The First of Nine

by James Barrie

  Emily slumped on the sofa. On her lap there was the mail she’d retrieved from the doormat. Two bills and one large manila envelope. She opened the bills and shook her head in dismay.

  She didn’t understand how she could work six days a week and still not have enough money to last until the end of the month. It was not as though she was extravagant. She did not smoke. She drank a few bottles of wine a week, but didn’t everyone?

  She opened the brown envelope. There was one sheet of A4 with a pink post-it note, on which her mother had written: ‘Thought this might be useful.’

  It was a photocopied page from a medical encyclopaedia, titled ‘How to Deal with Excessive Perspiration.’

  She tossed the papers onto the coffee table and stroked Theodore. She was about to text Jonathan but remembered he was working late in the office. She took the takeaway menu from the table. She took her mobile from her pocket. Theodore rubbed himself against her thigh.

  ‘No duck for you, tuna face,’ she said, dialling the number for the Lucky Twin.

  Her calls were met by a computerized voice repeating ‘Your call cannot be taken right now. Please try again later…’

  She noticed her hands were clammy as she replaced the telephone on its cradle. She slipped her sandals back on and a few seconds later began the march over the Big Dipper to the Lucky Twin.

  Pillow Talk

  Theodore watched from the front window as she marched up the street; she was going to be gone some time. He exited through the cat flap and a moment later approached Wendy Morris’s house.

  Arthur was sitting in Theodore’s preferred surveillance location, behind the trellis fence. Theodore jumped up onto the wall on the opposite side of the alley. He counted two pigeons, both perched up on the gutter. From this side of the back alley, Theodore could not see into the kitchen. He paced the wall with agitation.

  At least he knew where Arthur was, he thought; now might be a good time to check up on his house and find out why Craig’s telescope was pointing at the window with the blue curtains.

  He jumped back down into the alley and trotted up the hill, his tail held aloft. He kept going past his own house until he was facing the house with the blue satin curtains. He glanced down the alleyway and saw in the distance Arthur’s black silhouette. He was still watching the pigeons.

  Theodore jumped up onto the back wall of Arthur’s house. He glanced back down the hill but could not see the black cat from this position. He made his way along the boundary wall towards the house, his ears folded back, tail held straight up. He was in enemy territory.

  Below him was an overgrown raised garden area that Arthur apparently used as his toilet; Theodore noted that he wasn’t one to cover. The rest of the yard was concreted over. It looked like Arthur’s owner did not sweep the yard often, if at all.

  Theodore jumped down and began to examine a mound of brown mulch in a drain.

  He fished out a feather with his paw. It might be a pigeon feather. It might be from Peter Morris’s prize pigeon, Ethel, or one of the others that had disappeared. But then again it might just have blown in. He surveyed the raised garden area but didn’t venture in. He would return and search the yard in more detail later, he decided.

  He glanced up at the window with the blue curtains. He jumped back onto the boundary wall, then onto the felted roof of the extension. He made his way across the flat roof, then jumped up onto the bedroom windowsill.

  He looked back across the yard, to the houses opposite; he wondered if Craig had his telescope trained on him at that moment.

  The sash window was still open a couple of inches and from inside Theodore made out the moans and groans of human copulation. The smell of sex mixed with musky aftershave came from the room.

  He edged along the windowsill and peered into the dark room. It was as he had suspected: Ahmet lay on top of Arthur’s owner.

  Theodore recognized the woman. She was the blue Fiat driver who had almost run him over.

  Diane Banks’s face was turned towards the window, her mouth parted. But in the gloom of the bedroom Theodore did not know if she was looking at him, past him or just staring into space. Meanwhile Ahmet pounded away on top of her. After a short while, the two bodies lay still. A minute later Diane lit a cigarette.

  ‘I am worried,’ Ahmet said, still catching his breath. ‘Zeynep… She suspects.’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything,’ Diane said, blowing out smoke.

  ‘I tell you – she found black cat hairs in my underpants.’

  ‘Just roller them before you go home, darling.’

  ‘Then there was the old man,’ Ahmet said. ‘Peter Morris… He saw me coming out of the back gate.’

  Theodore’s ears pricked up at the mention of Peter.

  ‘Big deal,’ Diane said. ‘He’s dead. Dead men don’t talk…’

  ‘He said to me… I know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘So you killed him?’ Diane laughed.

  ‘It is not a joking matter,’ Ahmet said. ‘He knew… He knew about us. And if he knew, maybe he told others. He might have told his wife. You know what people are like... Zeynep must not know about us.’

  Diane stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Don’t worry so much,’ she said. ‘Nobody will find out.’

  ‘I am worried,’ Ahmet said again. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t see each other for some time.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ Diane said, reaching under the duvet.

  ‘Zeynep,’ Ahmet said. ‘She is suspicious.’

  ‘Don’t worry about your little wife,’ Diane said. She ducked under the duvet, and a minute later her head began to bob up and down.

  Ahmet began to groan, his head bent into the pillow.

  Theodore turned and jumped back down onto the felted flat roof of the extension; he had seen enough.

  Then he noticed Arthur on the rear wall. The black cat’s back was arched, his fur bristling. His baleful stare met Theodore’s.

  Theodore jumped down onto the boundary wall and Arthur proceeded along the back wall to cut off his escape.

  The cats stopped a few feet apart.

  Theodore jumped down into the yard.

  Arthur jumped down too. He stood opposite Theodore. His tail swished from side to side.

  Theodore retreated towards the house. He crouched down, his eyes half closed, ears flattened to the side of his head. The tip of his tail tapped the ground. Should he flee or make a stand?

  Arthur advanced, growling.

  Theodore growled back and arched his tail.

  He turned sideways and arched his back to look bigger. His pupils dilated. His fur stood on end.

  Arthur took a step towards him.

  Theodore bared his teeth and hissed.

  Then Arthur launched himself at Theodore.

  Theodore rolled onto his back, all four legs out, claws extended. Ready. Then he kicked out with his hind legs as Arthur landed on him.

  Crispy Duck Hangover

  Theodore was woken by an angel. Her bright blue eyes stared into his. Her nose was a pale pink T. She was surrounded by the golden aura cast by a street light further up the back alley. She licked at his face, like his mother had once done.

  As his eyes focussed, he noticed she had a tabby face. An angel with a tabby face, he thought: he must be dreaming.

  He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened. When he opened them again, the angelic tabby-faced cat was still there, slowly coming into focus.

  It’s time to go home, she purred softly.

  Home?

  Yes. It’s time that you went home, she purred. You need to rest. You had a fight… Don’t you remember?

  Of course the angel cat did not actually speak to Theodore, the way that humans do. She conveyed her meaning through purring, her eyes and the gentle movements of her tongue as it glided over his fur.

  Theodore tried to raise himself from the ground but his back legs were too weak. He remembered the fight with Arthur, his back legs kickin
g and pushing the black cat away, not allowing his opponent the opportunity to get at his neck.

  He remembered the other cat’s teeth fastening on his ear, then pulling, the cartilage tearing. Arthur chewing on the gristly morsel. Then Theodore fleeing over the wall, down into the back alley. Arthur chasing him, his mouth red with Theodore’s blood. Running blindly towards home. Arthur catching up. Jumping up onto a back wall. Then a mighty blow to his side and falling…

  It was night but the moon was almost full. Belle the Birman cat licked his face.

  How long had he been lying there?

  On one side of him there was a brick wall; on the other the side of a shed. He must be in the Turkish couple’s yard, he realized.

  He tried to get to his feet again and this time managed, his limbs aching from the fight. He walked a few trembling yards.

  There was a cat flap at the bottom of the gate. He turned and blinked goodbye to Belle before exiting into the back alley.

  He staggered down the alley until he was at his own gate. He didn’t have the strength to jump up onto the back wall. He miaowed at the gate hoping that Emily would hear. He waited but she didn’t come. He rested and then miaowed again.

  He lay on the ground in front of the gate. He could smell the safety of his own yard but couldn’t enter it.

  He listened to the hustle and bustle of other cats going about their business. He heard the wail of a female in heat. The rustle of leaves as another cat followed the trail of a mouse. The soft padding of a thousand paws in the night. He closed his eyes.

  What had he achieved this evening besides being beaten up by a thug of a cat?

  He’d discovered that a middle-aged divorcee was having an affair with a Turkish taxi driver. He’d discovered that Craig Foster liked to watch them have sexual intercourse through his telescope.

  But what did any of that have to do with who killed Peter Morris and who or what was taking his pigeons?

  As night began to turn to the grey of morning and the birds began to call out for the dawn to come, he stirred from his spot by the gate. He jumped up onto the top of the back wall and made his way to his back door. His whole body trembled, from his whiskers to the tip of his tail.

  He paused in the kitchen. Snoring was coming from the front room.

  Emily was lying on the sofa. An empty bottle of Chardonnay stood beside a wine glass on the table. Two foil trays lay on the floor. Apart from a few scraps of aromatic duck, they were empty. A tray that contained strips of spring onion and cucumber and a cellophane package of pancakes lay unopened.

  Theodore ate the remains of the duck and licked the grease from the tray. Then he jumped up onto the sofa and settled on her stomach.

  He kneaded the soft cushion of her belly through the damp cotton of her t-shirt and felt some peace of mind return. His heart beat slowed down. He purred as he pushed his paws into her, but Emily didn’t wake. He applied his claws but she still didn’t wake.

  He made his way to her chest and looked at her face.

  It was pallid, clammy. Her mouth was slightly open. Drool had dried white down the side of her mouth. Grease from the crispy duck was stuck in hard brown globules at the edges of her mouth.

  What was wrong with her? he asked himself.

  But Theodore was too tired to come up with any answers. Instead he went to sleep.

  ◆◆◆

  Emily woke some hours later. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then at her wristwatch.

  ‘Pooh sticks!’ she said. ‘I’m going to be late… I’m going to be really late.’

  She picked Theodore up from her stomach and put him on the floor. Then she swung herself round.

  She glanced at the empty wine bottle on the table and then the empty tin foil containers on the floor. ‘What’s happening to me?’ she said to herself.

  I was wondering the same, Theodore thought.

  ‘I’m going to lose my job at this rate,’ she said. ‘Then there’s not going to be any more crispy duck.’

  Maybe it’s the crispy duck that’s the problem.

  ‘Life without crispy duck is not a life worth living.’

  I really do think you have a crispy duck problem.

  Emily turned to him. She took a quick breath. ‘Oh, my God. What happened to you?’

  Theodore remembered that he’d lost part of his ear in the fight with Arthur. A triangle was missing from the middle. The upper part of what remained was now folded down over itself. What was left of the lower part was a mess of cartilage, fur and scab.

  ‘Pooh sticks,’ Emily said again. ‘I don’t believe this is happening to me.’ She picked Theodore up. ‘We’re going to the vet’s.’

  Emily carried him through to the dining room and got the cat carrier out from the under-stairs cupboard.

  At least wash your face before we go, Theodore complained, as he was pushed into the plastic box.

  Human Indiscretions

  Theodore was sitting on the sofa next to Emily, who was eating crispy duck from a silver tray. She used her fingers to push the meat into her mouth while watching a television programme about a grizzly-faced chef trying to turn around failing restaurants. Theodore waited his turn, trying not to drool.

  He heard Jonathan’s footsteps on the pavement outside. Then there were his familiar three sharp knocks on the door.

  Emily pushed the foil tray back into the plastic bag, tied the bag up and rushed outside to dispose of it. A minute later she opened the front door, her hands wet. ‘I wasn’t expecting you so early,’ she said, wiping grease from her chin with the back of a hand.

  ‘I got off work early for once,’ Jonathan said. ‘Thought I’d surprise you.’ He walked into the house and bent down to give her a kiss. ‘I thought you were cutting back on the Chinese,’ he said wiping grease from his own mouth.

  ‘I’m trying,’ Emily said. ‘It’s difficult. I relapsed…’ She laughed.

  Theodore exited the cat flap. In the yard he circled the bin. It was galvanized steel and even if he managed to push it over, it would make such a clatter, Emily would be out of the house in seconds.

  Grey cloud gathered over the yard.

  He felt cheated. Life would be so much better if Jonathan wasn’t around. He schemed silently, dreaming up ways of annoying the intruder to the point he would give up on Emily and find someone without the complications. Someone without a cat…

  People want a simple life, Theodore philosophized. They just don’t realize it.

  ‘I wish I could lie in bed all day,’ Emily had told him on more than one occasion.

  Well, why don’t you? Theodore thought back.

  All this rushing around, sitting in cars in traffic jams, going to jobs that you don’t even like, just so you have the money to pay for the fuel to get to work and the sandwich you cram into your mouth in the ten minute lunch break (if you’re lucky), and then driving home, where you fritter away your money online on products which you don’t need. People needed to do less, Theodore concluded; they just didn’t realize it.

  As long as he continued to annoy Jonathan, Theodore reasoned, it was only a matter of time until he signed back on that dating website and found someone else. Then it would be Theodore and Emily again. It was only a matter of time.

  He returned inside. Jonathan’s rucksack was at the foot of the stairs. Evidently he was planning to stay over.

  Theodore raised his rear end and shot a jet of urine over the bag. Then he went outside again.

  ◆◆◆

  On the table in front of the back window, Michael had lit candles. In the kitchen Theodore watched as Michael tapped purplish red steaks with his little wooden mallet.

  It was Philip’s birthday and Michael was cooking him a special meal. Philip’s present was waiting on the table. A cube wrapped carefully in pink crepe paper.

  Philip walked in. ‘Bit dark in here,’ he said, flicking on the lights.

  Michael walked over to the table and blew out the candles, sending wisps
of smoke into the air.

  ‘Oh, candles,’ Philip said. ‘I didn’t realize. Sorry.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Michael said. ‘I got you a little present.’

  Philip tore open the cube. ‘A new watch,’ he said, his voice not trying to hide his disappointment. He opened the box and removed the grey Swatch. ‘I really wanted a Rolex,’ he said, putting the watch back in its display case.

  ‘It will go with your shirt,’ Michael said. ‘The shirt I bought you last week. Grey’s all the rage at the moment…’

  Philip shrugged. ‘If you say so,’ he said.

  Theodore yawned. Why Michael put up with Philip was beyond his comprehension. He jumped down into the alley and then back up the other side, on top of Wendy Morris’s wall.

  Wendy and Irene had just finished dinner.

  ‘I never knew you were keen on pizza,’ he heard Irene say.

  ‘Peter never liked foreign food,’ Wendy said. ‘He would never try anything new. Now he’s not here, I thought I’d have a go at something a bit different.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had a few pizzas in my time,’ Irene went on, ‘but roast beef and peas are new toppings on me.’ She laughed.

  ‘Just using up a few bits,’ Wendy said.

  She took their plates over to the kitchen sink and dumped them into the water.

  Zeynep entered the alley further up the hill. She began shouting for her cat. She walked down the alley, a thin coat buttoned over her bulging belly.

  She hadn’t yet given up on Bal, Theodore realized. He jumped down from the wall and followed behind Zeynep. They exited the access alley and out onto the next street.

  Zeynep paused on the pavement, in front of Diane’s house. A taxi was parked outside. Ahmet’s taxi.

  She took her mobile phone from her coat pocket. She pressed the touch screen and then held the phone to her ear.

  A moment later a faint tune could be heard from within the house. Zeynep thrust the mobile phone back into her pocket. She marched back into the alley. She didn’t stop until she reached her own gate.