by James Barrie
The alarm went off again and Emily snoozed it again.
Jonathan went into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. Clumps of cat fur were stuck in his hair. He picked them out and dropped them into the washbasin. His t-shirt, an obscure American indie band, was covered in a mesh of silver, grey and white fur. He picked off some of the bigger clumps and threw them onto the overflowing bin. He swore out loud. Then he said, ‘I am absolutely covered in cat fur.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have slept in your t-shirt,’ Emily said from below the duvet.
‘Well, I did,’ said Jonathan, thinking that maybe Emily wasn’t a morning person. ‘I didn’t have the foresight to bring a pair of pyjamas,’ he added.
‘I thought you had a cat yourself,’ Emily said.
‘I used to. But he was black. I told you this last night, don’t you remember.’
Jonathan’s cat had been run over almost a year ago, but still the thought of his former companion brought a tear to his eye. He splashed more water onto his face, wanting to get outside as quickly as possible.
Emily glanced at her alarm clock. She really should have got up by now but was waiting for Jonathan to leave. The top of her mouth was dry and tacky, and she had a strange taste in her mouth. It must be that plum sauce, she thought, before wondering if she had any mouthwash in the house.
She watched as Jonathan crossed the room and, sitting on the corner of the bed, pulled on his boots. He swore again.
‘My boots are wet,’ he said. He took them off and put them to his face. ‘I think your cat has weed in my boots.’
‘Sorry,’ Emily murmured from beneath the duvet. She looked again at her clock and hoped he would hurry up and leave.
Jonathan pulled his boots back on, swearing emphatically as he did so.
‘Think I’m going to walk back through Scarcroft allotments,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t want anybody seeing me in this state.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Emily said. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye,’ Jonathan almost barked.
A few seconds later Emily heard the front door open and slam shut. She jumped out of bed and began to run a bath.
Only then did Theodore crawl out from under the bed and make his presence known. In the ensuing rush to leave the house, he didn’t want Emily to forget to feed him. Otherwise it would be a long hungry day.
◆◆◆
While sitting in early morning traffic on the ring road that morning, Emily wondered if she would see Jonathan again.
She didn’t have to wonder long. That evening she received a text message.
As soon as her mobile beeped, she picked it up from the coffee table and read: ‘Had a great time last night… Would you like to meet up again this Friday?’
It was only Tuesday. She questioned how keen he actually was.
She waited twenty minutes, until the television show she was watching had finished, and then responded: ‘Yes. Free Friday. Really enjoyed those crispy duck pancakes!’
She then noticed that her telephone was blinking. She reached over and played the message.
It was her mother.
‘They’ve let him go,’ she said. ‘There’s still a killer on the loose. Make sure you lock all your doors and windows tonight. Your dad says you should put something behind your back gate in case they try to force their way in…
‘Oh, your father wants to say hello.’
‘Hello,’ her father said, and the message ended with a beep.
She picked up her laptop. She entered the address of the local newspaper. The headline confirmed that Craig Foster had been released.
‘Clementhorpe Killer Still on the Loose’, the newspaper headline announced.
The police had found no evidence to link Craig to the death of Peter Morris. Following a check on his bank accounts, it was discovered that Craig spent less than half of what he earned. The other half remained in his bank account, accumulating interest. Craig Foster was not in any great need of money. The police could find no motive for him to have killed Peter Morris.
Emily shuddered to think that whoever had killed Peter Morris was still at large. And her neighbour, possibly the murderer, was probably back at home. Just the wall separating him from her, and not even a cavity wall at that.
‘The police have stated that they are pursuing other lines of inquiry and if anybody has information they should contact them,’ Emily read.
They have no idea who did it, she realised.
Emily thought back to the night Peter Morris was killed. She remembered being woken by Theodore in the early morning. The feathers dropped on her pillow. She wondered if she had overheard anything in the night. Had she heard arguing in the early hours? She couldn’t remember anything but then her radio had been on.
She felt uneasy. She called for Theodore but he did not come.
She paced the front room. She went and checked that her back door was locked. She picked up the heavy pan from the side and practised swinging it at an imaginary intruder.
Back in the lounge, she picked up a magazine from the coffee table. She took in the headlines. ‘My ninja kitten left me for dead’. ‘My psychic dog has healing powers. Can he help you?’ ‘Car jacked! Then force fed meat pies.’
She threw the magazine across the room. ‘Give me a break!’ she cried.
She picked up the Chinese takeaway menu and grabbed her mobile. The Lucky Twin was engaged. She dialled again. On the fourth attempt she got through.
‘I need a home delivery,’ she blurted. ‘Half a crispy duck… It’s 17, Avondale Terrace.’
◆◆◆
Theodore had heard Emily calling but chose to ignore her. He sat on the boundary wall with Craig’s house. The parcel of grass was exposed, the white tent having been removed that morning.
The killer may well have thrown the cobblestone over the wall as he’d made his escape up the back alley. The entry to the alley at the top of the street was three hundred yards further up the hill and provided access from Avondale Terrace. The entry from Alcuin Terrace was located almost at the bottom of the hill, adjacent to the Morris’s house.
If Peter Morris’s killer didn’t live on Avondale Terrace or Alcuin Terrace, he would have entered the back alley via the access closest to the Morris house, assuming the murder had been premeditated. Therefore whoever had killed Peter Morris had to live further up the back alley and not down it, Theodore concluded.
He jumped down into Craig’s garden and, arching his back, signed his signature across the spot where he’d discovered the murder weapon. Mid-wee the backdoor opened and Craig appeared.
Theodore tightened his bladder and the stream of wee came to an abrupt stop. He felt the fur on his back bristling.
Craig froze. They faced each other.
‘Wait there,’ Craig said.
He turned and went back into his house. Theodore remained standing in the garden, his bushy tail held aloft.
He heard Emily calling again from inside his house. He stayed where he was.
It wasn’t long before Craig returned. He placed a saucer of tuna on the edge of the lawn. Then he stood back into the kitchen doorway.
Theodore had never been given tuna to eat. Emily didn’t even buy tuna-flavoured cat food. He sniffed the air and licked his lips.
Theodore approached. He wolfed down the saucer of tuna. He purred with thanks as Craig walked over. He rubbed himself against Craig’s trousers, wondering if there was any tuna left. He let Craig pick him up and hold him to his chest.
Craig was soon overcome by emotion and began to cry. He sobbed into the cat’s fur.
‘Oh, mummy,’ he cried. The tears streamed down his face. ‘Why are they doing this to me?’
Theodore remained limp for a whole minute before writhing himself loose and jumping up onto the top of the boundary wall.
He watched as Craig returned inside his house and locked the door behind him.
◆◆◆
Befor
e Theodore returned home, he checked up on Wendy Morris. She was baking again.
Theodore sniffed the air. He picked out the savoury smells.
Meat pies, he deduced. I wonder what meat?
Then Irene came down the alley, pulled along by her dog Rocky straining at his lead.
A solitary magpie was perched on a television aerial near the bottom of the hill.
Irene spotted the black and white bird and raised a hand in salute. ‘Good evening Mr Magpie,’ she called. ‘And how is your lady wife today?’
Irene knew that magpies paired for life. The solitary magpie was a widower; she didn’t want to remind him of his loss. Yes, better to pretend, she said to herself.
Then she was dragged further down the alley by her dog.
Theodore looked across at the pigeon loft. He counted four pigeons. He glanced up at the sky and then the eaves of the house and the neighbouring houses.
Another pigeon had gone.
Bal and Belle
Friday evening Emily and Jonathan had their second date. They returned in the early hours, Jonathan carrying a small knapsack over his shoulder. While Emily was in the bathroom, Jonathan changed his t-shirt and put on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He then took from his bag a small hammer and placed it under his pillow. Theodore watched from the doorway, his eyes wide.
When Emily came out of the bathroom, Jonathan went in to brush his teeth.
Theodore sat down on the pillow which covered the hammer. When Emily got into bed he miaowed at her.
He’s the killer, he wanted to tell her. He’s going to bash your brains out while you sleep, like he did to Peter Morris…
‘You can’t stay there,’ Emily said, stroking his head.
Jonathan came out of the bathroom. ‘I can move him,’ he said.
Theodore miaowed in protest.
‘I’d better do it,’ Emily said.
She crouched up on the bed and lifted her cat, but Theodore held on to the pillow with his claws and miaowed loudly. The pillow lifted from the bed with Theodore still attached, revealing the hammer underneath.
Now we’re in trouble, thought Theodore, as he was deposited on the floor.
‘What’s that?’ Emily asked, alarm in her voice.
‘It’s my hammer,’ said Jonathan, picking up the hammer. ‘You know – for breaking up specimens.’
‘Specimens?’
‘Yes, you know, bits of rock…’
‘Well, what’s it doing there?’
‘To defend us… If someone broke in. I brought it just in case.’
‘Well, you’re not going to stand much chance with that little thing,’ Emily said. She reached over and took out a hockey stick from below her side of the bed. ‘Now you’re going to get it!’ she said with a grin.
Jonathan grabbed a pillow to use as a shield, as Emily advanced on her knees with hockey stick held high.
Theodore watched from the doorway as the play fight turned to a love match. There’s always the spare bed, he thought, as he crossed the landing to the unlit front bedroom.
◆◆◆
In the following weeks Theodore noted a change in the household dynamics. It began with Emily spending a lot more time in the bathroom a couple of evenings a week before disappearing outside, leaving Theodore to his own devices.
Half the time she would return with Jonathan and they would have a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine before going upstairs. Their antics in the bedroom were not conducive to a good night’s rest. One Sunday he wasn’t fed until nearly midday. It was completely unacceptable.
Other nights Emily would go out and not return. On these nights Theodore busied himself with his investigations. He had the double bed to himself but he missed Emily and slept with one ear listening out for her return.
Theodore did not like Jonathan; did not like it when he stayed over, and did not like it when Emily did not return home.
◆◆◆
It was a Wednesday night and Emily was speaking to Jonathan on the phone. He was away the whole week, digging holes with a tracked excavator at a derelict steelworks in Cumbria. Theodore sat purring on her lap. He could stay in Cumbria for all he cared.
Emily was telling Jonathan how she had been applying for jobs in the centre of York. ‘I can’t stand that bloody ring road any longer,’ she told him.
Outside a girl called out.
‘I’ll call you back later,’ she told Jonathan.
She went upstairs and looked out of the back bedroom window. She saw a dark-haired girl, heavily pregnant, walking along the back alley.
Zeynep was calling for her missing cat Bal. She still hadn’t given up hope that she would return, or that she would find her trapped in someone’s shed or garage. Weeks had passed and the urgency of finding him had not lessened but increased as her pregnancy had advanced.
‘Bal!’ she called out. ‘Come here, Bal.’
Emily opened her back gate and approached the other woman. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what you were shouting.’
‘Bal,’ Zeynep said. ‘It means ‘honey’ in Turkish. She’s one of my cats. I have two. They are sisters. But Bal has gone missing. I am trying to find her.’
‘My cat goes missing for a few hours but he always comes back,’ Emily said. ‘I’m sure yours will too.’
‘Bal’s been gone for weeks now. I’ve put posters up. I’ve looked all over for her... I can’t find her anywhere. But I know she is alive. Somewhere.’
‘Can I help you look for her?’ Emily offered.
‘Yes, of course… Please.’
As they walked up the cobbled alley, Emily said, ‘Your English is so good. I wish I knew a foreign language.’
‘I studied English at university in Ankara,’ she said. ‘When I came here I hoped to do my Masters at York University. I wanted to be a teacher. But we don’t have money for study, and they probably wouldn’t let me in anyway.’
‘I’m sure you still could if you really wanted.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Zeynep, pointing at her stomach, her eyes cast upwards. ‘Not now anyway.’
Emily found out that Zeynep’s husband Ahmet worked as a taxi driver, working split shifts: mornings and evenings. For over an hour they walked the streets, calling out the missing cat’s name and chatting together.
They cut through the allotments, skirted the racecourse and passed by the Knavesmire pub. Then back down Queen Victoria Street, passing the fish and chip shop in the heart of South Bank. Emily glanced inside and spotted an old man in a white apron standing behind the counter – his shop empty of customers.
Emily noticed that Zeynep had slowed down. ‘Shall we turn back?’ she suggested.
‘Yes, OK.’
They turned down a side street, and began walking back towards Clementhorpe.
Emily smelled the Lucky Twin before she saw it.
The Chinese takeaway was located in the middle of the residential district, where not a tree was visible. Red brick terraced housing fronted directly onto the pavement. Tarmac roads were lined with cars parked on both sides.
In front of the takeaway a sign bore the name ‘The Lucky Twin’ in white letters on an emerald green background. In the window an A3 sheet of brown paper had been sellotaped. ‘Now Fish and Chip “Special” – for Retail’.
There were about twenty people inside the little shop waiting for their food.
That’ll be why the fish and chip shop isn’t doing so well, thought Emily. She looked across the street at the takeaway. Her stomach rumbled. ‘I haven’t eaten,’ she said. ‘Will you be all right walking back? Or you can wait for me.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Zeynep said. ‘It’s not far.’
‘As long as you’re sure.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Zeynep continued along the street, and Emily crossed the road to the Lucky Twin.
The Chinese woman was taking an order over the telephone, so Emily busied herself looking at the menu on the white board although
she knew what she was going to have. What she couldn’t decide was whether to have a quarter or a half. Then she noticed the price. A half, ‘special’ crispy duck was £14.50. She was certain that when she and Jonathan had come in a couple of weeks ago it had been £12.50.
She decided to settle for a quarter.
Sue Wong said into the receiver, ‘There is forty minute delay for home deliveries. We are very busy today…’ She then scribbled the order onto a chit of paper, slapped it onto the service hatch, and, turning to Emily, said ‘Yes, please?’
‘Crispy duck?’ Emily asked.
‘A quarter or a half?’
‘Just a quarter,’ Emily said, retrieving her purse from her handbag.
◆◆◆
Almost an hour later she got her crispy duck home.
As she entered her house, she stepped over a brown manila envelope. She didn’t pick it up. She hurried on into the kitchen. She opened up the silver carton and began pushing the crispy brown meat into her mouth, ignoring the polystyrene container of plum sauce and plastic wrapped pancakes.
Theodore appeared at her feet and began to rub up against her calves. He stared up at her with wide hungry eyes.
‘You wait your turn,’ she told him, wagging a greasy forefinger before pushing more meat into her mouth.
She carried her dinner into the front room and flicked on the television. She had eaten a third of the meat before she opened the other containers.
She ripped open the polythene that held the pancakes, smeared over the plum sauce with her finger, then laid out the cucumber and spring onion. She added a clump of meat, folded up the bottom, then rolled the pancake into a cigar. After her third roll she looked down at Theodore.
He sat at her feet, drooling onto the laminate flooring.
She looked in the silver tray. There were a few shreds of duck left. She handed over the remains. ‘Sorry,’ she said guiltily. ‘I must have been hungry.’
There was an uneasiness that seemed to stem from her stomach. She glanced at her watch and wondered whether to return to the takeaway for another quarter. The uneasiness began to increase. She paced the ground floor of her house, beads of sweat beginning to prick out on her head.
