The First of Nine

by James Barrie

  Michael tended to go for a run in the late afternoon or early evening, Theodore realized. Even on the afternoon of York Races, he had left it until after the last race before setting off for his run. But on the morning following the murder, he had been kitted out ready for his run. That was the reason for him to be up and about at that early hour.

  ◆◆◆

  There was a tapping at Michael’s front door. The bells of York Minster rang out seven o’clock.

  Theodore’s ears folded back. ‘Me a model!’ Emily had said laughing.

  Emily was actually on time for once, Theodore realized.

  Michael went to let her in.

  A moment later, Theodore’s eyes widened as he saw Emily enter the back living room. She was dressed in a pair of tight blue jeans and one of Jonathan’s old checked shirts.

  ‘You didn’t forget our modelling date?’ she said.

  ‘How could I forget?’ Michael said with a smile.

  He indicated the purple chaise longue pushed up against the wall.

  ‘How shabby chic,’ Emily said, laughing nervously.

  ‘Shall I get us a cup of tea before we start?’ Michael said, walking into the kitchen and putting the kettle on; not waiting for a response.

  Emily didn’t sit down on the chaise longue straightaway. Instead she looked at some of the pictures on the walls. She paused in front of the picture of the back alley, not noticing the details. Then she examined the portrait of Philip, painted in acrylics. He stared lifelessly out from of the canvas.

  ‘Is that supposed to be Philip?’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said from the kitchen. ‘Just a study I was working on.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a while…’

  ‘No,’ Michael said, the kettle reaching the boil. ‘We’re no longer an item, as they say.’

  ‘Oh. I am sorry,’ Emily said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Michael said from the kitchen.

  She sat down on the chaise longue, her knees tightly together.

  Theodore watched as she undid a button of Jonathan’s shirt.

  He looked to the kitchen, where Michael was crushing little white tablets with the back of a teaspoon. He spooned the white powder into Emily’s cup of tea and stirred it in.

  Michael put the two cups of tea onto the tray and carried it through into the living room. He placed the tray on a little side table beside the chaise longue. For the next few minutes the pair chatted.

  ‘What type of tea is this?’ Emily asked. ‘It has a strange edge to it.’

  ‘It’s Yamamotoyama, said Michael.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had that one before…’

  She began to giggle.

  ‘What did you say it’s called again? Yamma… mamma.’

  Michael laughed too. ‘Yamamotoyama,’ he said.

  ‘Yammamammayammamamma…’ said Emily, before collapsing into giggles.

  Michael stood up and from behind the easel he picked up the little wooden mallet.

  He glanced out of the kitchen window. He spotted Theodore eyeing him from within the ivy that hung over the wall.

  ‘They will know my name,’ he mouthed silently at the cat.

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore realized that Michael was intent on tidying up any loose ends.

  He jumped down from the wall, then up onto the windowsill. It was a sash window. It was open at the top a couple of inches but not enough for him to get through. He peered through the glass into the room.

  Emily was reclined on the chaise longue, another button on her shirt undone.

  ‘So how would you like me?’ she said, giggling. ‘Is this all right?’

  ‘I can always arrange you later,’ said Michael and laughed.

  Emily giggled. ‘I like this tea,’ she said, still giggling. ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘A nice cup of tea!’ Michael said, clapping his hands together.

  Emily reached over and took her cup of tea. ‘Yammamamma…’ she slurred, raising the cup to her lips.

  ‘You drink it all up now,’ Michael said, clutching the mallet behind the drawing board.

  Theodore jumped up at the top of the window. He managed to get his paws into the gap. He pushed down and pushed himself forward as the window dropped under his weight. He landed in the middle of the room. He skidded to a halt between Emily and Michael.

  ‘It’s Theo!’ Emily cried, clapping her hands together. ‘It’s my cat!’

  Michael still had the small mallet in his hand, held behind the drawing board. Theodore dashed towards Emily, knocking the tea cup from her hand. It fell to the floor and smashed. The half-drunk tea spilled onto the parquet floor.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Michael shouted.

  ‘Hey! Don’t shout at my cat!’

  ‘I’m allergic to cats!’

  Theodore made it through the door into the hallway. He looked at the closed front door and then dashed up the stairs and into the back bedroom.

  He jumped onto the double bed. The duvet fell away from Philip’s face. A red pulp, with black scabs and shards of bone. It was more like a giant red lollipop that had been rolled in a grate of ashes than a human head.

  Theodore looked at the body with the same expression as he would a dead moth.

  Here we go again, he thought.

  He had seen a dead human before. His instinct was to turn tail and run home. But Emily was downstairs and in no state to help.

  The window over the bed was closed.

  Behind him he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. He dived under the bed.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ Michael said from the doorway.

  Theodore positioned himself under the middle of the bed.

  ‘I’m going to get you now,’ he snarled.

  He watched as Michael’s face appeared at his own level, contorted into a grimace.

  ‘I’m going to cut you in half and put you in formaldehyde.’

  Theodore wasn’t quite sure what formaldehyde was, having little interest in modern art. He edged backwards. He pushed up against something. It rolled away from him. He turned and inspected the object.

  It was a wooden cylinder, about two feet long. A baseball bat. Greetings from Louisville, it said in cursive script down the side. He examined the end of the bat. It was caked in dried blood.

  This is what Michael had used to finish Peter Morris off, realized Theodore, and then Philip. The murder weapon.

  ‘Get out from there!’ Michael hissed, his voice laced with anger. He swung his fist in a wide arc below the bed.

  Theodore pressed himself into the corner. Just out of reach.

  ‘Is everything all right up there?’ Emily slurred from downstairs.

  We are both for it now, thought Theodore.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Michael said, ‘I can manage. Just trying to get him out from under the bed.’

  Michael approached the bottom of the bed. He yanked it away from the wall.

  Theodore, exposed, dived back under the bed and out the other side. He ran through the door, before Michael could block him off, then back downstairs, past Emily, and into the kitchen.

  ‘There,’ Emily said. ‘He’s found his way out!’

  Michael appeared at the top of the stairs, panting, the baseball bat held behind his back. ‘I’m going to have to fumigate the house,’ he said, coming back downstairs, breathing hard.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emily said.

  Theodore miaowed at the back door.

  ‘I’ll let him out,’ Emily said, making her way into the kitchen. ‘I think it might be best if we both left.’

  Theodore miaowed in agreement.

  Emily tried the back door. It was locked. There was no key in the lock.

  She turned and noticed the white powder smeared on the kitchen side.

  ‘The door’s locked,’ Emily said slowly.

  ‘I know,’ said Michael.

  Emily raised a hand to her temple. ‘I feel very tired… after… all the… excitem
ent,’ she said. ‘My head…’

  She turned and fell to the floor.

  Theodore watched from the corner, as Michael carried her back to the chaise longue and arranged her. Returning to his drawing board he picked up the meat tenderising mallet.

  ‘Now we are going to see what cat brains look like!’ Michael snarled, brandishing the mallet at Theodore.

  Theodore ran past Michael, just avoiding a swipe from the mallet. He dashed into the hall and then back upstairs. This time, instead of making for the back bedroom, he ran into the front bedroom. There was a double bed. On top of one of the pillows there was a set of pink pyjamas, neatly folded.

  The bedroom window was open, the sash pushed down. He jumped onto the bed and then up into the opening, balancing on the top of the window. The window dropped another inch under his weight.

  He looked down. It was a twenty foot drop to the gravel forecourt below.

  He looked up. There was the plastic gutter and then the eaves of the house.

  He looked back and saw Michael standing in the doorway, clutching his mallet and grinning insanely.

  He looked down once more.

  Then jumped.

  The Fine Art of Falling

  Cats were designed to live in trees, so they know how to fall out of them.

  They spread their legs out to increase their surface area and slow their fall. Their springy legs act as shock absorbers, cushioning the blow when they hit the ground. They rotate their bodies to make sure they land on their paws. Cats were designed to fall.

  Throw a cow out of a window and it would be another story.

  Theodore landed in the limestone gravel of Michael’s forecourt. He looked back up at the window.

  Michael stared down at him, his face red, his eyes wide.

  Theodore exited through the open front gate and sprinted down the street and into the safety of the back alley.

  His own house was empty. He paused in front of his empty food bowls. If Michael killed Emily, his bowls may never be filled again.

  He would be destitute. A stray. Having to survive on a diet of rodents and whatever else he could catch.

  He paced the kitchen floor, swishing his tail from side to side. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly eight o’clock. He wondered if Jonathan was on his way round. He entered the front room and looked out of the window and up the street. No Jonathan.

  He paced the front room. Theodore didn’t even know if Jonathan had arranged to come round that evening. But Jonathan was their only hope.

  Theodore stared at his paws a moment.

  Why couldn’t Emily have dated a soldier, a professional wrestler, a bodyguard? Her only hope was a geologist…

  He looked again at his empty food bowls.

  There was no one else.

  He would have to go and find him.

  ◆◆◆

  Jonathan was having his dinner when Theodore appeared at his kitchen window.

  ‘Theodore!’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He opened the back door but Theodore did not enter the house. He jumped down onto the ground and miaowed at Jonathan.

  Your girlfriend’s been drugged by a psychopathic homicidal killer, he wanted to say.

  ‘What is it, Theodore?’ Jonathan said. ‘How did you find me here?’

  She’s probably being cut up into little pieces by now.

  ‘We didn’t arrange anything for tonight,’ Jonathan said, patting Theodore on the head.

  If you don’t come now, you’re going to be looking for a new girlfriend…

  ‘I’m in the middle of eating my dinner,’ Jonathan said. ‘I don’t want it to get cold.’

  Theodore made his way to the back gate, miaowing the whole time.

  Jonathan returned to his pepperoni pizza. He bit into a slice and chewed. He could hear Theodore miaowing from his backyard. He got up and looked out of his kitchen window. Theodore was sitting on his back wall, staring back at him. When the cat saw him looking, it miaowed.

  He reached for his mobile phone and called Emily’s phone. She did not answer. He looked again out of his kitchen window at the grey cat.

  A minute later Jonathan pushed the remains of his pizza into the kitchen bin and locked the back door behind him.

  ‘This had better not be another dead cat in the allotments,’ he said, as he shut his gate and followed Theodore’s raised tail.

  It might well be a dead girlfriend on the chaise longue, thought Theodore, as he trotted down the alley.

  Back at No.17 Avondale Terrace, Jonathan discovered an empty house. There was Emily’s mobile phone left on the arm of the sofa. There was one missed call. From him.

  ‘She’s probably just gone to the shops,’ Jonathan said, following Theodore through to the kitchen.

  He noticed Theodore’s empty food bowls.

  ‘So is that it?’ he said. ‘She went out without feeding you…’

  Jonathan poured some biscuits into a bowl.

  But Theodore turned his tailed up at them. He went over to the back door and miaowed.

  Jonathan unlocked the door and followed Theodore out into the yard. The cat walked to the back gate. Jonathan noticed the back gate was unbolted. Perhaps Emily had gone out. If she had gone out of the back gate, she couldn’t have gone far. He opened the gate and followed Theodore down the alley.

  Theodore stopped in front of a back gate, opposite the house where Peter Morris had been killed. Reminded of the murder, Jonathan began to worry about his girlfriend. He stood in front of the gate.

  Theodore looked up at him and then miaowed at the gate.

  Jonathan hesitated. He didn’t know who lived in this house. Emily had not mentioned being friends with anyone on the street. She kept herself to herself; more so after the murder of her neighbour.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ he said to Theodore.

  The cat miaowed back at him. Just get a move on.

  ‘You’d better be.’

  Suddenly Diane appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ she said, prodding her forefinger at his chest.

  ‘Now’s not a good time,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘I want to know about my cat,’ Diane said. ‘You didn’t bury him in your garden, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Jonathan said. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘I was going to,’ Jonathan said. ‘But then I threw him in a wheelie bin.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Look, does it really matter now? He was dead. It was a little white lie.’

  ‘You put my cat in a wheelie bin!’ Diane screamed.

  A piece of chewing gum dropped from her mouth onto the ground.

  Jonathan took a step backwards.

  ‘A little white lie!’

  ‘It’s a long story and I really don’t have time to tell it now.’

  ‘You threw my Arthur into a wheelie bin?’ Diane screamed. ‘You heartless arsehole!’

  She pushed Jonathan in the chest with her fingers.

  ‘I have to go,’ Jonathan said, but Diane was blocking his path, her face in his.

  He tried to step round her but she moved too, her fingers poking at his chest.

  Craig Foster had been watching the altercation from the window of his attic room. He rushed downstairs and out into the back alley.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he gasped. ‘Are you all right?’

  Diane turned to face him. ‘What’s it to you?’ she said. ‘You ginger nutter.’

  ‘I saw you arguing,’ Craig panted. ‘I came to help.’

  ‘I don’t need any help from you,’ Diane barked.

  Craig’s face dropped. ‘But…’

  ‘But what? How are you going to help? Are you going to bring my cat back? Are you going to bring my husband back? Well?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Craig said.

  ‘I really need to get going,’ Jonathan interrupte
d.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Diane said. ‘Not until you tell me why you dropped my cat in a wheelie bin.’

  ‘Look, now’s not a good time,’ Jonathan said and barged past her.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ Diane screamed after him.

  Jonathan carried on down the hill, not looking round. Then Theodore emerged from his hiding place beneath a hedge and trotted after him.

  Craig stood next to Diane and watched them go, tears in his eyes. ‘I came to help,’ he blubbed.

  ‘Well, you weren’t much help, were you?’ Diane said.

  She began to walk back to her house.

  ‘He hasn’t heard the last of it,’ she called out.

  ◆◆◆

  Jonathan and Theodore exited the alley onto Avondale Terrace and then counted the houses back up the hill. He stopped in front of No.7. The front door was painted glossy black with a shiny brass knocker. He knocked on the door. He waited. He knocked again. Finally the door opened a couple of inches.

  ‘This might sound stupid,’ Jonathan said into the gap, ‘but is my girlfriend here?’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ Michael said.

  ‘Yes. Emily Blenkin. She lives up the street.’

  There was a pause, and then Michael said, ‘Yes. Emily’s modelling for me…’

  ‘Modelling?’ Jonathan said. ‘She didn’t mention it… I was worried.’

  ‘I am working on her portrait,’ Michael said. ‘Didn’t she say?’

  Through the gap in the door, Jonathan noticed that Michael was indeed holding a pencil.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Jonathan said. ‘She didn’t say anything about modelling.’

  ‘Yes, modelling,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll get back to it if there’s nothing else. Wouldn’t want to lose the flow, you know.’

  From behind Jonathan, Theodore miaowed.

  Michael was about to close the door.

  ‘I need to speak to her a minute,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s important. It’s about her cat…’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t at the moment,’ Michael said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘She fell asleep,’ Michael explained.

  ‘Asleep? But I really need to speak to her.’