel sorry for him.
EWAN
The caterwauling is still going on, and it’s turned into that whimpering sound Schubert makes when he realises how high up he is. It’s coming from right outside my window.
The taxi’s arrived, anyway, so I shove Fern out of the door with a swift goodnight kiss and I hurry up to the top floor to peer out of the window, and sure enough, there’s Schubert, hanging onto a chimney pot with his eyes actually closed – his vocal gymnastics are wretched in the extreme.
Well, I could easily climb out of the window myself, but it’s so much more fun to knock on the floor and get Nessa up. Plus, Schubert refuses to come to me when he’s in a mood like that. He just wants his mum.
There’s a set of stairs in her flat that lead up to mine, which are left over from when the flats were a house. Nessa uses them as a bookcase and a house-plant stand. Sometimes I think it would be a good idea to cut a trapdoor in the floor so I can just open it up and let Nessa in that way for Mission Schubert, but I don’t think she’d be too impressed. And Fern would probably tip boiling oil down it anyway.
So I grab the mop, go downstairs and bash on the floor three times, which is the Schubert Signal. I go to my front door and open it again, and then I hear Nessa’s front door slam below me.
I see a dark figure heading up the staircase, then there’s a flash of light and lots of swearing.
Chapter Four
NESSA
I just can’t believe it. I was heading out to Ewan’s flat, summoned by the Schubert Signal, when some idiot leaped out of the shadows, stuck a camera in my face and took a flash photograph.
When I can see clearly again and without a white light searing my vision, I recognise the idiot reporter from the local paper who was responsible for the Chocolate Shot.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ I shriek. ‘I’ll have you arrested!’ Too late, I realise I’m still holding my wand and brandishing it at him. ‘That’s illegal!’
‘I’m acting on a tip off,’ says the reporter. He’s a horribly oily sort of chap with a permanent sheen to his lips where he keeps licking them and greasy hair plastered to the sides of his face á la Shane MacGowan on a particularly bad day. ‘And that’s assault with a deadly weapon.’ He nods at my wand and smirks at me.
‘It’s a tree branch!’ I say and brandish it again. Which is maybe not the best thing to say or do under the circumstances.
‘It’s a kosh,’ he says.
‘It’s self-defence,’ I fire back.
Ewan appears at the top of the staircase with his arms folded and stares down at us. I half expect him to do the well-worn policeman routine and go, ‘What’s all
this then?’
But he doesn’t.
‘Can I help?’ he asks smoothly. ‘Or shall I call the police and tell them we have an intruder on the property?’
‘I’m acting on a tip-off,’ repeats the reporter. ‘I was told there were drugs on the premises. Specifically,’ he looks at me, ‘on the first-floor landing.’
‘Drugs?’ Ewan and I say together.
Then I go hot and cold as I recall the small plastic bag of suspect plant matter Schubert kindly brought to my front door after the tent incident downstairs. I assume he thought he was rewarding me for rescuing him from Monster Cat. I dropped it casually back down into their yard on the way to work but somebody must have seen Schubert with it, and I’ve had no visitors so—
‘Cowbag,’ I mutter.
Fern is such a bitch.
‘I assure you,’ says Ewan, advancing down a few stairs and coming to stand next to me, ‘there are no drugs on this property.’
I can see the reporter shrinking a little against the wall. Ewan has to be six foot three and he used to play rugby at university – so you can imagine his general size. There’s not an ounce of fat on him mind, he’s solid muscle and next to Mr Licky Lips Stick Man Ewan Grainger, with his short dark brown hair and his steely grey eyes, is rather imposing.
I try not to think about the small yet sexy tattoo on Ewan’s shoulder blade and how the muscles had rippled under it when I’d spotted him digging up weeds, in his scrap of garden, in the summer. Instead, I try to concentrate on the matter at hand.
I feel a bit braver now Ewan is there and I’ve stopped going hot and cold, so I move forwards as well and scowl at Sticky. ‘Who told you that?’ I ask, ‘because I’ll have them arrested as well.’
‘That’s classified,’ says Sticky and I roll my eyes. I hate that expression – it makes me think of people plucking out their eyeballs and playing marbles with them; but I did actually roll my eyes heavenwards before letting them settle on Sticky again.
‘Classified?’ I say. Then I roll my eyes again for good effect. ‘I bet you’ve been desperate to say that for years. Have you been practising? “Oooh, look at me, I’m a fake paparazzo and it is all classified ...”’ I start mincing around, imitating what I think Sticky would do and Ewan reaches out a hand and puts it firmly on my shoulder. He makes his point and I stop mincing before we lose the battle.
‘All right,’ says Ewan, ever so calmly and ever so deadly, ‘I won’t make you talk this time, but I strongly suggest you get your facts right before trespassing on private property again.’
Sticky nods briefly and turns around. He scurries down the stairs and then I hear him scurry out of the building and away into the night like the rat he is.
I am so very angry at Fern I think I’m just about to explode. I wish Sticky would start stalking her instead, and then we could see how she liked it.
But once we’re sure the reporter has gone, I turn to Ewan and brandish my wand at him.
‘You tell your stupid girlfriend to get her facts right before she tries to mess up my life again, okay? I’m just about sick of her and her accusations. It’s not the first time, you know, and I don’t know what I’ve ever done to her. I swear that she’s the one who stuck that horrible paparazzi picture to our front door.’
Ewan looks at me in some surprise, then it’s like a shutter comes down over his face. Bugger, I’ve just dissed his girlfriend to his face. Hey ho. And I have no proof, do I? Whoops.
‘You want to come and get your cat?’ Ewan asks me.
His voice is toneless and he turns away from me. He takes the stairs two at a time and disappears around the dog-leg to his floor. Maybe this is just what happens when you’re a famous author-type person. Maybe the paparazzi just come and creep around outside your house to act on tip-offs, trying to get a good story. Maybe Fern would appear as the victim or something in the article, looking all sad and pathetic and going, ‘Oh, oh, oh, my boyfriend lives near a drug baron, oh, oh, oh, I’m so worried for his life.’
I trail up after him and walk into his flat. He’s left the door open, but he hasn’t waited for me.
Bugger.
EWAN
I really can’t believe what Nessa has just told me. Well, I can, given the way Fern’s been behaving towards her recently. Would it be better to say I don’t want to believe it?
I think it’s a good job Fern has gone home. The last thing I want is a war on the staircase. One nutter pap-hack is enough for tonight. Just out of curiosity, though, I think I’ll check the drawer beside my bed. I took the photo of Nessa out of the paper and tucked it in there. I have no idea why. It wasn’t the most flattering of shots, but it was kind of cute and funny and cheered me up to see it.
‘Can I just climb out the window, then?’ asks Nessa. She’s in the hallway shuffling from foot to foot and looking a bit awkward.
I smile at her, distracted, and nod. ‘Yeah. You know the drill.’ I turn my attention back to my bedroom.
‘Okay,’ she says. Then there’s her footsteps on the narrow staircase, and the sound of the window opening.
But I can’t resist. I pop my head out of the bedroom just long enough to see her reach the top of the stairs and begin to climb out of the window. That damned stick is lying on the hallway floor and I still have no idea what she’s doing with it anyway.
‘Ewan Grainger’, she says, her voice kind of muffled because she’s half in and half out of the window. ‘Are you looking at my bum?’
‘No,’ I lie, and duck back into the bedroom.
I open up the drawer and move a few socks around. I move a few more socks around. There’s nothing in there except socks. I open up the other drawers and they are all in order as well. Nothing out of place.
There’s no newspaper photo anywhere to be seen.
Chapter Five
NESSA
Schubert is being particularly obnoxious and silly. He’s got his eyes closed and he’s mewing pitifully. It would be quite comical if he wasn’t my cat and I didn’t have to witness him clenching his claws around a chimney pot with his fur all stuck up on end. He looks like a crazy animal, silhouetted against the giant full moon, yet illuminated by the landing light.
‘Come on,’ I coax. ‘Tuna time.’ I swear he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut even more. His meow sounds like a ‘Noooooooooo!’ covering a good three octaves.
I ease myself towards him, because any sharp actions will make him bolt, even though he appears too terrified to move. He shuffles around the chimney pot away from me and cries. Good grief.
‘Schubert. Come on. Come to mummy.’
He makes a subdued sniffing noise and half opens one eye. I can see his fur start to relax and I know we’ve almost won. ‘Catnip wants to see you,’ I say and bring a bedraggled mouse thing out of my pocket. The trick with Schubert is to get his attention then produce Catnip. Schubert has loved Catnip the Mouse since he was a kitten and slept with him every night. Catnip has his own blanket and Schubert noses him underneath it and pats the blanket down around him.
‘Good boy,’ I say and wave Catnip around a bit, hoping the scent will reach Schubert. I’m not disappointed.
Schubert opens his eyes fully and fixes his gaze on Catnip. He meows querulously once or twice, then unwinds a paw which he stretches out to me. I back slowly away and sure enough, Schubert disconnects himself from the chimney pot and stalks towards me, watching Catnip all the time.
The awkward bit is the window. I have discovered that the best thing to do is to throw Catnip through it. Schubert leaps in after him and then I climb in, shutting it firmly behind me.
This is what we do today and I head back down to the main floor and stand in the hallway and watch as Schubert ecstatically rolls around with his toy. Ewan usually stands down there waiting for me. He gives me a round of applause and Schubert a cat treat; but I notice with some regret that Ewan isn’t doing that tonight and the hallway is empty.
It was that Fern thing, wasn’
t it?
All I can say, is Shi*-Poor.
EWAN
From the noise in the hallway, I can guess that Schubert has been rescued. I’ve missed my chance at applause, thanks to my preoccupation with Fern.
‘I’ll be going now!’ calls Nessa in an odd flat little voice. ‘Come on Schubert, come here.’ The sounds of ecstatic cat-ness stop and I guess she’s picked the beast up now and is currently staggering to the door under the weight.
‘Nessa, wait!’ I call and hurry into the hallway. I’m right. The apparition that turns to greet me is a fat cat on two legs.
‘Ewan,’ she replies and looks at me. Well, I assume she’s looking at me. Her feet are pointed in my direction, as is Schubert. I can’t see her face due to the cat.
And before I can think, the words are out.
‘I’ve just opened a bottle of wine. Fancy a drink?’
There is the briefest pause, then a curious sounding ‘Okay’, from behind the cat’s right ear.
She bends down and puts the animal on the floor, where it recommences ecstatic Catnip-play. Schubert loves that mouse.
‘Great!’ I say. ‘Oh, and don’t forget your stick.’
It startles me slightly when she says, quite matter-of-factly, ‘Oh it’s not a stick, it’s a wand.’
NESSA
There now, it’s out. I’ve told him about my wand and he probably thinks I am as much of a nutter as the reporter.
‘A wand?’ he says. He takes a couple of steps towards me and I kind of shrink back.
‘Uh-huh. Um. No. No, it’s not. It’s not really a wand. It’s a wand-like stick. It’s … it’s Schubert’s,’ I say ingeniously. Schubert, hearing his name, looks at me, then goes back to Catnip. He completely ignores the stick. ‘See,’ I say, ‘he loves it. Can’t keep him away from it.’
