his hand.
‘ I will write you out a copy. Come with me.’ She begins her slow walk back to her own home. But the thought of sitting in her stuffy, mothball room, watching her slowly scribble her nonsense on bits of scrap paper is more than Theo can face.
‘ You write it out. I’ll pick it up later,’ he says, and she shrugs as if it is of no consequence and closes the gate behind her.
‘ Keep this locked.’ She taps the metal gate.
Chapter 5
Age 40 Years, 5 Months, 8 - 12 Days
Theo pauses with one foot in his new dwelling, one outside. The sound of her beads rattling softens as she goes round the corner, and he pictures her opening her creaking front door and mounting her wide, dusty staircase, shuffling and moaning and griping to herself, her white knuckles as she grips the handrail.
Each step slower, the half-light growing misty. Her feet shuffling inch by inch to her room, the door creaking open, hand on the table supporting her weight until her thin frame regains its indented slot on the bed. And there she will sit, her movements ever slower until she becomes still, poised with a pen in her hand, her lips pursed, frozen, her eyes unblinking, the whole of her being turned onto a pillar of stone, grey and unyielding. Lit by the glow of the two bar fire until the unpaid bill clicks the heating and lighting off and cobwebs become spun from her thin fingers to the wall.
Cats will find their way in and curl up next to her lifeless shape on the softness of her bed, others will clean out her kitchen, pulling bones and dead mice across her hall carpets, breeding and becoming many, filling her room with their soft, furry, purring, bodies. One on her lap, one on her feet, one lying along her outstretched arm, rubbing its jaw along the pen she is holding. Another on her shoulders, a living fur stole.
Theo thinks he imagines the meow but looking down, he sees the cat is there.
‘The witch has gone to her bedroom,’ he tells it and with a deep breath, he turns and steps into his own rooms.
‘ My own rooms,’ he says out loud to the cat, who has run in to sniff around. ‘My own rooms,’ he repeats. ‘A sofa here, an armchair there, a table in the middle.’ He steps into the short corridor and looks into the bathroom. The toilet faces him under the sloping roof, which is ready to hit his head if he sits upright on it. He will get a cloth to the corners, wipe off the mould. The showerhead is on a hook to the right, no cubicle. There is a drain in the middle of the tiled floor. He must remember to take his toilet paper out when he showers, but on the up side, every time he showers, the bathroom gets cleaned. Stepping back out, he makes a mental note to keep the door open, give it a chance to air.
The shutters have swung closed in the kitchen-come-bedroom and it is dark. He opens them again and finds a bent nail in the frame has been fashioned to keep them open, and with a twist, it is back in a position to do the job. The mattress on the bed is firm and reasonably clean. The cat jumps up and nuzzles his outstretched arm. In the wardrobe, to his surprise and delight, are sheets. A box of mothballs in a corner fills the air with their distinctive aroma.
Stroking the cat that has curled up on the bed, he lies next to it, staring up at the cracked ceiling, absorbing his success. He will explore the neighbourhood in a minute, find some food, and a bottle of local wine to celebrate.
When he wakes the next morning, he has no idea where he is. Instead of his familiar bedroom, there is a ceiling full of cracks, a wardrobe he does not recognise. Then it all flows back.
Standing, he stretches. The cat is on the concrete bench, eating the remains of last night ’s celebratory meal: feta, fresh bread, and yoghurt. It has knocked over the half-full bottle of cheap wine, an expanding puddle of red across the shelf, dripping slowly to the floor, running between the tiles.
‘ Pshhh, off, bad cat.’ Theo
‘ I will write you out a copy. Come with me.’ She begins her slow walk back to her own home. But the thought of sitting in her stuffy, mothball room, watching her slowly scribble her nonsense on bits of scrap paper is more than Theo can face.
‘ You write it out. I’ll pick it up later,’ he says, and she shrugs as if it is of no consequence and closes the gate behind her.
‘ Keep this locked.’ She taps the metal gate.
Chapter 5
Age 40 Years, 5 Months, 8 - 12 Days
Theo pauses with one foot in his new dwelling, one outside. The sound of her beads rattling softens as she goes round the corner, and he pictures her opening her creaking front door and mounting her wide, dusty staircase, shuffling and moaning and griping to herself, her white knuckles as she grips the handrail.
Each step slower, the half-light growing misty. Her feet shuffling inch by inch to her room, the door creaking open, hand on the table supporting her weight until her thin frame regains its indented slot on the bed. And there she will sit, her movements ever slower until she becomes still, poised with a pen in her hand, her lips pursed, frozen, her eyes unblinking, the whole of her being turned onto a pillar of stone, grey and unyielding. Lit by the glow of the two bar fire until the unpaid bill clicks the heating and lighting off and cobwebs become spun from her thin fingers to the wall.
Cats will find their way in and curl up next to her lifeless shape on the softness of her bed, others will clean out her kitchen, pulling bones and dead mice across her hall carpets, breeding and becoming many, filling her room with their soft, furry, purring, bodies. One on her lap, one on her feet, one lying along her outstretched arm, rubbing its jaw along the pen she is holding. Another on her shoulders, a living fur stole.
Theo thinks he imagines the meow but looking down, he sees the cat is there.
‘The witch has gone to her bedroom,’ he tells it and with a deep breath, he turns and steps into his own rooms.
‘ My own rooms,’ he says out loud to the cat, who has run in to sniff around. ‘My own rooms,’ he repeats. ‘A sofa here, an armchair there, a table in the middle.’ He steps into the short corridor and looks into the bathroom. The toilet faces him under the sloping roof, which is ready to hit his head if he sits upright on it. He will get a cloth to the corners, wipe off the mould. The showerhead is on a hook to the right, no cubicle. There is a drain in the middle of the tiled floor. He must remember to take his toilet paper out when he showers, but on the up side, every time he showers, the bathroom gets cleaned. Stepping back out, he makes a mental note to keep the door open, give it a chance to air.
The shutters have swung closed in the kitchen-come-bedroom and it is dark. He opens them again and finds a bent nail in the frame has been fashioned to keep them open, and with a twist, it is back in a position to do the job. The mattress on the bed is firm and reasonably clean. The cat jumps up and nuzzles his outstretched arm. In the wardrobe, to his surprise and delight, are sheets. A box of mothballs in a corner fills the air with their distinctive aroma.
Stroking the cat that has curled up on the bed, he lies next to it, staring up at the cracked ceiling, absorbing his success. He will explore the neighbourhood in a minute, find some food, and a bottle of local wine to celebrate.
When he wakes the next morning, he has no idea where he is. Instead of his familiar bedroom, there is a ceiling full of cracks, a wardrobe he does not recognise. Then it all flows back.
Standing, he stretches. The cat is on the concrete bench, eating the remains of last night ’s celebratory meal: feta, fresh bread, and yoghurt. It has knocked over the half-full bottle of cheap wine, an expanding puddle of red across the shelf, dripping slowly to the floor, running between the tiles.
‘ Pshhh, off, bad cat.’ Theo
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