The First of Nine

by James Barrie

  ‘Theodore!’ Emily cried. She ran over and picked him up.

  Theodore stared back into Emily’s face, his eyes bulging, his heart thumping. He began to wriggle himself free.

  ‘I think he’s all right,’ Emily said, holding onto him tightly.

  The door of the Fiat swung open and a woman with short dark hair got out.

  ‘Is that cat yours?’ the woman asked, her voice high-pitched, verging on hysterical.

  ‘He must have followed us,’ Emily said, still clutching her cat.

  ‘I could have killed him,’ the other woman said.

  Emily hugged Theodore to her chest, beginning to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘He gave me the fright of my life.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emily said again.

  ‘I’m just glad I managed to stop… I have a cat of my own.’

  ‘I think we’d better get him home,’ Jonathan said.

  The woman got back into her car and drove away in first gear, lighting a cigarette as she went.

  Emily and Jonathan crossed back over South Bank Avenue.

  Emily glanced behind. The Lucky Twin was only round the corner. She sighed, holding tightly onto Theodore.

  Theodore sniffed the air. He could smell Chinese food. So close, but yet so far, he thought as he was carried home.

  Back at Emily’s house, Jonathan asked, ‘What are we going to do for dinner now? I’m starving.’

  ‘Well… what do you suggest?’ Emily said.

  ‘I have a number for another Chinese takeaway on my mobile,’ Jonathan said. ‘I can call right now.’

  ‘Are you sure they’ll do the special crispy duck?’ Emily asked, Theodore purring on her lap.

  ‘They all do,’ Jonathan replied.

  He already had his mobile out and was scrolling through his contacts. ‘You won’t notice the difference… Here we go. Fortune Monkey.’

  ‘Fortune Monkey?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what it’s called. Look: I’ve had food from them before and it’s fine… And it’s much cheaper than the Lucky Twin.’

  Emily chewed on the duck rolls unenthusiastically. They tasted of nothing. Perhaps cardboard if she was feeling generous, but she wasn’t.

  While they ate, Theodore took care of his personal hygiene.

  ‘I didn’t know your cat could play the tuba,’ Jonathan said, nodding over at Theodore.

  ‘He can’t,’ Emily said. Then, noticing what Theodore was doing, said, ‘Oh, I see.’

  The air grew heavier. On the television Jonathan had put on a Swedish crime drama that he’d said was good. He was busy eating his way through a portion of prawn toast.

  Emily had feigned interest in the television programme, but had given up on it two minutes after it had started. She didn’t want to put her glasses on in front of Jonathan and was unable to read the subtitles without them. She finished her wine and went into the kitchen to refill her glass.

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore followed her into the kitchen. He was not keen on Nordic Noir either.

  He’d already put the near miss behind him. He hadn’t been hurt. He’d learned a lesson about crossing the road. It was not such a big deal, he thought to himself. He still had eight lives left after all.

  He miaowed up at Emily, who was tidying up the remains of the Fortune Monkey meal. She dropped some strips of duck onto the floor in front of him. He sniffed at them but left them lying on the tiled floor. Emily was right: Fortune Monkey just wasn’t the same as the Lucky Twin.

  ‘I don’t think Theodore’s feeling well,’ Emily said when she returned to the front room. ‘I think he’s traumatised. Maybe I’ll take him to the vet’s tomorrow morning.’

  ‘He seems fine to me,’ Jonathan said, not looking away from the television.

  ‘He may have internal injuries,’ Emily said.

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘So, what do you think of the Fortune Monkey crispy duck?’ he said.

  ‘I think I prefer the Lucky Twin.’

  ‘It tastes all right to me,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘It lacks something…’ she said. ‘It’s not the same as the Lucky Twin.’

  ‘They probably don’t use the MSG.’

  ‘No,’ Emily said. ‘They probably don’t.’

  ‘We’ve still got the fortune cookies.’

  Jonathan handed one of the foil wrapped shells to Emily, and then took the other for himself. He broke open the sweet and read: ‘Your relationships will come to nought and you will die a painful death.’

  Emily opened hers. ‘You will lose what is most precious to you,’ it said. ‘You will never be able to replace it.’

  They both crumpled up their slips of paper and tossed them onto the coffee table without saying anything to the other.

  Theodore chewed on the tag of one of Jonathan’s boots, which he’d left by the side of the sofa. He soon succeeded in eating through the cotton loop that Jonathan used to pull his boot on. He’d made a start on the other boot when Jonathan noticed what he was up to.

  ‘Hey, get off!’ Jonathan shouted and swiped a hand at Theodore.

  ‘Don’t you touch my cat,’ Emily started.

  There followed a brief argument which ended with Jonathan pulling on his boots with what remained of the tags and walking out, the front door slamming shut behind him.

  From beneath the sofa, Theodore listened to his footsteps recede, as he stomped up the hill.

  As soon as he’d gone, Emily glanced at her watch. The Lucky Twin would be closed by now. She finished the bottle of wine and went upstairs to bed.

  In the middle of the night, the storm broke and heavy rain fell. Emily lay awake in bed, the sheets damp beneath her. She began to feel the tension in her head dissipate. She turned over and stroked Theodore, who purred reassuringly by her side.

  In his own bed half a mile away, Jonathan woke several times in the night. The rain lashed his window. He struggled to sleep.

  The next morning, as he drank his coffee before setting off to work, he sent Emily a text.

  ‘Sorry re last night,’ he wrote. ‘You were right. Fortune Monkey: No good.’

  A Rainy Day

  It rained all the next day.

  Theodore stayed inside, only going out to empty his bowels in the covered litter tray in the corner of the yard.

  At least it’s covered, he thought, listening to the rain patter on the plastic lid.

  Then he went back inside and watched Columbo.

  Miniature Ottoman Houses and Black Furry Underpants

  Ahmet Akbulut had a hobby. In the afternoons between his morning and evening shifts, he built miniature Ottoman houses.

  Almost all of the elegant old timber houses back in his hometown of Zonguldak, on the Black Sea coast, had been burned down or bulldozed, only to be replaced by nondescript concrete apartment blocks, two to four storeys high.

  As a boy he had dreamed of becoming an architect and reviving traditional forms of domestic building. But then he’d had to go out to work at fourteen, after his father’s ill health meant he could no longer work at the local coal mine. Ahmet had left school and abandoned his dream.

  But not quite.

  In the intricate models he built in the spare bedroom, soon to be a nursery, his dream survived. At the moment, he was building a doll's house. He secretly hoped his wife was carrying a girl.

  In the afternoons, he glued matchsticks to matchsticks with balsa cement, cut rectangular holes for windows in corrugated cardboard walls, and, with his trusty craft knife, cut out fingernail-shaped roof tiles from thin sheets of balsa wood.

  On six separate shelves in the back bedroom were six completed miniature Ottoman houses. Each house had taken him a year to construct. They represented six years of working in England: first delivering fast food for a pizza outlet and then as a taxi driver. Each month he sent money back to his family in Turkey.

  When the baby arrived he would have to find somewhere else to build his houses, Zeynep had warned
him; the table where he now worked would be for nappy changing. He would put a window into the sloping shed roof, he thought, gazing out across the yard and catching the stare of a large grey fluffy cat sitting on the back wall.

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore noticed Ahmet look up from his work and out of the window. Most times he looked in the same direction. To a house on the other side, a little further up the hill.

  Zeynep carried a laundry basket out into the yard. Belle followed a moment later and lay down on the concrete, as Zeynep hung out the clothes to dry.

  After a minute, she turned to the window of the back bedroom. ‘Ahmet!’ she shouted up.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Ahmet shouted down.

  ‘Have you been stealing my pegs?’

  ‘Pegs? No, dear. What would I want with your pegs?’

  He looked across the table to the shoebox where he stockpiled his materials. Inside he had acquired several wooden pegs that he was going to transform into a peg family. He had already drawn on faces and hair with a permanent marker. He had also swiped a couple of pairs of black lace knickers from Zeynep’s underwear drawer. She hadn’t noticed, as she hadn’t been able to fit into them for some time. Ahmet planned to create a black silk dress for the peg grandmother and aunties. But he’d shied away from the task, thinking it may well be beyond his capabilities.

  He turned his attention back to the balsa wood tiles and cut out another half dozen. He hoped to have one side of a roof tiled before he started his evening shift. His mobile beeped from within his jeans pocket. He read the message and, smiling to himself, looked outside.

  Theodore followed his stare and noticed a pair of blue satin curtains twitch.

  Ahmet responded to the text, replaced his mobile in his jeans, and then picked up his tube of balsa cement once more. But before he could glue another tile onto the roof, Zeynep shouted up at him once more, her voice edgier and higher pitched.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ he called down.

  ‘Get down here now!’

  As Ahmet came out of the back door, Theodore saw that Zeynep was holding up a pair of white underpants.

  ‘What are these? she said, waving the pants at Ahmet.

  ‘My underpants?’ Ahmet said, palms outstretched.

  ‘No, these?’

  She plucked at the pants. In her fingers she held a pinch of short black hairs.

  Ahmet looked at the hairs. ‘They are little black hairs,’ he said. ‘So? I have black hair. They are my little hairs. Is it an offence to leave some little hairs in my underpants?’

  ‘It’s fur. Not hair,’ Zeynep said. ‘I do know the difference.’

  ‘We have cats, don’t we? It is just a bit of cat fur. Gets everywhere.’

  ‘We have Belle,’ Zeynep said. ‘But she is not black. If you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’

  ‘I want to know how you got black fur on your underpants when we don’t have a black cat.’

  ‘Please, Zeynep,’ Ahmet said. ‘It is all in your head. Hormones because of the baby.’

  Zeynep swore, then kicked over the laundry basket, sending its damp contents spilling onto the ground. Then she marched back inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Ahmet picked up the basket and finished hanging out the washing – running out of pegs before he had finished.

  Theodore watched him from the back wall. In the back bedroom window he spotted Belle looking down at Ahmet.

  Then he sensed another presence. He turned round, and further up the hill, on the other side of the alley, he was met by Arthur’s amber stare. Arthur was sitting on the back wall of the house with the blue satin curtains. It was his house.

  The black cat did not blink instead its stare bore into Theodore.

  Theodore looked away, down the hill.

  How had Arthur’s fur got on Ahmet’s underpants? he wondered.

  Carbolic Soap and Tuna Fish

  From on top of the chest in the bay window, Theodore could see to the end of the street. He spied Wendy crossing the road, on her way to the shops; her shopping trolley bumping along behind. Theodore glanced at the DVD player on the shelf below the television. 14:24.

  At 15.07 he spotted Irene being pulled across the road by Rocky. Ahmet pulled away in his taxi at 16.15 to begin his evening shift. At 17.07 Craig Foster glided to a halt on his bicycle in front of his house. He glanced up and down the street before unlocking his door and pushing his bicycle inside.

  Tuna time, Theodore thought.

  He got to his paws, stretched and a minute later exited the cat flap.

  ◆◆◆

  Craig Foster usually arrived home before Emily by about twenty minutes. Before he met Theodore he’d only gone into his back garden on a Tuesday to put out his rubbish when he remembered, which wasn’t very often. But now after arriving home each day, he opened the backdoor and took out a saucer of tuna for his neighbour’s cat.

  Theodore rubbed against Craig’s legs, letting himself be patted on the head before wolfing down the tuna.

  Craig took his tuna sandwich to the back room, where he sat at the table and ate it in the semi dark. After his sandwich, he went to the bathroom where he remained for ten minutes.

  Theodore continued his search of Craig’s house while Craig was in the bathroom. He’d searched most of the house but had yet to find anything to incriminate Craig with Peter Morris’s murder. Not even a pigeon feather.

  However, Theodore knew Craig was lying about one thing. He knew that he was not as interested in stargazing, as he had made out to the police. If he hadn’t been looking up at the stars, what had he been looking at?

  He climbed the stairs in seconds and paused on the landing. The curtains in the bedrooms were permanently closed but the bathroom door was ajar and light leaked in through frosted glass. Yesterday Theodore had searched the bathroom: an unpleasant task he was glad to get over.

  He now climbed the stairs to the attic room. Magazines and papers lay scattered across grey carpet tiles, many of which lay open to display photographs of the human anatomy, focussing primarily on the sexual organs. Theodore arched his eyebrows and continued his search.

  Under the eaves at the front, several monitors and out-dated computers were stored along with boxes of cables for the now redundant machinery.

  There was a desk against the chimney breast on which sat a computer monitor, its screen blank. The computer stood on the floor beside the desk and whirred quietly to itself. A black metal waste paper bin, overflowing with used tissues stood next to the computer. Empty tissue boxes and toilet rolls lay scattered across the floor.

  Human behaviour sometimes bemused Theodore; sometimes it just saddened him. He decided against a detailed examination of the contents of the bin.

  He jumped up onto the desk and stood in front of the monitor. He dabbed at the mouse which sat next to the keyboard. Suddenly the screen sprang to life. ‘SPANKING TIME!’ the website shouted in fat pink letters.

  Three young females crouched in a row, their rear ends raised.

  As a kitten Theodore had raised his behind to allow his mother to inspect his nether regions, an honour he now bestowed on his human Emily from time to time. However, he doubted Craig’s interest in behinds was hygiene related.

  A chair in the middle of the room faced a Velux window, set into the sloping roof. In front of the chair a telescope was attached to a tripod.

  Theodore remembered Craig’s astrological slip to the police officer when they were taking him away for questioning. He noted that the telescope was not pointing up towards the sky but below the horizon. He jumped across onto the chair seat and then up onto the back of the chair. Balancing on the thin chair back, he lined up his sight with the telescope. He made out the back bedroom window of a house on the other side of the alley, a few houses further up. The window had blue satin curtains.

  Theodore noted that the curtains were halfway between open and closed, and the window was open a couple of inches a
t the bottom. From within the darkened room a pair of amber eyes stared back at him.

  Downstairs the toilet flushed. Theodore jumped down from the chair and raced downstairs.

  When Craig emerged from the toilet Theodore was by the door, licking the empty saucer. Craig picked him up and hugged him to his chest. ‘See you tomorrow, little man,’ he said.

  He put Theodore back down and picked up the saucer.

  He gave Theodore a little wave before going back into his house, closing and locking the backdoor behind him. He would not leave his house again until the next morning.

  Theodore jumped up onto the boundary wall. He looked across at the houses opposite.

  He understood that Craig was not interested in astronomy, but was undertaking his own surveillance. But why?

  From the front of the house, Theodore heard Emily park her car. Michael Jackson came to an abrupt end (‘Just to tell you once again, who’s bad…’), and the car door slammed shut. At least she was in a good mood, he thought, jumping down into his yard.

  Emily picked him up with a smile and gave him a hug. Then she held him up in front of her so he faced her. Her brow creased.

  He blinked hello, purring loudly.

  ‘Imperial Leather,’ she said.

  Theodore was confused.

  ‘Carbolic soap,’ she explained, pulling him closer. ‘You smell of carbolic soap and…’

  She inhaled deeply.

  ‘Tuna!’

  Theodore tried to wriggle free.

  She held onto him tightly. ‘Someone’s been feeding you, haven’t they?’ she said. ‘I wonder… ‘Who still uses Imperial Leather?’

  Theodore struggled in her grasp.

  ‘Someone who uses carbolic soap has been feeding you tuna,’ she said, her eyes wide.

  There was nothing wrong with Emily’s powers of deduction, thought Theodore. Perhaps he’d underestimated her, he thought, as he was dropped to the floor.

  ◆◆◆