The First of Nine

by James Barrie

  ‘I just want to know where you were,’ Zeynep repeated.

  ‘You know it’s the busiest time,’ Ahmet said, ‘after the pubs close. I cannot turn work away. Please do not get so excited. It’s not good for the baby.’

  ‘Not good for the baby!’ Zeynep said, pointing her forefinger at her husband.

  Ahmet looked at the broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor. He considered getting out the dustpan and brush, but knew his wife was not finished.

  A fortnight earlier one of Zeynep’s cats had gone missing. Zeynep had been beside herself. She had acquired the two Birman cats as kittens when she first came to England: a present from her then fiancé Ahmet. One she named Bal, Honey in Turkish, for her thick coat was the colour of set honey. The other she named Belle, after the heroine in Beauty and the Beast: Zeynep’s favourite film.

  She had spent many hours in the last two weeks walking the streets and back alleys of Clementhorpe and South Bank, calling out her missing cat’s name. When Ahmet was not working he joined in the search. But, so far, they had been unable to find Bal.

  The day before Peter Morris had been killed, Ahmet had voiced his suspicions: ‘It might have been the old man with the pigeons down the street.’

  ‘You think he’s done something to Bal?’

  ‘Cats kill birds,’ he went on. ‘People who keep birds don’t like cats. Maybe it was him.’

  Zeynep started crying, thinking the worst.

  ‘I will go and ask him,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Ahmet said. ‘I will speak to him.’

  ‘And what will you say? Have you killed my cat?’

  ‘No. of course not. I will just ask if he can check his shed. I will know from his reaction if he has done something to Bal.’

  And that was how they had left it.

  Ahmet now took his unfinished meal, placed it on the side by the sink.

  ‘I was awake and you didn’t come in till after two in the morning,’ Zeynep went on.

  ‘I told you. I had a fare to Malton at half past one. I was about to finish my shift. And I took the Malton fare – a very drunk couple. He fell asleep. I managed to get them out and then I came home… I am not going to turn work away when we need all the money we can get.’

  ‘And you decided to do the laundry when you got in?’

  ‘I was trying to be helpful. I put the washing machine on before I came upstairs. That’s all. Is there a crime in that?’

  ‘Only if you wanted to wash away the evidence.’

  ‘You are crazy...’ He raised his hands to his head. ‘I didn’t do anything to the old man. Now I must go to work. I don’t want to hear any more of this.’

  He grabbed his car keys from the side and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  ◆◆◆

  On the back wall Theodore sat with the remaining Birman cat, Belle. She had deep blue eyes and a tabby face. Her coat was the colour of smoked cheese; her legs and tail were pointed chocolate brown, her paws gloved in white.

  Theodore had listened to the Turkish couple’s argument with interest. It didn’t take him long to tune into the Turkish language. To a cat each language is but one and the same. A Turkish Van cat can understand its English owner without a bilingual dictionary the same way a Persian cat living in Helsinki has no need of a Finnish grammar.

  Theodore and Belle watched as Zeynep swept up the fragments of broken glass, struggling to reach the floor with the dustpan because of her swollen belly. She sat down at the kitchen table, her head resting on her folded arms. From the slight rising and falling of her shoulders Theodore realized that she was crying.

  Belle jumped down from the wall and a moment later, she brushed against Zeynep’s legs. Zeynep dropped a hand down and began stroking Belle’s head. With her other hand, she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  Had Ahmet paid Peter Morris a visit on the night of the murder? Theodore wondered.

  He closed his eyes in concentration. In addition to a dead man, a missing pigeon, there was now a missing cat.

  How did that all fit together?

  First Date

  Within three days of first messaging Jonathan, Emily had agreed to meet him. Jonathan had suggested the Golden Ball in Bishophill at half past seven, leaving Emily with less than forty minutes to get ready when she got in from work.

  She hurriedly squeezed a pouch of food into Theodore’s bowl and replaced his water, while he brushed up against her legs, miaowing the whole time.

  Then she poured herself a glass of wine and went upstairs to run a bath. Shortly after half seven, a second glass of wine inside her, she dashed out of the house and set off to the pub, a fifteen minute walk away.

  ◆◆◆

  If Emily went to the shop on the corner, she was usually gone for no more than ten minutes. When she had not returned after twenty, Theodore exited through the cat flap. A minute later he took up position behind the trellis that surrounded the Morris’s yard.

  Wendy Morris was sitting in the kitchen with her daughter, Laura. They were both dressed in black. The television was turned off. Peter Morris had been buried that afternoon at York Cemetery. A navy blue pram was parked in the yard, facing the back wall, but Theodore could not see inside. An old tea towel was hanging from the hood. The faded face of Richard III stared back gravely at Theodore. The pram stirred from time to time.

  A middle aged man jogged past, a plastic nicotine inhaler in his hand. He smiled across at Theodore.

  Theodore watched as he shuffled to the bottom of the alley and disappeared from sight. Then he turned his attention back to the kitchen window.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Wendy asked her daughter.

  Laura shook her head and then glanced at her watch.

  ‘You can’t go just yet,’ Wendy said. ‘How about a hot chocolate? You used to like a mug of hot chocolate.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Your dad never liked hot chocolate either,’ Wendy said. ‘You’ve got that from him. Me, I like a mug of cocoa in the morning.’

  ‘Do you have any coffee?’ Laura said, a note of exasperation in her voice.

  ‘I think I’ve got some Mellow Birds in the cupboard.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Laura.

  After she’d made her daughter a mug of milky coffee, she took a sheet of newspaper and placed it on the table.

  Laura noticed that the newspaper was smeared with what appeared to be grease and smelled sharply of vinegar.

  ‘Look at this,’ Wendy said, pointing at the smudged headline. ‘Three out of four new jobs go to foreigners, it says. No wonder you couldn’t get owt when you finished.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like him now,’ Laura said.

  ‘But surely you want to get a job,’ Wendy said. ‘After you studied so hard at college.’

  ‘We get by.’

  ‘Well, if you did want to get a job, I could take Joseph while you’re at work.’

  ‘No,’ Laura said. ‘We’re fine as we are.’

  ‘You don’t want to be stuck at home the rest of your life...’

  ‘You’ve never shown any interest in Joseph before. You never even came to his christening.’

  Wendy sighed. ‘Things have changed now, haven’t they? We can move on.’

  Laura did not respond.

  ‘Now that your dad is no longer around,’ Wendy went on.

  ‘I don’t see what difference it makes. You could‘ve come to your grandson’s christening.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have it. You know that.’

  ‘You could have stood up to him. Just because he was like that doesn’t mean that you had to go along with it.’

  Laura had raised her voice. She glanced through the kitchen window, to where the pram stood.

  Mother and daughter sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Laura stared down at the sheet of newspaper on the table.

  Theodore noticed Irene coming up the back alley. She opened the back gate and ent
ered Wendy’s yard.

  ‘Yoo hoo!’ she called, opening the back door.

  Laura stood up.

  ‘Are you leaving? Don’t go on account of me.’

  ‘Yes. I was just about to go,’ Laura said.

  ‘You look the spitting image of your mother,’ Irene said. ‘When she was your age... What with your red hair and all. You won’t remember me. It’s been a few years.’

  ‘Of course I remember you, Irene,’ Laura said, pushing her hair from her face. ‘Do you still have your dog?’

  ‘Rambo died. But I have a new dog now... Rocky. He’s two years old now. Aye, I don’t know where the time goes…’

  ‘Rocky?’

  ‘Like in the films... I do like a Stallone. Rocky. Rambo. Whatever. I’ll watch it.’

  Laura laughed. Then she said, ‘I was about to leave.’

  She walked past Irene, out into the yard. She turned the pram round and pushed it back into the house, the tea towel still hiding the contents.

  As she circumnavigated the kitchen, Irene got in front of her. ‘Let me have a look,’ she said, plucking away the tea towel.

  ‘He’s sleeping,’ Laura protested.

  ‘I’m not going to wake him,’ Irene said.

  She bent over the pram.

  ‘Ah… He’s a beautiful lad,’ she cooed.

  Wendy approached but Laura had already begun to push the pram through into the front room, its curtains still closed.

  ‘I really need to get going,’ she said.

  ‘Cheerio then,’ called Irene.

  ‘Remember what I said about the babysitting,’ Wendy called after her.

  ‘I remember,’ Laura said, closing the door behind her.

  Wendy picked up Laura’s mug of undrunk coffee and poured it down the sink.

  Sitting herself down at the kitchen table, Irene said, ‘I haven’t seen her for so long…’

  Wendy went over to the kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Would you like a drink of something?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  Wendy peered into the cupboard.

  ‘Malibu?’

  ‘Go on then,’ Irene said. ‘I haven’t had a Malibu for ages.’

  ‘It’s Peter’s. He used to like a glass of Malibu. He’s hardly going to finish it now.’

  Wendy poured Irene a generous tumbler full. She poured herself a finger of whisky.

  ‘They still think that Craig did it for the money?’ Irene said.

  Wendy took a sip of whisky. ‘What other reason could there be?’

  ‘The papers say he was an oddball.’

  ‘You just don’t know who’s living next to you these days.’

  ‘It’s not like the old days,’ Irene said. ‘Everybody used to know everybody’s business back then.’

  ‘They did that.’

  Both women had a drink.

  ‘He’s back again,’ Wendy said, nodding to her kitchen window.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That girl’s cat. He’s eyeing up those pigeons. What’s left of them.’

  ‘He can’t get in, can he?’

  ‘No. Only through the gate… And he’ll have to be quick to get past me.’

  Irene looked to the window but couldn’t make out the cat crouching behind the trellis; she had cataracts.

  ◆◆◆

  Emily brought Jonathan back to hers shortly after eleven o’clock. They had with them a plastic carrier bag containing half a crispy duck from the Lucky Twin Chinese takeaway.

  She went to the kitchen and returned to the lounge with two plates, two glasses, knives, forks and spoons.

  Theodore eyed the bag and sniffed its contents. A droplet of drool formed on his bottom lip.

  ‘Is this your cat?’ Jonathan said, patting Theodore heavily on the head.

  ‘Yes. That’s Theo,’ Emily said, sitting down beside him.

  Theodore stared up at Jonathan. He was sitting in his place… Where was he supposed to sit now? He paced the laminate floor, his tail raised, his ears folded flat.

  Jonathan began to roll up a crispy duck pancake. Emily copied him, smearing plum sauce over a circular pancake, then added the dark brown crispy meat, spring onion and cucumber spears. Jonathan managed to roll his into a neat little cigar-shaped parcel. But when Emily tried, the pancake sprung apart, its filling spilling onto her lap.

  She’d had three (or was it four?) glasses of wine at the Golden Ball. First date nerves, she’d reasoned.

  ‘Here. I’ll roll you one,’ Jonathan offered. He quickly rolled her a pancake.

  Emily ate the crispy duck roll in two mouthfuls, smearing her chin with plum sauce. ‘That really is quite good,’ she told him through a mouthful of food.

  Theodore approached the plastic bag of food again. Just as he was about to stick his head inside to investigate, Jonathan pushed him away with the back of his hand.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s not for you.’

  ‘You can have some later,’ Emily said, picking the bag of food up and putting it up on the coffee table.

  Theodore stared at the intruder. ‘Why should I have to wait? I was here first…’

  ‘I bet they still use monosodium glutamate,’ Jonathan said. ‘You know – MSG.’

  ‘I thought that was banned.’

  ‘It’s not banned, I don’t think. It’s not good for you but it’s not banned. In Japan they call it umami…’

  ‘Umammammiii!’ Emily said, and giggled. ‘Can you roll me another?’

  Theodore suddenly jumped up onto the coffee table. He spotted the dark brown meat in the tinfoil tray and made for it. But this time it was Emily who jumped up and grabbed him before he could snatch a sliver of crispy duck.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she told him. ‘You’ve got your own food.’

  Theodore let his body go limp, as she lifted him from the table.

  Feel free to help yourself, he thought, retreating to a corner. What’s mine is yours and all that…

  ‘I didn’t know what to expect,’ Emily said, between bites of crispy duck roll.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A geologist... Maybe I was expecting someone in brown cords and a cardigan.’

  Jonathan glanced down at his black jeans, relieved he had left his corduroy trousers in the drawer that evening.

  After the duck pancakes had been eaten and a couple more glasses of wine had been drunk, Emily started crying.

  ‘What is it?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Emily said. ‘It’s the wine…’

  ‘Does wine make you cry?’

  ‘That old man being murdered,’ Emily said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Was that round here? I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Just behind,’ Emily said, wiping her eyes. ‘He lived on the corner opposite. I was the one who discovered the body. He was hit over the head with a cobblestone. And now my neighbour’s been arrested. They think he did it…’

  She nodded to the wall that separated her house from his.

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Jonathan put his hand on her arm. ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  ‘It’s not really something you tell people when you first meet them… Oh, by the way, I discovered a dead body the other day. His head had been bashed in with a cobblestone…’

  ‘Those blue cobblestones are heavy,’ Jonathan said knowingly. ‘They made them from slag from the old steelworks in Tyneside.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Emily said, rubbing her eyes.

  After Emily and Jonathan went upstairs, Theodore jumped up onto the coffee table and finished off the last scraps of duck, then licked the droplets of grease from the silver carton. He wanted more, but there was no more to be had.

  When Theodore climbed the stairs up to bed, he felt a faint buzzing in his head and a gnawing in his stomach. Must be that MSG, he thought.

  Jonathan was on his side of the bed, his head bent back into the pillow, snoring loudly. Emily snorted in her sleep and mu
rmured, ‘Another one? I don’t mind if I do.’

  Theodore tried to get into the space between the two bodies, but he could not get comfortable. He climbed over Emily but there was not enough room for him on the edge of the bed. He clambered over Jonathan but the intruder chose that moment to turn on his side – sending Theodore onto the floor.

  He paced the bedroom. Who was this person who had gate-crashed their lives?

  For all he knew Jonathan could be the Clementhorpe Killer.

  The intruder’s jeans and socks were lying in a heap by the doorway to the en-suite bathroom. His boots were discarded by the foot of the bed. They were dark brown rancher style boots that a label claimed had been made in Tasmania.

  Theodore sniffed at the intruding objects, his tail wagging with irritation.

  Tuna Supper

  Jonathan Fielder was from a small town called Market Weighton, located between York and Hull.

  The town is famous for giving birth to a giant, Bill Bradley, and infamous for a witch, Peg Fyfe. Both fared badly. Bill died aged 33, having toured the country with a freak show that included a giant pig from nearby Sancton, a dwarf from Shiptonthorpe and a hunchback from Goodmanham. Peg was hanged after she skinned a young man alive. She survived the hanging by swallowing a wooden spoon, but was then slain by soldiers as she made her escape to York. Nowadays Peg has a real ale named after her; Bill a ring road.

  Jonathan left the fairy tale-sounding town of Market Weighton when he was eighteen years old: he found it a bit small. He went to university in Leeds but found it a bit big. After he graduated he moved to York, which he found about right.

  He woke at a quarter to seven and realized he was not in his own bed. Emily’s alarm bleated from the corner of the room. She turned over, pulling the duvet with her, and silenced the alarm. She lay there and didn’t say anything.

  Jonathan rubbed his eyes and looked at his wristwatch, a much scratched stainless steel Casio.

  ‘I’d better get off,’ he said. ‘I’m on a site on the other side of Bradford. It’s a nightmare to get to.’

  Emily didn’t say anything.

  Jonathan got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. He felt at his stubble, picked off some cat fluff and dropped it onto the floor.