Storms Over Blackpeak by Holly Ford

his side, shot out his front paws, and dug his claws into the sheet.
    ‘Uh-uh.’ Cally picked him up. ‘Out you get.’ She carried him over to the armchair. ‘And no scratching.’
    Getting back into bed, she turned out the light, pulled the duvet up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Doug landed on her stomach. After a couple of rotations, he settled down and started to purr. Giving up, Cally closed her eyes again. Oh well. At least he was warm.
    She woke up with a raging thirst. A combination of two-year-old cat food and pinot noir, she supposed. God knew what time it was. Not late, presumably, since the light in the hall was still on. Dislodging Doug, she groped for last night’s water glass and tiptoed out to the bathroom.
    She came out just in time to see Doug’s tail disappear around the edge of Ash’s bedroom door, which was standing ajar.
    ‘Doug!’ Cally hissed. Ash’s light was off and his room was silent.
    ‘Doug!’ she whispered. Was that the sound of breathing inside the room? Imagining Doug about to hit the sleeping Ash like a furry cannonball, she crept closer to the door.
    ‘Doug?’ Cally pushed the door open a little further. She peered into the darkness. ‘Doug, come on, get out here.’
    ‘Cally.’ There was a cough behind her. ‘Hello.’
    Cally withdrew her head from Ash’s bedroom to see Carr standing there watching her, a paperback in his hand. She closed her eyes briefly. Well. This had to be a good look.
    ‘Do we have a guest,’ Carr asked, his dark eyes full of amusement, ‘I don’t know about?’
    There was a miaow from the floor. She looked down as Doug exited the bedroom, winding casually between her ankles before crossing the landing to flop at Carr’s feet.
    Carr scooped the cat up. Doug settled into the crook of Carr’s arm, arched his back, and began to purr. Well, who wouldn’t? Cally thought.
    ‘Doug?’ Carr looked at her.
    She nodded. ‘He — he seemed like a Doug.’
    He handed Doug back. ‘Here you go.’
    Cally frowned, listening. Where was that beeping coming from? Somewhere downstairs? ‘What’s that?’
    A guilty expression flitted across Carr’s face. ‘Ash is down in the kitchen.’
    It was the microwave. Of course — they must be starving.
    ‘I’m really sorry,’ she managed, holding Doug tightly, ‘about the food tonight.’
    ‘It’s fine.’ Carr’s voice was firm. ‘It was …’ Cally watched him struggle to think of something positive he could say. He smiled at her gently. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
     
    Cally drew the curtains the next morning to find a light, needling rain had set in over Glencairn, misting the tops of the hills and damping down the garden. For once, the house wasn’t empty by the time she got downstairs. She could hear the radio going behind Carr’s office door, and in the kitchen Ash was still drinking his coffee, his work-socked feet up on a chair, yesterday’s paper propped on his knees.
    ‘Morning,’ he smiled, glancing up. ‘There’s coffee in the pot if you want some.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Cally poured herself one and looked aroundthe kitchen, planning her day. Spotting the cap from last night’s wine bottle still on the dresser, she scooped it up and opened the rubbish bin. A mound of microwaveable pie wrappers confronted her. She sighed. Okay. What was she going to cook tonight, then?
    Out in the cool room, she rummaged through the enormous chest freezer. Best stick to the top baskets this time. Chops, sausages, more chops. Unidentifiable things. Mince … Cally felt a wave of nausea. In fact, even sausages were a bit close to mince. She tried the next basket. Chops, chops, chops … Chops it was, then. With mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas. What could possibly go wrong?
    Ash looked up again as she returned to the kitchen.
    ‘These are for human consumption, right?’ Cally held the freezer bag up to the light. ‘They’re not — dog tucker, or something?’
    ‘Nope, you should be