I pulled a sweatshirt over the tank top I’d normally sleep in (I hadn’t gotten to shower or dress properly, I’d been distracted by the text) and slipped on a pair of jeans.
It wasn’t like I was about to bump into anyone, now, was it?
I picked up a basket as I entered the supermarket. I didn’t have a pound coin for a bloody trolley even though I wanted enough shopping to overfill a basket. Still, I slid my arm through the handles and walked to the wine aisle. I wanted a couple of bottles for when Joe came for our weekly romcom night. It was as I was peering at the label of a bottle, not realising my reading glasses were on top of my head when I heard my name being called.
I cringed and closed my eyes for a moment; I wanted to curl up and slide under the display counter. I cursed, pretended I hadn’t heard, and wished I’d thought to put some earbuds or headphones, or whatever, in, to cover my ears. My heart rate increased, and I wiped my sweaty palms over my thighs as I took a deep breath ready to face her.
“I thought that was you,” she said. Penny Frankenstein sidled up beside me. Of course, that wasn’t her real name, but I’d been calling her that for so many years I couldn’t remember what it was. “I heard you got divorced.” She pouted in feigned pity. “You should come and join my club. It’s disguised as a book club, but we have so much fun, share dating tips and giggle over the online dating apps. We meet every Thursday evening, do come,” she said, eyeing me up and down. She placed her hand on my arm as she continued, “It’s hit you real hard, hasn’t it?” Her eyes with the coloured contacts brimmed with tears.
I looked at a hand that gave away her age; it had baggy skin and sunspots. And then to her face that was pulled so tight from multiple facelifts that her eyes were stretched nearer to the side of her head and her lips were pulled so far across her cheeks she looked like the Joker. It always amazed me that she could actually speak. She made Jocelyn Wildenstein look normal.
I plastered on a smile and clutched my basket tighter to stop the shake to my hands. “Penny, it’s nice to see you. You’ll have to excuse my dress this morning,” I leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I’m actually doing the walk of shame,” and then laughed out loud. I was impressed I’d remembered the term from a book I’d read.
I had no idea if she understood because her plastic face was so moulded she couldn’t show any emotion.
“I think I have a date on Thursday. I’m undecided whether to go or not, so I’ll have to take a rain check if that’s okay,” I added.
“Of course, and how exciting for you. It must be a relief to date a real man,” she quipped.
“Oh, I don’t know, Penny. There is something to be said about living with a gay man, my closet is amazing, all my underwear matches, and my vagina, my dear, is as tight as a nun’s,” I said. I placed the wine in my basket where it clanked against another and with a wave I walked off.
I muttered, giving the impression I was someone with mental health issues as I walked around. I needed bread, and I hated supermarket loaves, especially when I had the most amazing artisan bakery near home. I needed milk and tea bags. I needed food, but I just could not be arsed to cook or decide what to eat. I cursed the lawyers for not getting me some sort of allowance to live on while my divorce was being finalised, then I could’ve just dined out and not done this supermarket thing.
I loved shopping in the French market that came once a month; the little deli’s that had popped up. I hated the commercial conglomerates that sucked dry the suppliers while pandering to the consumer with ever cheaper, poor quality products wrapped in endless acres of plastic.
By the time I’d got to the checkout, I was grumpy. Not grumpy enough to not take care of the bottles of wine on the…what was it actually called? A conveyor belt? Or was there an official term? I shook my head, not wanting to care. I stood the bottles up, tutting as the checkout lady jolted the conveyor belt along instead of letting it run smoothly.
“Those will fall over and break,” I said, grabbing a bottle before it did just that.
“Most people just lay them down,” she said with a smile.
I sighed. I wasn’t most people. When my items were rolled without much care to bounce off the metal surround in the collection area—was there an official term for that?—I realised I didn’t have a bag for life with me. I patted my pocket, as one did, in the hope a bag for life would miraculously appear. I should have relented and bought one of those tiny fold-up nylon bags with a clip to secure it to your keys. The kind of thing old aged pensioners used and bought from the magazine in the Sunday supplement. Yes, those OAP’s actually had some sense.
“I need a bag,” I said, watching my wine roll around.
She grabbed a bag and rung it up. By that point, all my items were piled high, the bag was on the top and she was telling me how much I had to pay. There was a queue a mile long, which was probably an exaggeration, and I was put under such immense pressure that I could feel my armpits leaking panic.
I fumbled around in my bag for my purse, and my heart rate increased the longer it took. I pulled out wads of old receipts, Tena Ladies, pens with no lids that had leaked ink, a set of keys I had no idea what they opened, a packet of very old mints, and a piece of tissue paper that felt like it had a chewed piece of gum in the middle of it. Eventually, I found my purse, not before the lady waiting behind me had tapped her toes enough times that I wanted to impale something through them to keep her foot still. I grabbed my card and handed it to the checkout lady. She looked at me, then the card machine. “Do you have a Nectar card?” she asked.
“No, I don’t,” I said, knowing full well she could see the purple loyalty card poking out of my purse, but it was too late for me to produce it, and I didn’t want the distraction while I was trying to remember my pin number.
Purchases paid for, I began to fill my carrier bag while the checkout lady started to scan the waiting foot tapper’s food. In protest, I picked up her packet of condoms that had the free lube attached to it and loudly asked if they were hers since the checkout girl appeared to be mixing up our shopping.
“Yes, and I need those for the weekend,” Foot Tapper said, giving me a wink. “You should try the lube, it’s flavoured,” she added.
I grabbed the carrier bag, my handbag after shoving all the debris back in, and walked away, still muttering to myself.
Danny was at the front door of the block when I arrived. “You look like a bag lady,” he said. “And I bet that’s alcohol in there,” he added, as he tried to take my carrier bag from me.
“I look like a what?” I asked, shocked by his statement.
He raised the carrier he had prised from my hand. “Your bag, m’lady. I’ll carry it for you.”
“Nice recovery,” I muttered, as I held open the door for him.
“I haven’t seen you around much,” he said, as we climbed the stairs to our floor.
“I’ve been busy, you?” I asked, wanting to be polite.
“Same. I have to be in Birmingham for a few days, I was going to ask if you’d check in on Pat for me?”
“Pat?” I frowned at the unfamiliar name.
“Pat the cat. He’s elderly so doesn’t go out, doesn’t want to, so you’ve no fear he’ll leg it as soon as you open the door. He just needs feeding twice a day, and his litter basket changed.”
Danny handed me back my carrier bag as we approached our front doors. I quite liked cats and missed having a pet, so I nodded. “Okay, you’ll have to let me know exactly when and give me a key, of course,” I said.
“That’s great, thank you. I know I can be a twit sometimes, I never really know what to say to people. Pat’s so easy to take care of; you probably won’t even see him. He sleeps on my bed most of the time. His litter basket is in the bathroom, and his food bowls are in the kitchen. Why don’t you come in now, and I can show you?”
It seemed a sensible thing to do, so I left my carrier bag outside my door and followed him.
Danny showed me w
here the cat food was stored, the bowls, and the plastic fork with the cat on the handle to identify it. I mean, who knew that large grey plastic fork completely unsuitable for human hands or food, would be a pet food one? He showed me where the litter tray was, and I was pleased to see it was one of those covered up, little house types, and he used a plastic bag over the tray before he put the litter in. That would make it nice and easy to clean. I didn’t see Pat, though. I left Danny and he promised to drop his key off in the morning.
The following day I woke and as I padded, bleary-eyed, towards the kitchen, I saw a piece of paper and a key that had been posted through my letterbox.
Thanks for looking after Pat. I’ll be home Friday at some point so no need to feed him that evening – Danny
Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I made him out to be, that was a nice gesture. I put the kettle on to boil and picked up my phone. I noticed a text message.
Thursday? How about I call for you at 7 pm? If you’re happy to, text me your address or we could meet at the restaurant? Ronan
There was no apology for the delay in replying, but I’d ignore that. I typed.
You can meet me here, that’s fine… Words from Joe seeped into my mind. I deleted the text before I sent it and started again.
If you’d like to give me the address of the restaurant, I’ll take a taxi and meet you there. Lizzie.
He quickly replied that time, and I smiled as I heard the kettle click off. I made myself some tea and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. I read the text again, and a little giddy feeling washed over me. I laughed.
I shook my head. “Oh, for fuck sake,” I said, aloud, rolling my eyes. I was fifty, getting giddy was for teenagers over pop stars.
I liked the giddy feeling, though. I texted Joe to remind him it was romcom night and to tell him I had a date. His reply wasn’t what I was expecting.
Need to cry off tonight. Mum’s not well, going to see her. I’ll call later, sorry, my lovely. Glad to hear about the date, though. You didn’t invite him to your apartment, did you?”
I replied. What's wrong with your mum, and no, I told him I’d take a taxi and meet him. Call me when you have five minutes.
Instead of a reply, I got a thumbs up. I suspected he was busy and couldn’t talk right then. I worried about his mum, though. Joe was trying to talk her into moving into a home. She had recently been diagnosed with dementia and Joe had been called out a few times during the evening when she’d gone for a walk. It was heartbreaking to see and many a night I’d held Joe while he sobbed at the injustice of the disease, wondering at what point she’d forget who he was.
I decided on a shower. I might be spending the night alone, other than a minute or two with Pat the cat, but I ought to start to make an effort.
Chapter Four
I sat with a glass of wine, wondering what time Pat the cat wanted dinner. Danny hadn’t said a specific time. I’d eaten my pizza, leaving the crusts because, my whole life, I’d had that irrational thought that crusts made your hair curly. I placed the wine on the coffee table and paused the movie I’d been watching, then slid from the sofa, grabbed my keys and Danny’s, and made my way to his flat.
I knocked before I inserted the key, not knowing why, then slowly pushed open the door and called out, “Pat, here puss puss.”
I’d been in the flat once before and knew it was empty, but I still tiptoed around. I pursed my lips and sucked in air to make a squeak—cats liked that noise I believed. I picked up the bowl that had been used from the morning and gave it a quick wash then opened a tin of food and nearly gagged at the smell. I looked at the label. Salmon and tuna. It smelled like old ladies.
“Urgh.” I spooned some into the newly washed bowl, trying not to throw up.
I topped up his biscuits and refreshed the water then looked around for some washing up gloves and, not finding any, decided I’d bring my own next time. I headed for the bathroom to the litter box and lifted the lid expecting to see some poop or clumped granules where the cat had peed and instead found nothing but clean litter. I replaced the lid assuming Danny had cleaned it before he left, and Pat the cat hadn’t needed to use the loo. I pursed my lips and sucked in to make a squeak again.
Danny had said that Pat was old and slept most of the time so I decided to leave him to his evening. I’d left his food, and was sure he’d eat it when he was ready.
The following morning I decided to venture to Danny’s before I’d showered or even had my cup of tea. I opened his door and called out to Pat. When I walked into the kitchen, I frowned. The food bowl was full of hardening and smelly food.
“Pat,” I called out as I walked to the bathroom. I lifted the litter lid and once again it was clean.
Danny had said that Pat often slept on his bed, so I pushed open one of the doors that led to a small bedroom, which had a workbench along one wall. I stared at the numerous certificates that hung above the bench; I guessed Danny was staying around for a while. I couldn’t imagine a reason to hang educational certificates in a temporary location. I backed out of the room and widened the slightly-open door to the other.
A large bed dominated the room and my attention was drawn to the iron headboard, specifically the handcuffs hanging from them.
“Oh,” I whispered as I took a step forward. The footboard played host to more cuffs at the corners. “Oh,” I said again. “Pat?” Nestled in the pillows was a curled up bundle of fur, it didn’t move. “Pat, come on puss,” I said, louder that time. Still no movement. I walked to the side of the bed, feeling very conscious that I was invading Danny’s personal, and maybe erotic, space. I reached out to stroke the cat. He was very cold to the touch. Not just cold but stiff as well. And he didn’t make a peep, not a movement, or a purr.
“Oh…” I added a ‘fuck’ to that one as I backed from the room, not sure why, and when I was clear of the bedroom, I grabbed the keys and ran for my flat.
“Joe, phone me back, urgently,” I said into my mobile at the prompt of Joe’s voicemail. I laid the mobile on the kitchen counter and paced. “Oh no, poor Pat,” I mumbled. “Danny is going to be so sad.”
I wondered how long it took for rigor mortis to take hold of a cat, at what point would…fluid escape cavities. That would happen, wouldn’t it?
“Oh fuck.”
At some point he’d disintegrate, surely? I wondered if I should bag him up; double bag him just in case. Would Danny want to bury him? Should I call a vet? Maybe I ought to report his death or at least get some advice. I would have to move him; I couldn’t leave him to weep on Danny’s bed. I decided I needed a cup of tea and to think. While the kettle boiled, I brought up the Internet. I needed to know how long I had. I could hardly leave him nestled among the pillows until Danny came back. Not that it was summer, but I was sure we’d still have flies, and if we had flies, we’d have…Oh, fuck. I was about to scroll around when my phone vibrated in my hand; I’d received a text message.
Just checking in, hope Pat is okay – Danny
There was no way I could reply, so I tried Joe again. I sighed when he didn’t answer and then remembered I hadn’t heard back after he’d told me his mum was poorly. I felt awful.
Another thought came to me. I dialled.
“Hello?” I heard.
“Ronan, it’s Lizzie. I’m sorry to call you, and this is really strange, but I need some advice, urgently.”
“Lizzie, it’s good to hear from you. You’re not about to cry off our meal, are you?” he asked, and then laughed.
“No, but I have a problem. I’ve tried Joe, but I can’t get hold of him.”
“Oh, he’s at a venue of mine checking it out for me before I refurb. Do you want me to call him? I doubt he has any mobile signal, but I can ring the landline,” he said.
“That’s okay. I have you now. Right…here we go…I’m supposed to be looking after Pat, but I think he’s dead on Danny’s bed. And on his bed he has handcuffs, and foot cuffs, is that what they’re called? They’re
leather and metal, and I really don’t want Pat to leak, or whatever they do when they…”
“Lizzie? Lizzie! Slow down, take a breath. Who is Pat, where is he? Did you call the police?”
“No, I haven’t called the police, should I?”
“Yes, if he’s dead, then you need to call the police, they’ll call an ambulance and whatever. Is he attached to the handcuffs? You haven’t disturbed any evidence, have you? Oh, fuck, Lizzie. Get off the phone and text me your address. I’m on my way.”
With that, he cut off the call, and I stared at the phone. Why would we need an ambulance?
I texted the address, and then it dawned on me. I tried to call him, but his phone went straight to answerphone.
“Pat is a cat, not a person,” I said, hoping he’d listen to his voicemail before he called the coroner or whoever one calls for the dead.
I tried his phone again and got no reply. I started to giggle. Ronan thought I was talking about a dead person.
I groaned. “Oh, God, he’s going to think I’m such an idiot.”
I decided to be proactive. I reached into the cupboard under the sink to find some rubber gloves. I grabbed some plastic carrier bags and doubled them up. I also grabbed the kitchen roll, a bottle of bleach and a sponge, just in case Pat deposited something whilst being bagged up.
By the time I’d gathered my phone and the keys, I heard the main block door open. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and the fire safety door swung open from the stairwell.
“Ronan, I think—”
His eyes widened, and he gripped his hair in his fingers. “What are you doing, Lizzie?” he asked, coming to an abrupt halt.
“I’m going to bag him up. I thought the bleach would get rid of any…you know.”
“Lizzie, what have you done?” he asked, quite slowly.
I held up my hands. “Oh, oh, Ronan…Pat is a cat. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you.”
“Pat is a cat?”
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits Page 4