Read by Marc Forde
The neighbours were glaring again. I’d almost forgotten what the old antipathy had been like, and had got quite used to ignoring, and being ignored by, them. But here it was – like an insecure partner they operated along the lines of “if-you-really-cared-you’d-know-what-was-wrong”. Once experienced, never forgotten. How long would it be before they approached me, before anyone realised I might need some details to work with?
I never found out. It soon became obvious they were convinced Genghis was back. The couple to my right, the ones with small but disproportionately irritating children, had started investigating the sandpit again, and making pantomimic expressions of disgust towards my windows when they found something in it. The elderly couple on my other side seemed to have dug an elaborate moat system around the bottom of their bird table and filled it with water. And finally, the obsessive across the road who spent every spare hour polishing and tinkering with his BMW X6 started huffing and puffing every morning as he wiped the hubcaps down with a J-cloth and some hi-tech specialist cleaning fluid.
Yes, two years ago Genghis had instigated a mild reign of terror in the neighbourhood. He had been known to use the sandpit as a toilet, and when the birds had fed and watered themselves they then fed him. Mr Turbo across the road was likewise unhappy to find his wheels territorially sprayed. I appreciated their anger, but as I would say if they ever spoke to me, he was a cat, and these things are what cats do.
But as I say, that was two years ago. Louise had taken Genghis when she went to live with Michael, and things here in the Close had mellowed. I wasn’t naïve enough to think anyone cared that my wife had left me for my best friend, or that I might be less than delighted with this: they were pleased the cat had gone. Anyway, they seemed to comprehend that things had changed.
Last Sunday was a beautiful day, and I noticed all parties were out and about in their respective front gardens. I was slightly drunk and feeling brave. So, having a ready-convened meeting at my disposal, I took advantage of the situation to remind them of my broken marriage and the subsequent removal of the cat. I then pointed out that cats as a species don't differ greatly in their habits, and foolishly asked them to prove mine, specifically, had come back. I delivered this speech to a prolonged silence and went back inside, imagining their expressions slowly changing from blank to mildly indignant.
If I thought I’d won, I was wrong. A few days later I found three unstamped envelopes amid the post, all marked "Proof" in different but equally badly disguised handwriting. One was filled with sand-veneered cat shit, the next with regurgitated feathers and the remains of a beak, and the last with a foul-smelling valve cap. Was Genghis some kind of evil cat god, responsible for every feline misdemeanour? That was ridiculous and I decided I was going to tell them so – seriously this time, and sober.
I nearly kicked the box down the step as I strode out of the door. It was plain and white, sealed with clear tape. I assumed it was rubbish, perhaps full of discarded fast food, but it was heavy when I went to pick it up. I came back with a knife and cut the tape – and saw Genghis curled up inside, starkly dead.
I recoiled, gagged and had to take deep breaths before I took another look. He was unmistakable – the black widow’s peak between the eyes, the discoloured teeth bared in death, the scar beside his nose where a rat had struggled - this was our old cat, our murderous, aloof lodger. But why was he here, in a plain box, and not with Louise in her new home? I would lose little time mourning the beast, but it disturbed me to think she would trouble herself to send me his corpse.
I needed to ring her, but didn’t feel up to a row: or indeed a conversation about reconciling with Michael. More deep breathing until I was calm. I had decided to allow her to tell me whatever she wanted. In the absence of a confession, I would be concentrating on the tone of her voice.
“Hello, it’s me. I know this is a strange question but I’m being completely serious: have you seen Genghis recently?”
"Hello, Richard. Wow. How nice to hear from you. How’s things?"
I repeated my question, gently but firmly. A pause.
"Richard, I'm slightly puzzled. Michael and I have been trying to meet you since… well, for ages, and you never show any interest. Now you ring about the cat? Genghis is fine. What? Last night. No, I've not seen him today: he’s probably still out.
“Richard, is that really what you rang about? I can't help feeling there's more to discuss than that.
“Look, do you want him back? I really wouldn't mind. We only took him because Michael's got a bigger garden and your neighbours were getting so agitated, and to be honest Michael and he don't really get on. Would you like me to send him to you? We could pop over with him.
“Listen, Richard, I never wanted to hurt you, and neither did Michael, and you and he go back so far…"
I hung up. There had been no uneasiness in her voice, no sign of lying. If she was telling the truth, how had Genghis arrived on my doorstep? I braced myself to take another look at the body.
There were no external marks on him, no bite marks or cuts. He may have been hit by a car, but he hadn’t been flattened. Somebody, through a sense of misplaced kindness, might have found him and brought him back - except my address was no longer on his collar. No random driver would have known where to bring a dead cat. You wouldn’t put it on a doorstep on the off chance that was its home. You certainly wouldn’t put it in a cardboard box and sellotape the lid down. Louise now lived ten miles away: where had Genghis been killed?
I went cold. Had my pet really been so terrible as to merit a murder, and if so who had done it? Was it the same person who had brought him here? That was mean - deliberate and vindictive.
I had a rogues’ gallery of suspects – the caring parents, the birdwatchers, the car lover: and Michael, of course – the new partner removing the last living relic of my time with Louise as he whined on about us needing to mend the rift. Each was a strong contender.
This was a very unpleasant situation: should I confront them all? Or should I take the cat’s body somewhere and dispose of it? If so, where? Over the wall to the left? Or the right? Across the road? I could always address the box to Louise and post it.
I did not have the proof, and I certainly didn’t have the deductive abilities, to determine who it was. I sat down with a large glass of whisky and pondered.
By midnight Genghis was on the draining board. The Stanley knife (especially the carpet blade) was surprisingly efficient at slicing through the skin. I marvelled at my ability to withstand the smell as I opened his gut to the air, but the first slithery rasp of the saw on his stiff, matted neck disgusted me and I had to stop and vomit. That out of the way, it was amazing how quickly the task became mundane. At the slightly hallucinogenic hour of 3 am it even occurred to me I should have studied to be a pathologist.
Half an hour later it I was thinking I could have been a pretty formidable burglar too, as I noiselessly slipped over first one fence, then back and over another, then out across the road. No-one would have believed it of me. I didn’t believe it of me.
Dawn was breaking as I finished my assignments. The children next door would have a lucky dip next time they played in their sandpit – their prize being the feet and the chopped tail, buried deep and smoothed over. My pensioner friends had a beautiful bird-table but it was looking a bit weather-beaten. Spread out over it, the pelt made a nice new roof, with the further option of making a cosy pair of slippers should they feel inclined to get the sewing machine out. The entrails I teased through the vents on BMW Man's car: I'm not a mechanically-minded person but I anticipated that one way or another this would feed a nostalgic miasma of rotting offal into the air con.
The head and collar I gave a decent burial: Genghis deserved some respect, and apart from that they made him identifiable. That left the carcass. I cleaned it, cut it into fillets, wrapped it in greaseproof paper and put it in the fridge – a significant feat of memory for a long-standing vegetarian. A couple of hours’ sleep, then I was up to do a spot of neighbour-watching. I had given up all hope of establishing who the culprit was, but it would be interesting to observe their reactions. Would they confront me? How could they? They knew I wouldn’t kill my own cat, and the ones that spoke out first could be seen as protesting too much. I would be waiting with schoolboy glee for the cabaret to start.
Before then, I had a call to make.
“Louise? Hi, it’s Richard. Look, I’m sorry I was a bit off with you yesterday but I was just having one of those days, you know?
“I presume Genghis is still with you? You’ve not seen him? Oh. Oh well, never mind – he’ll be around somewhere. Look, I’m happy to take him back if you want. No, really, it’s no problem. The neighbours? Oh, I’ll sort that out.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Michael and everything, and you’re right. What’s done is done. I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt but we’re all adults and we need to move on. By way of a peace offering, can I invite you over for a barbeque this weekend? You can? Fantastic! I’m even going to do some non-veggie stuff for you both. It’s no problem. I know this guy who’s a butcher and he can get me some really nice offcuts.
“This is going to be great. I really want to square things with you and Michael after all this time. And I’m going to enjoy it even more knowing Genghis will be there.”
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Genghis by Simon Jones was read by Marc Forde at the Liars' League Fun & Games event on Tuesday 12 April 2011 at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London
Simon Jones did his bit to help the Big Society last September by dropping out of it. Before then he had been a civil servant for too many years. He has had a story in this month’s edition of Litro, making this his second published piece of fiction.
Marc Forde graduated from Keele University. Recent theatre includes: Treasure Island, Silence!, Sinbad, The Wrong Sleep, Tombstone Tales, Small Craft Warnings. He is to be seen shortly in Follies at the Pleasance Theatre. Recent film includes: The Sky in Bloom, Grave Tales, Shoegazer, Stalk Her, Schemata, And Where She Went and the new music video for the band I Like Trains.
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