Oh, for god’s sake! This is my house, he thought.
‘Hold on a second, I’m coming,’ he called.
Taking a deep breath Fred walked to the back door and opened it. A black cat darted into the kitchen, then doubled back and began to entwine itself around his legs. It was purring loudly as it rubbed up against him. Disentangling itself, it jumped lightly up onto the kitchen table, sat down, and turned to face him.
Fred smiled and let out a slightly nervous, relieved laugh.
‘Hello there, kitty. And where did you come from?’
‘The garage, actually,’ the cat replied nonchalantly.
Fred gawped.
‘Wha—!’
A voice from behind said: ‘Hello Fred, meet Hendrix.’
Fred turned around, and promptly passed out.
He was dreaming about blondes. Well, one actually, and she was busy nuzzling his neck. A part of his mind felt he should be feeling guilty because the blonde in question was not his wife. Some other part prompted him that Gwen was no longer alive, and therefore she wouldn’t have minded. Yet another part was wondering why the blonde, who was now kissing him on the cheek, had a tongue like wet sandpaper and a perfume that smelled like stale sweat.
Cautiously opening his left eye, he saw the black cat sitting on his chest, its pink tongue methodically rasping his cheek. Opening his right eye with equal caution, he saw someone holding a running shoe under his nose.
‘Oh, looks like he’s awake.’
Fred immediately closed his eyes. The cat just spoke, he thought.
‘I think you can stop waving that shoe under his nose now. He’s coming round and besides, it stinks.’
Yes, that was the cat all right, Fred confirmed.
‘It was the best I could do. I don’t have any smelling-salts.’
There was a ‘Thud’ sound as the running shoe was unceremoniously flung aside.
Fred felt the pressure on his chest ease as the cat jumped off.
His mind was now a complete mishmash of thoughts. Like watching a washing machine full of clothes and trying to focus on the solitary red sock that kept spinning into view every few rotations, only to disappear amongst the blue shirts, white underwear and the occasional multi-coloured dress.
The solitary red sock in this case was the only lucid thought Fred was able to latch on to.
The cat spoke.
Fred’s eyes snapped open, simultaneously this time, without any of the previous caution.
‘Bonjour, Fred; you feeling all right?’
That was Ralph. Fred recognised the voice. Only it wasn’t Ralph. He looked different. Besides, he, Fred, was Ralph.
‘You’re . . . you’re,’ Fred stammered.
‘No I’m not; I’m . . .’ Ralph paused in mid sentence as the cat gave him a look. ‘Don’t worry about that just yet. Let’s get you up off the floor, shall we?’
Ralph helped Fred to his feet; then guided the wobbly figure back to his seat. He took a chair opposite while Hendrix leaped lightly onto the table, resuming his former position. Fred twitched, casting a nervous glance at the cat.
‘Relax, Fred, it’s only a cat,’ Ralph tried to explain.
‘Under normal circumstances I might agree but. . .’ Hendrix interjected.
Ralph gave the cat a sharp look similar to the one that it had given him a few moments before.
‘Let’s have some more tea. Might help calm the situation down a bit, what do you think?’ Ralph suggested.
Fred nodded, dumbly.
Ralph got up and poured two fresh mugs.
‘Er, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Hendrix warned.
Ralph ignored him.
The cat lifted his shoulders in a gesture which Ralph recognised and decided was a shrug, after all.
Both men sipped their tea while staring at each other over the rim of their respective mugs.
The look in Fred’s eyes showed confirmation of the satisfaction he felt as the hot liquid wound its way down his throat to his stomach.
The look on Ralph’s face was one of consternation, then horror, as the hot liquid wound its way down his ‘throat’, which of course wasn’t really there, and to his ‘stomach’, which also wasn’t there. The tea continued on its downward journey, forming a puddle under his ‘backside’ and eventually began dripping onto the kitchen floor.
Ralph looked down with the same expression of horror as if he had just peed his pants. The only thing missing was the sensation of wetness around the area of his crotch. As he didn’t seem to have any of the bits and pieces normally associated with peeing this was understandable. Ralph jumped off his chair, his garbled exclamation comprising of a string of two word sentences. ‘What the . . .’ ‘How the . . .?’ ‘But I . . .’ ‘Jesus H . . .’ ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Well, I did try to warn you,’ said Hendrix in a resigned tone.
Fred gave the cat another look of disbelief.
‘You really can talk!’
‘Naturally I can talk. A guide – that’s what I am, by the way – would be pretty useless if all I could say was “Meow”.’
‘But . . .’ Fred tried to interrupt.
‘There are no “buts”, Fred. I am a talking cat, and that’s the way it is. Perhaps it’s better if I explain the situation. Our friend still seems as confused as you.’
Ralph was still staring at the puddle of tea.
Hendrix proceeded to explain the whole rigmarole, including the details of Ralph’s car accident in much the same way he had done for Ralph.
Ralph, meanwhile, began mopping the floor. When he finished he put the mop and bucket back inside the broom cupboard next to the kitchen sink.
‘You know, it’s just not fair,’ he moaned.
‘What isn’t fair?’ Hendrix asked.
‘This . . . this whole situation, that’s what.’ Ralph complained with a semi-dramatic sweep of his arm. ‘Here I am mopping tea off the kitchen floor, my kitchen floor I might add, with a mop I can feel, a bucket I can feel and water I can feel. And yet I can’t even drink one lousy cup of tea because I leak, for god’s sake.’
‘Mmm, I see your point,’ the cat conceded. ‘But look at it on the bright side, for a moment.’
‘The bright side? What bright side?’ Ralph retorted indignantly.
‘Well, unlike Fred here, as you won’t ever feel hungry or thirsty, you don’t have to eat or drink. Also, think of all the time you will save by not having to go to the toilet.’
‘And you consider that a plus, do you?’ Ralph asked sarcastically. ‘I happen to like going to the toilet on occasion. I get to catch up on my reading for one thing.’ Fred nodded his head slightly in agreement. ‘Of course I understand you might not be able to quite appreciate the benefits of an undisturbed fifteen minute “sit”. I can’t imagine that reading the sports page while squatting in a cat-box would have the same therapeutic value.’
Hendrix appeared to ponder on this for a moment, as if considering the merits, or lack thereof, of spending any extra time voluntarily hanging around one’s own waste products. Not being the type of cat that would ever have a need to visit a cat-box, he felt it not a worthwhile topic to pursue. He tried another tack.
‘Then consider it like this. It’s all a matter of energies.’
Ralph had a scowl on his face that conveyed the message, ‘I’m waiting.’
Fred’s expression was far less aggressive but equally attentive. Any explanation that would help him ‘get a handle,’ as it were, on this situation, was welcome.
‘Everything is made up of energy. It is only the form the energy takes – or the frequency if you like – that is different. It’s merely atoms, electrons, neutrons and such. Matter and anti-matter. You see. Simple, really, isn’t it?’
‘Thank you, Albert-feline-Einstein,’ Ralph clapped sardonically.
‘Your cat does have a point,’ Fred offered cautiously.
Ralph turned his head sharply in Fred’s direction. The speed of
the movement created a ghosting blur similar to the image on a television with poor reception. As Ralph began to speak, Fred heard the sound of the words a fraction of a second before the corresponding movement of his mouth. The effect was only fleeting, but it served to emphasize that he was in conversation with a dead-not-really person; a concept he was struggling to come to grips with.
The way Hendrix had initially explained it had given Fred the willies. There was a feeling of the macabre about the whole thing. But this ‘different energy’ idea seemed to have a ring of common sense.
As Ralph’s mouth and lips caught up with the words, so Fred’s eyes, and then ears, did the same.
‘Firstly, Fred Johnson, this is not my cat. Anyone who claims ownership of a cat is really only fooling themselves. If there is any claim to ownership, it is probably from the cat’s point of view. As to this cat,’ Ralph indicated with a jerk of his thumb, ‘I doubt ownership in any form would be possible. Secondly, the only point that is relevant here is the fact that you are in my body and I want it back, sooner rather than later, and preferably within the next two weeks.’
The atmosphere in the kitchen was becoming thick with tension.
‘Well, I understand how you feel, Ralph, but—’
‘No, Fred, you don’t understand, so let me spell it out,’ said Ralph, almost spitting the words. The cat stepped quickly into the fray.
‘Fellas, guys. Let’s calm down a bit, shall we. This is not sorting out anything. Why don’t you take turns stroking me for a few minutes? I believe it eases stress or something like that,’ the cat suggested.
‘If I’m going to stroke a pussy . . .’
‘Hey, watch it buster,’ the cat warned.
‘. . . cat,’ Ralph continued, ‘then I’d rather stroke one that isn’t likely to give me any lip if I accidentally rub it up the wrong way.’
Before any more metaphorical fur could fly the front door bell chimed, and the three figures froze.
Fred swivelled around and cautiously drew back the net curtain on the window. There was a police car parked in front of the driveway.
‘It’s the police,’ he hissed. ‘What do you think they want?’
‘Sell tickets to a policeman’s ball, perhaps?’ Ralph ventured. ‘Or maybe they’re here to inform you of your demise?’ he added, grinning wickedly.
‘Well, what should I do?’ Fred asked in trepidation.
‘It’s your house, Ralph,’ Ralph stressed the name, ‘So getting up and answering the door might be one way of finding out.’
7: It’s all in the Eyes
Bill Williams had been off duty when the accident occurred.
He had just mailed a parcel to his granddaughter for her birthday and was having a cup of tea with Agnes French, the Postmistress, when the call from Constable Finch came through on his mobile phone.
Constable Finch had arrived at the scene in the squad car just as the ambulance was leaving. When he heard that Fred had been involved he had phoned Bill immediately.
‘C.Q, C.Q, Finch calling, sarge. Over. This is P.C . . .’
‘Constable!’ Bill snapped, forestalling any more of Finch’s gibberish.
‘Yes, sarge?’
‘You are phoning me. I’ve told you about this before. You had to press the numbers on your phone. You are not using a C.B. radio and I am fairly certain they went out with disco music.’
Finch frowned, and then remembered why he had phoned his sergeant and quickly told him had what happened.
‘I’m at the post office. My car’s at home. I walked. Come pick me up,’ Bill ordered.
‘Right, sarge. Be there in two minutes. Sorry, sarge,’ Finch ended solemnly.
At Corlington General they were met by the still-somewhat-shocked resident surgeon, who immediately informed them that Ralph had just left the hospital of his own free will and, presumably, had gone home.
‘Bit unusual that, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?’ Bill had suggested.
‘Unusual? Darn right it’s unusual. The man was at death’s door. In fact he had died, technically. Next moment he’s off the stretcher, signs a release form and waltzes out. A miracle is more like. But then, I don’t believe in miracles. Not in the strict sense at least. Anyway, sergeant, I thought it best to let you know, as you might want to interview Mister Fenwick.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. I will indeed,’ said Bill. ‘Right now, though,’ he added in a quiet voice, ‘I would like to see the other person who was brought in with Mister Fenwick.’
*
Forcing down an attack of the collywobbles, Fred got shakily to his feet and went to answer the front door.
He opened it to two stern-looking police officers standing shoulder to elbow. The older and taller of the two spoke first.
‘Good morning, sir. Detective Sergeant Williams and Constable Finch,’ he announced politely.
Fred recognised them at once and almost blurted out a familiar welcome.
It was doubtful that Ralph would have known either of the officers with the same familiarity, and it was a dead cert that he wouldn’t have been on first name terms with the older of the two, as Fred was.
Therefore, what he said was, ‘Good morning. You’re here about the accident, I presume?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bill.
‘I am so sorry to hear about Fred Johnson. I believe you were friends?’
‘Yes, sir, we were. Thank you for your concern.’
Bill suddenly began to feel uneasy. A sense of disquiet crept over him and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Fred noticed the change and felt the urge to reach out to his friend and assure him everything was all right. But of course it wasn’t.
‘I haven’t had chance to report the accident. Just got back from the hospital, actually.’
‘Yes, sir. So I understand. Constable Finch and I have also just been to the hospital. You’re probably still feeling a bit woozy after the bump on the head you received. That’s all right, sir. We just popped by to ask a couple of questions. Clear up a few details. You know how it is? The D.I. likes his paperwork all in order.’
The D.I. in this case being Detective Inspector Finch, who couldn’t really give a monkey’s uncle about paperwork. What the D.I. did give a simian’s relative about were the roses he grew, and for which he won many a rosette at the annual village fair.
But never a rosette for first prize.
This particular Holy Grail always seemed to elude him. But the belief that it was almost within his grasp occupied most of his waking hours.
Some villagers had suggested awarding D.I. Finch a rosette for first prize in the hope that he might occasionally forget about roses and remember he was an officer of the law.
Be that as it may, the general consensus of opinion was that the station would run smoothly enough whether he was actively involved or not. For the foreseeable future D.I. Finch would more than likely confine his detective skills to the critical task of tracking down and eliminating the aphids that had the ‘ temerity’ to dine on his roses.
The more mundane aspects of police work, of solving murders (not that there were any murders in Wiggleswood, or ever had been as far as anyone could remember) and suchlike could be left in the dependable hands of coppers like Detective Sergeant Toby Williams, or Bill as he was affectionately known to most of the village residents.
In days past, those that had chosen to cross the proverbial thin blue line usually referred to him in more colourful terms. These often ended in suggestions casting aspersions about the legitimacy of his birth. However, that had not happened since he had moved to Wiggleswood.
Bill was a big man. Not in a fat way. Just big. Six feet six inches in his socks. Add another inch for the soles of his very large shoes, and couple this with 120 kilograms, and you definitely had ‘Big’.
Bill was almost a police line on his own. Although his size was his most imposing feature, his colour was his most noticeable one.
Bill was blac
k. And this was no mere racial term either. His skin colour was deep ebony. In a small village of hardly more than a hundred residents, all of whom were white, it was something that one tended to notice.
Bill Williams had applied for, and got, a transfer from the Yard to Wiggleswood four years ago. He had had enough of Big City Crime, thirty years in fact, and with five more left before he took retirement he wanted to see out the rest of his career in relative peace and quiet. A widower for the past five years, he didn’t have much in the way of ‘baggage’, so after he had sold the house in Mill Hill he was able to afford a nice little two-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of Wiggleswood. He had got most of what he had bargained for. Most, but not all.
After taking up his post he often wondered about the odds that in a village with five police officers, two would be related and both would be half–wits?
Police Constable Benjamin Clyde Finch was the son of D.I. Vincent Finch, the ruthless aphid hunter.
Ben Finch was twenty-two, and in fairness to his father was probably slightly better than a half-wit. About five-eighths would be more accurate.
To get a true measure of Constable Benjamin Finch it is important to realise that he was inspired to become a police officer, not by his father, but from surreptitiously watching a rather violent detective film - which, by the way, he thought was a documentary - at age ten. Years later, after joining the force, he had run up a rather large phone bill from spending two hours talking to various members of the San Francisco police department in an effort to find a certain Harold Francis Callahan. He went into a state of denial for a week once he discovered the truth about the film.
Ben Finch’s mother, Sophie, was also a Dirty Harry fan. In fact, she had every Clint Eastwood film on DVD, her favourite being ‘Every Which Way but Loose’. The film featured a very clever orang-utan, named Clyde, and was the inspiration behind Benjamin’s middle name.
To an outsider this might seem a bit cruel. However, if one considered baby Finch’s appearance at birth, it was understandable. Many babies are born quite hairy. This condition usually disappears after a few days or weeks. For the unfortunate Benjamin, this somewhat pertinent reminder of our simian ancestry lasted several months.
Almost Dead In Suburbia Page 5