Cat Snitch II

The next morning during a frightening storm Mrs Kipling worries about the cat who has disappeared.

Mrs Kipling had a terrible night. Every time she started to drift off, she dreamt someone was banging down the door. Tossing and turning and so worried about the cat!

She’d tried to cure its ear. Pretty sure she’d managed to put a dab of iodine solution on it. Without meaning to, she had held on to the cat, using the red ribbon round its neck to steady him. But when the knock at the door sounded both of them had stared at each other in stunned silence. Her hands, suspended in mid-air. No one had been up to her apartment before. Who knew she lived here?!

Did you tell anyone?

Nobody had visited her since the day she’d moved in. Had someone followed the cat up to her roof because it had taken a key? The knocking echoed through the walls and round her head.

If only she could have asked the cat what on earth was going on. But even if it had been able to talk, there was no time. No sooner had they heard the door, the cat darted off the table, jumped out over the terrace and across the rooves at lightning speed, evaporating into the dark of night with just the moon to help its choice of footing. She hadn’t seen it since.

She hadn’t dared open the door. Her legs had refused to move anyway. She couldn’t understand why someone would be banging on her door at night. And so impatiently. She had hardly dared breathe. As if they could hear her breathing through two feet stone walls and a solid oak door!

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there. When she finally turned in, sleep didn’t come. What was more, it was a hot night, the humidity was horrendous. The windows were all open wide but you would never have guessed. Not a feather moved. Normally come one am the breeze off the shore would bring a delicious soothing comfort to the summer night.

She dried her brow. In the end she gave in and went for a short shower. Her skin cooled and half dried itself as she went back to bed and she finally dropped off into a deep slumber.

At six in the morning, she awoke with a jump, sitting bolt upright in her bed. The room flashed fluorescent blue with the lightening. Another tremendous crack of thunder. She felt the room shake; she heard the cups rattle on the kitchen shelf.

A drop of rain. Three more drops. Thud, thud. Ten more. Then the drumming of rain. Another flash of jittery blue light as the thunder bellowed. Her whole room lit up. She could see her books, drained of colour on the shelves, the table in the kitchen. She closed the windows as fast as she could, unstable on her feet.

She usually loved a storm. But today she didn’t feel rested. Too worried about the knock at the door and the cat. She laid down and tried to sleep again but the noise got worse. It sounded like golf balls were hitting the tiles. It must be hail.

She looked out of the window. The terracotta floor had turned white with fallen ice from the heavens. Ice was spitting in every angle. Mounds collected in the corners and slid off the roof above her window. The clay guttering must have filled with ice. She started to worry if ice was going to block a downpipe and if there’d be a flood.

‘There’s no point in worrying! I think it’s time to make a coffee.’

She shuffled her way to the kitchen. She enjoyed the simple ceremony of making coffee in her old, blackened mocha pot. She had never found a better way to start the day. Have you noticed how the smell of coffee always hugs the air?

She knew coffee would own the room. It would breathe a sense of soft familiarity into a new day, whether it would bring laughter or tears; the scent of coffee beans warmed the heart to prepare it for the day ahead.

She had started every day like that for decades. She smiled because that meant she must be getting on and she wasn’t afraid of old age. Old age came with wisdom and knowledge and among other things, coffee making finesse. Especially in her case!

She forgot about the hail as the coffee pot started to sing. As it pumped invisible coffee beans into the air the storm lost some of its impact on her morning. She wasn’t aware of it grumbling its way right up the coast with an appetite large enough to waken every Mediterranean coastal town from here to Sicily.

She grabbed a biscuit from the tin and dried figs from a box, boiled milk and poured herself a brew. Then, as she dunked the biscuit below the milky froth, something on the floor suddenly caught her eye. The scarlet ribbon was on the floor under the kitchen table. That ribbon! The key! The key was in her flat!

She didn’t know it, but she had put her hand over her mouth as if to silence herself. The only thing that moved in the room was the steam off the coffee. Who did it belong to? And would they be back?? She stared at it, thoughts flickering across her mind.

Eventually, frowning, she picked up the key, looked closely at it looking for a clue to its owner. None the wiser, she put it on a hook between the coffee cups.

With a cup of coffee between her hands, she stared out the window. The ice had cooled everything, causing a mist to rise, like thick smoke. She couldn’t see the lighthouse. The rooftops and trees became subdued in soft greys, closing her in. The world alien to her was hidden from view.

This is from Cat Snitch. I really appreciate all your comments and support and look forward to sharing the full edition with you.

Currently working on a photography coffee table book. This rest of this story is in the queue. Sorry for the delay, but all will be revealed soon!