The Autograph Collector

She never intended to harm him, she just wanted to meet him again. She was convinced they had made a connection – but this time she wanted more than just an autograph.

December 11^th 2001 – Hollywood

Helen’s room was always dark.

She had kept the curtains closed since the day her mother died.

She no longer trusted the outside world.

He smiles out from a collage of photos captured by the paparazzi. He is climbing out of a car. Waving from the deck of a yacht. His distinctive smile trapped in a thousand images frozen in time. She kneels on the floor naked, rocking gently on her heels. She smiles back at him conspiringly. She is happy in her dark shrine, her mind shifting between visions of her mother, and him. Sometimes the visions fuse, and she fights to keep them apart. He lies next to her, his head on the pillow, his hands in her hair. She pretends to resist as he holds her down, one arm across her neck. She lets him to do whatever he wants, and never questions her sense of reason. She simply believes her obsession is born of passion.

They first met in the flower shop where she worked in Beverly Hills. It was three months ago to the day. It was early morning, before they had heard the terrible news. Their eyes met at the same instant, Helen glancing up from a box she was opening, and him, just turning his head, so he looked directly at her. He smiled, and explained the flowers were for his mother. His eyes were colourless, yet dominant like light or fire. Helen could not look away, she remained transfixed. She felt ashamed of her appearance, her old blue skirt and the humiliating flat shoes.

He appeared smaller than he did on-screen, and his hair flopped over his forehead. He smiled at her, tilting his head, then asked if the flowers could be gift-wrapped. His security guard pushed a credit card into her hand. A small crowd was beginning to form outside the shop, and she felt a wave of panic engulf her. She nodded and tried to smile, but somehow her face remained impassive. She could feel the warmth of his stare as she fumbled with the wrapping but could not look up. When she had finished, he took the flowers from her, and there followed a moment of silence as she finally found the courage to meet his gaze. In that moment, time stood still, and a new world was born around her, like a bright forest with a million shimmering leaves.

She took a shower and then fussed with her hair. This time, she thought, I am going to wear something that pleases him. She knew the sort of woman he preferred, she had seen the photographs. She chose the black silk dress she had worn for her mother’s funeral, and teamed it with the pearls bought from Nordstrom. She gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She climbed the stairs to her mother’s room and stared at the solid oak door which could only be locked from the outside. She smiled to herself as she slowly caressed the wood, and then opened the top draw of the bedside cabinet and took out the gun. It was a Ruger 380 Automatic, just small enough to fit into her purse.

She walked north on Wilcox and took a right on Sunset Boulevard. She glanced up at the ArcLight cinema and saw his face staring down from the billboard, crowding out her sky. The sun was warm for December, and she felt a shiver run down her spine as if her heart were about to burst.

The bar was already dark and lit by small candles. She took a stool and ordered a Jack Daniels and coke. The television was on mute as she watched the grim face of President Bush at a memorial ceremony in Washington. She read his words on the screen.

“We’ll remember where we were and how we felt. We will remember the dead and what we owe them. We will remember what we lost and what we found. Every death extinguished a world.”

She began to feel her second drink and recalled the place her mother had sent her when she was little. They called it an orphanage, yet it was merely a halfway house. A place where children waited for their parents to collect them – like left luggage. She never knew her father, and her mother was already famous, making movies. The star who didn’t want the world to know she had a child, in case it hampered her career. Helen had spent the morning downstairs, waiting in the playroom, listening for her mother’s footsteps on the lino. She listened for the sound of her voice, the hint of perfume, anything that was part of her. The hours slipped by as she sensed her childhood recede. Her mother never showed, and in the end she came to represent nothing more to Helen than a ghostly face in the corner of her past, shrouded in mist and misery. She desperately needed to assuage the hollow feelings of rejection. The last time she saw her mother she was running through the woods, towards the lake. The sun was going down and the sky was a roasted pink hue and she could smell her on the wind. Like the scent of death.

She asked the bartender to call her a cab. In the back of the car she tidied her hair and clutched her purse to her chest. There was a change in her, a definite shift. She did not feel angry anymore. She felt the need for justice, and for some form of closure on the past. She wanted to forgive, but not forget. The driver let her out at the top of Beechwood Drive. The sun was starting to set and she sensed the closeness of his house. She knew how to approach the grounds from the rear. She shivered, and walked quickly not bothering to look behind her. She failed to notice the tiny camera in the tree that tracked her progress. She squeezed through a gap in the bushes and made her way up the lawn as the darkening sky provided refuge from prying eyes. She glimpsed a shadow in the pool house and moved quickly into the trees. She had hardly reached the trees when the pool house door opened, and steps sounded on the black marble tiles. She watched him as he knelt by the pool. A burst of light lit up his face, and he stood and stared down at the light with absent fascination. Perhaps thirty feet separated them. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, his lips parted and he was looking directly at her.

‘How do you like my garden Helen?’ He framed the question as if he actually knew her. She felt the tears come into her eyes and struggled to compose herself.  She gripped her purse, conscious of the weight of the gun. She wasn’t sure if he had really spoken her name. In an involuntary gesture of surrender and apology, she raised an arm and started towards him. She felt she had to throw herself at his mercy. She spoke softly. ‘I wanted to see the gardens. So much has changed since I last saw you. I hope I didn’t startle you.’

He smiled and looked directly into her soul. He began to walk towards her as he spoke.

‘The whole world has changed Helen. Now we tend to think about our mortality. What happened in September was us witnessing the world spiralling out of control. Have you seen my new movie? That’s the premise, mortality. You should see it. I’m rather good in it. I would be proud if it were my last movie. My last testament. There has to be an end to everything. And you Helen, why are you here tonight? Your mother died on 9/11 didn’t she? I read about it. I saw you on the television. I remember you on that morning, fussing with the flowers. Scrutinising me. Why did you come here tonight? Do you imagine that because we met on the morning of that dreadful day we developed some form of unique bond, that we are somehow inextricably linked by fate? You may well be right.’

They were standing side by side and Helen searched his face. She sensed a sudden threat. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the house. He walked slowly as he talked. ‘Let me show you the house. Did you know it once belonged to Charlie Chaplin? Yes, he built it. It was a magnificent gothic mansion in those days but he allowed it to fall into disrepair. He had no money left. Robert Downey Jnr tried to buy it but I got there first. So it fell to me to save this house from ruin. I bought it from a writer called Norris Nutley. He died here sadly, and the gardens had not been touched for years. There was a lot of work. I had to cut everything back and re-plant. In the end I gave it a new life, a new beginning. These Jacarandas are the only surviving trees.’

She looked up at his face, and although she didn’t want to, she smiled at him and nodded.

He stopped abruptly and faced her. ‘You must be cold. Come and sit by the fire pits.’ She followed him onto the wide open terrace that overlooked the pool. She could see into the house. It was stark and angular. Black and white, with art deco mirrors adorning the walls. She felt as if she already knew the place and somehow belonged there. She had set out with a plan and allowed herself to be drawn in by him. She was struggling to maintain control. He was standing just inside, beside a small drinks bar.

‘He raised his voice a little. ‘Would you like to drink some wine?

She looked up and saw only his shadow. ‘Yes…Thank you.’

It was almost dark as he placed the drinks on the small table. He sat close to her and she searched his face for clues. She was biding her time. Gauging his mood. He appeared confident and in control – acting as if he knew her intimately. He took a cigarette from a silver case on the table and lit it, staring straight ahead towards the pool.

‘Why did you come here?’

Helen glanced down nervously at her purse and struggled to focus. Why not now? She thought. Why not do it now? She looked up slowly and smiled at him. ‘I just wanted to see you. To see how you felt. I was curious, I suppose.’

The sky was now an inky black, the air filled with a chorus of cicadas. He reached over and rested a hand on her arm. His face was so close she could smell his skin, and she struggled to hold his gaze. She felt balanced on a thin edge. The decision suspended in thin air. There was a deadness in the silence between them, and Helen grew more uneasy. She looked in his face, smiling. To Helen it was perfect, she just wanted to be there, in his house with him. She felt as if she suddenly existed. They sat facing each other waiting on the moment, unaware they were both concealing their true intentions. In the silence that followed he refilled their glasses. He stubbed out his cigarette. He was staring at her now, anticipating her next move. Waiting for her to speak. Then, out of nowhere, a cat sprung up and onto her lap, knocking her purse to the floor with a dull thud. He stood, and began to laugh. ‘I see you have met Bozley. He came with the house. He has this gift of knowing who likes him, he seems to have made his mind up about you.’ He reached down slowly for the purse and held it out towards her. The cat coiled around and then settled on her lap. The pale yellow eyes stared up at her knowingly, as if conveying a warning.

He placed the purse on the table between them, so they could both see it. He moved closer and gently stroked her face.

‘You used to collect autographs didn’t you Helen?’

‘No…but my mother did. She became obsessed with you in the end. I think you know that.’

She studied his face. It was serious now.

‘Do you collect anything?’ She asked.

He smiled menacingly…

‘Only fans.’

Somewhere in her head she heard a door slam, and the sound of a key being turned in the lock. She was overcome with a feeling of sickness, and at the same time a sense of calm surrender engulfed her body. It was too late to fight, and she succumbed to the darkness. The last thing she remembered he was cradling her in his arms, carrying her down the steps towards the cellar. She could smell a dampness in the air. The last thing she saw was him holding up her empty purse to the sky and she opened her mouth to scream.

Mr Nutley’s Nightmares

In his nightmare he saw the sinking ship lurch before the bow dipped beneath the angry waves. The stern remained above the water for the last few seconds, and then plunged downwards. He reached down searching for his mother’s hand and the lifeboat pitched perilously as he lunged into the murky darkness. He could feel the oily seaweed entwine his fingers as he reached down into the icy waters one last time.

He screamed out into the empty night as he felt himself slipping. He snatched his arm from the water and stared down at the bloodied stump where his hand had once been.

Then nothing… only the roar of the laughing sea as it reached up to swallow him.

**************

Mr Nutley locked the bedroom door and sat at his dressing table staring at the cutthroat razor. His heart was racing.

A beam of sunlight swept the room as he rubbed his fingers slowly down the spine of the razor. He felt the cool surface of the ivory handle and sensed the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he recalled a moment from his past. He stared into the mirror and wondered what it felt like to die. The nightmares always gave him headaches. Dr Saud had prescribed Remeron a while back, but the effects were always the same. At first he had resisted the pills, but Dr Saud insisted that in time he would feel the benefits.

He shuffled towards the balcony and looked down over the lawns. He watched the gardener crouch low over the hedge as he gripped the silver rule in his hand. The sun shone on the metal as he took the secateurs from his back pocket and gently clipped at the hedge. The action was staged in one precise movement like a ballet.

Mr Nutley frowned as he recalled the garden the day he had moved in. There had been no sense of order, no light or space, merely a vast jungle which engulfed the house; keeping it captive from the outside world. He had slowly nursed it back to life, and planted the palm trees. These became the birthstone of the garden, allowing the sun to restore the earth and correct the balance. But it was the hedge he loved most. The smooth, comforting angles suggested rank and order. Late at night, he imagined the hedge reaching up beyond the palm trees, as if in homage to the dark skies above. Mr Nutley was a rich man, he had written five novels, all of which had sold millions. He had everything he needed, except for friends. He had been lonely ever since his wife Emily died. His only companion was an old black cat called Bozley. From the moment Bozley had sauntered up his lawn one Sunday afternoon, he had never left his side. Yet it never occurred to him to question why the cat had chosen him.

Each night Mr Nutley went to sleep, the nightmares came for him. The dark horses galloped into his sleep like a herd of demons. He suffered visions of sharp faces peering through the windows of his mind. He slumbered on a sea of threat and menace that at times made him tremble in his sleep. In the shadowy corners of the night, the demons crept up on him. They came from under the door frames, and squeezed between the polished oak floorboards, they kept on coming until he woke up. When he did, he lay there, breathless, with both hands clasped to his neck, half-dead, half-alive. Trapped between sleep and the balmy air of a new dawn.

He got up and rushed into the bathroom, clawing at the air in front of him. He splashed his face with water and then, hearing the voice behind him, he glanced up into the mirror, half-expecting to see the eyes of his demons staring back.

Mr. Nutley was 77-years-old and had enjoyed a charmed life. He desperately missed his wife, and no longer felt the urge to write. The future, he felt, held very little. That all changed when Bozley began to talk.

The voice was primeval. There was no discernible accent and the words resonated off the walls like thunder in the night. He sensed the bile rise in his stomach and was overwhelmed by a terrifying sickness. His body stiffened as he slowly turned to face the voice, his mouth fell open, and his arms flopped loose at his side. The prescient part of his mind saw Bozley before he knew he was seeing him. He did not want to believe what he already believed. He would rather believe he was still asleep, still trapped by the nightmares. Though in his heart, he knew the truth.

At first, the light was dim in the bedroom. He could make out the outline of the cat upright on the oak chair that stood at the side of the bed. Then, gradually, a spectral glow began to spread through the room. The light appeared to emanate from the cat and the eyes blazed with mesmerizing power.

Mr. Nutley stared at the cat. ‘Who are you?’

‘I have come to help cure your nightmares.’

Mr. Nutley rubbed his face and stared straight at the cat.

‘I’m talking to a talking cat.’

‘Why do you find that so difficult? Allow me to speak in your own tongue….

‘You gotta ditch the dough.’

‘What?’

‘Quit the cash. Get rid of the money.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘You are lonely because you are full of self-pity. That is why you no longer feel able to write. The nightmares are of your own making. If you start writing again, your nightmares will disappear overnight…so to speak.’

‘I don’t want to write anymore.’

‘Then you will die a lonely man.’

Nutley manoeuvred himself around the cat and started to get dressed. ‘So be it.’ he shouted, pulling on his robe, ‘I have written five books and made a fortune from them.’

Bozley suddenly jumped from the chair and landed with a thump, close to Mr. Nutley’s feet.

‘Yes, you did – but you made the fortune for YOURSELF, and all it has done is make you unhappy.’

Mr Nutley took two paces back. He wanted to get as far away from the cat as possible. What if I ran, he thought. Would the damn thing follow me?

‘You need to give away your money. I will show you how. True happiness is never gained from money. You humans are so dim?’

‘For God’s sake. You are one crazy cat.’

‘You are the one with the crazy nightmares! Do you want me to write the book for you?’

Mr. Nutley snapped. ‘No thank you. I would rather you stop talking and allow me to carry on going mad on my own.’

‘Has it not occurred to you that I have just handed you the best story idea you will ever have?’

In the brief silence that followed, Nutley stared at the cat.

So there it was, the sudden realisation that he had dreamed up a book idea by talking to a cat. Each morning, straight after breakfast, Mr. Nutley could be found writing in his study. This time, he did not have to search for inspiration for the story. The story was there waiting. All he had to do was write it. So from 6am until dusk, he wrote. It was only on the seventh day he realised he had not had a nightmare since the day he started writing. During the day, Bozley never troubled Mr. Nutley. He amused himself by taunting the gardeners and jumping in and out of the hedge. In the evening, he joined him for dinner on the terrace at 7pm prompt. They talked over the book, and sometimes Bozley would suggest a twist or change here and there. Otherwise, he thought it best to leave the writing to him.

Eight weeks later, the book was complete, and he called it Mr Nutley’s Nightmares. It was to become a much loved and treasured fable read by millions of children all over the world, with the bulk of the revenues going to the children’s charity that Bozley had helped him set up. On the day of publication, Bozley had suggested they organise a party in the grounds of the house. Hundreds of children came from all over the city and Bozley watched as the author proudly handed out signed copies of his book. The children laughed and danced around his feet, and for the very first time in years, Mr. Nutley smiled.

That night, Mr Nutley slept soundly, freed at last of the fear of nightmares.  He never once woke up. In fact, he was still sleeping as Bozley crept out of the bedroom and slipped silently down the stairs to wait for the gardeners, and the sun began to dawn on a bright new day.

Later that afternoon, when there was still no sign of Mr Nutley, Bozley went to check on him. He opened the door and jumped up on to the bed. He stared down into the grey decaying face. There was no sign of movement, his eyes were closed. In one hand, he held a copy of his new book, his fingers still caught between the twisted pages. Bozley stared at the silent bedstead, and imagined, for a moment, that he saw the trace of a smile on Mr. Nutley’s face. He then pushed up the duvet with his paws so that it was close and comfortable around his neck. He was suddenly filled with a deep sadness. The time, he thought, had come.

Bozley closed the bedroom door and turned down the lamp in the hall. He crept gently down the stairs and out through the kitchen window. The grey light was waning fast and the garden already veiled in deepening dusk. He walked along the soft green lawn without once looking back. His work, he felt, was now complete.

 

 

 

Natural Born Killer

The wolves were chasing me through the dark woods, I could see their eyes glinting in the shadows behind me. They were making up ground; they were catching me. I found myself on the edge of the woods, the part where it meets the highway. I was about to race across the road to safety, when a huge truck bore down on me. I could see the driver’s face; he looked familiar. He was laughing, and held a smoking gun in his hand. I was caught in the headlights, in the middle of the road. All I could do was close my eyes and wait for the impact.

I awoke and shook myself out of the dream. Dawn was breaking, and the silence told me they were still sleeping. I crept down the hall and pushed open their bedroom door. I glanced around the room, the floor was littered with yesterday’s newspapers, half-empty teacups, the Highsmith novels, damp towels and discarded underwear.

I yawned and stared at the two of them. I thought of waking them, but they appeared tired and dishevelled in the pale morning light. He had one arm over her, as if protecting her from bad dreams or demons. There was a sense of quiet loss about them. I decided to let them sleep and made my way to the kitchen to eat an early breakfast. The dawn beckoned, and I figured a walk along the beach might do me good.

I thought of them as my parents, though I knew they were not. It was just more natural to think of them in that way. I owed them everything. I pictured them laying there, their heads together on the same pillow. There has been a period of sadness, as if they had suffered some sort of loss. I do not know the whole story, I have learned to respect their privacy. I just know when something is wrong. It is an instinct I was born with.

I strolled toward the beach, the sun was coming up, and I was thankful for the early warmth. The beach was desolate, just the crash of surf breaking on the shore. The sand felt soft and comforting between my toes. In the summer, there will be more time to explore the shore, or walk the woods, concealed from the eyes of the world under the towering trees.

I visualized them both, trapped in their bizarre world of books and newspapers. so many newspapers. They are as much a constant as the ringing of the phones, the hushed conversations – the hidden meanings and the dark looks. The endless tapping on the keyboard in the search of the truth, so often lost between the chattering arses and the digital lies. I pondered why they had to live this way. I am not sure they realise that I understand their world, but I do. I think and breathe their world; I watch television and listen to the radio. I know who Piers Morgan and Taylor Swift are. Every day I breathe in their smoke; I hear their laughter in the night, and I witness how swiftly their mood can change. In the end, I feel what they feel.

My life is decidedly different from theirs. I am content to be myself. I have very little left to prove, and no desire to better myself. Sometimes I sense I am destined to live a life of quiet desperation.

If you happen to read this, perhaps you would let them know that I love being with them. Tell them that I enjoy their music, although I have no choice in what I hear. Occasionally I try to sing along, as they dance together in the dark. They merely stare at me and laugh.

Recently, I have learned to lock, and unlock doors, and to read books.  I can also write, and today, for the first time, I Googled myself.  This, you must not tell them. Soon I plan to write a book.

You need to know I am a natural born killer. Killing is my life, and I am extremely effective at it. I have already killed twice today, and it’s only 2pm.

So be scared, be very scared, and bear this one thought in mind. There are very few around here, apart from me, that are privy to the truth.

I am watching you.

I am the cat.

I see all

Of Mice and Men

The storm raged for five days and five nights. The sun came out each morning, and by noon it was gone; replaced by a dark and turbulent sea that crashed relentlessly against the ship.

On the sixth day, the storm subsided. I ventured out on deck and watched a dove appear and circle the ship. I saw it swoop and soar, then fly west towards the setting sun. There was no sight of land and darkness once again engulfed the ship.

On the morning of the seventh day, Captain Murdoch appeared on deck to address his weary crew.

“The storm has led us into uncharted waters” He boomed. “We are alone on this ocean, and must gather all our strength in a bid to find our way home….”

The bolt of lightning came out of the heavens and hit the mainsail. I heard the mighty crack as it began to fall. I ran for cover and saw the Captain glance upwards as if in silent prayer. There was nothing he could do to save himself. His ship was doomed…..

******

The scream sent a shiver down my spine. It came from the shower; it was Janet Leigh in Psycho. I shut my book and ran down the hall.

The blonde spoke in gasps, her voice, punctuated by short, sharp screams.

‘A mouse…. The cat’s got a mouse. She’s under the bed… Get it OUT!’

I peered under the bed. I saw the yellow eyes squinting back at me in the dark. The mouse was gripped tightly in her jaws. I reached slowly for the handle of my gun. I took aim and gently squeezed the trigger. The water hit her right between the eyes and she shot out the other side of the bed. The mouse lay on its side, motionless.

I reached under the bed and gently picked up the mouse, and placed it in the nearest shoe box, which happened to be Jimmy Choo.

‘Have you got it?’ She shouted, stepping out of the shower.

‘Yes, I’ve put it in a box.’

‘What box?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, just some old box.’

‘Is it dead?’

;I’m not sure. It’s not moving. I think I’ll take it to the vet.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, just throw it out please and close all the windows.’

I gently stroked the mouse. There was no movement, just the cold stare of death. I went to the kitchen and took a small chunk of cheese from the fridge and put it in the shoe box. I closed the lid and hid the box in the hall cupboard.

The blonde walked into the lounge, pulling a black silk robe around her. ‘That damn cat! Why can’t it kill its prey somewhere else? Is that the book you bought this morning?’ She asked, placing a small vase of Peace roses on the black gloss table.

‘Yes, it’s a novel about a family lost at sea. It’s a fable.’

‘I love fables. I remember reading The Little Prince. I didn’t like the fox though, it scared me.’

The phone rang, and she stared at me, ‘I’m so fed up with all this intrusion.’

‘Let it ring.’ I said.

‘But it might be your mum, or your brothers.’

‘It isn’t. Let’s go to bed please.’

********

That night, I dreamed I was drowning in a shark infested sea of dark chocolate. My mother was rowing towards me in a small boat, but she was getting nowhere, and was tiring fast. The blonde eventually appeared in a Sea Rescue helicopter, and winched us both to safety. The sharks, on this occasion, were left hungry.

Early the next morning, I crept downstairs and opened the hall cupboard. I took out the shoe box and walked out onto the patio, just as the sun was beginning to rise over the woods.

I carefully opened the shoe box and peered inside. The mouse looked up, as if to question me. The cheese was gone, and the box was littered with droppings. I smiled to myself and gently turned the box on its side and let the mouse run free. I watched it scamper towards the opening to the woods. For a moment, I thought I saw it stop, and look back, before disappearing into the long grass. Even mice, I thought, deserve another chance.

The blonde breezed into the lounge. ‘Do you want some eggs, or your Greek yogurt?’

I smiled at her, and drew her close to me.

‘Be honest with me’ she said. ‘Did you really throw that dead mouse out last night?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Oh God, don’t say it’s still under the bed.’

‘It wasn’t dead. I let it out this morning, into the woods.’

‘How come it survived, what on earth did you do to it?’

‘Its a little miracle. It survived, that’s all you need to know.’

I stood and stared at her, and immediately suffered a vision of the future. ‘You do realise don’t you’ I said. ‘One day you may have to deal with all this on your own?’

She thought for a second before replying. ‘Yes, perhaps I will, but not today Tony. My Grandmother always told me; that for every demon, there are a thousand angels.’

I opened the patio windows and stepped outside. I could detect a slight chill in the air. I looked out over the woods and thought about Robert Forester. I wondered how he was coping with the loss of his wife, and hoped he wasn’t alone. There is no rhyme or reason to the way people react to bad news. I suddenly felt the urge to see him, to explain how I misjudged him.

I lit a cigarette and watched the grey wisp of smoke billow, and then disappear into the crisp morning air.

The mouse who lived to tell the tale…

 

Rear Window 2 – The Sobbing Man

I am alone in the dark, running through the woods. The trees appear to close in, as if to stop me reaching the house. I am holding something tightly in my hand as I run. I can hear far away voices. I am in the night, engulfed by the endless, soothing dark of the woods. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a car driving down the empty country road. I listen to the air rushing in and out of my nostrils.

I stop at the entrance to the driveway. I can see the car. I approach slowly and realise I have a screwdriver in my hand. I need to open the trunk of the Volvo. I have to see for myself.

Then I hear the voice…….

“Tony, please wake up!”

I open my eyes, and The Blonde is staring down at me. Her face drowned in fear.

“You were breathing like a madman. What were you dreaming about?”

I sat up in bed, and stroked her worried face. “I was running I think. Through the woods, that’s all. Is the cat back?”

“No. I’ve been out along the path, as far as the woods, shouting for her. It’s just not like her to be gone so long.”

I jumped out of bed and into my jeans. “I’ll go out. I think I know where she is.”

The Blonde opened the blinds, and light streamed into the room. “I’m coming with you.”

I held her face between my hands. “No. You are not. I want you to stay here in case she comes back.” She looked as if she was about to cry.

I caught sight of my reflection in the hall mirror, and saw Anthony Perkins in Psycho.

As I followed the path, a reef of clouds and lightning raced across the skies. I should have run to take shelter from the approaching downpour, but The Blonde’s words were beginning to sink in. My hands were shaking. I tried to speed up, but I was consumed by fear and walked with leaden feet, chased by the rain. I took refuge under a tree, trying to rationalise my dream. A clap of thunder roared close by, and I felt the ground shake under my feet. I began to run towards the house with only one thought in my mind: Volvo Man.

By the time I reached the entrance to the driveway, I was drenched to the bone. I stopped dead in my tracks. The Volvo was gone. A police car, its engine still running, sat in its place.

As I opened the front door – The Blonde came rushing to greet me.

“Have you seen this story all over the front page of the newspaper today?”

“Yes, a lot of fuss over a single man enjoying himself. It’s a pity they don’t run a story about all the money he gives to children’s charities instead.”

“Not that one, the local paper. It’s HIM, look, the one you have been spying on; Volvo Man. Except that’s not his name. It’s Robert Forester. He’s an architect. His wife died two days ago in a car accident on Elmar Bridge. They only married a year ago, it’s so sad.”

I grabbed the paper and read:

29 year old Elaine Forester died instantly on Monday night when she lost control of her car in high winds on Elmar Bridge. Husband Robert, 32, was being comforted by family and friends last night after police were called to the family home following reports of a disturbance. According to a neighbour; Mr Forester was said to be ‘devastated’ by the tragic loss, and had to be restrained after trying to empty his dead wife’s clothes and belongings into the boot of his car. “He didn’t know what to do. It was as if he wanted to hold onto everything that was hers. He just stood there sobbing; it was all very sad to witness.”    

I walked into the lounge, lit a cigarette, and looked out towards the woods. The rain was starting to subside and a rainbow curled across the high trees. It appeared to vanish somewhere over the house where Forester lived. I glanced at my binoculars and felt the urge to use them, as if by doing so would somehow make the truth a little clearer.

The Blonde came up behind me and took my hand. Her face shimmered in the morning light. “Do you want some lunch, or a drink?”

“A drink would be better.”

My mobile began to ring.

“Hi Mum. Yes we have. Look, I wouldn’t worry. It will all blow over soon I’m sure. Yes, I know, I got caught up in it myself. I’ll call you back a little later OK? Bye Mum. I love you too.”

The Blonde placed the drinks on the black gloss table. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Mum.”

“Is she worried about the…….”

“The storms yes. She’s got the same there. Storms. I told her it will blow over soon.”

As I reached for my drink, I heard a faint scratching sound behind me. We both turned quickly. The cat stared back through the patio windows. Her wet face pushed hard against the window pane, her eyes pleading.

Some things are not always what they seem.

 

E.T comes home

 

Rear Window

I could see him standing at the table with a knife in his hand; he had rubber gloves on and was cutting something. He appeared uneasy as he went about his work.

“Who are on earth are you spying on now?”

I turned quickly, and the cord of the binoculars tightened round my neck like a noose.

“God! Do you have to creep up on me like that?”

The Blonde stood in front of me, looking out of the window. “You’re turning into a peeping Tony. Why are you behaving like a stalker?  Haven’t we had enough stalkers in the family lately?

“Are you referring to my mother?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“I’m not stalking; I was watching the cat, to see if I could find out where she goes at night. Then I saw this guy in his kitchen cutting up something on the table.”

“Which guy?

“You know – the guy opposite with the Volvo, the one with the really annoying walk.”

The blonde shrugged her shoulders and started laying the table with a clatter of cutlery. She stopped suddenly. “So what exactly is he cutting up?”

“I can’t… quite… see….”

I lit a cigarette and moved closer to the window and adjusted the zoom. “Wait! It looks like some kind of meat, and he’s putting the chopped-up pieces into a……..into a bin bag.”

The Blonde made a puffing sound with her cheeks. “I’ve made you a steak pie for dinner is that OK?”

“I’m not sure I fancy meat tonight.”

She came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear. “How long has the cat been gone?”

“About two hours. I watched her go along that path and then turn left, towards his house. Then I lost sight of her.”

The Blonde lit two vanilla candles and placed them on the table. “How can you see out of those things? Come and have a drink and stop worrying about the cat.”

“They are infrared. I think I’ll go out and see if I can find her.”

“Oh for goodness sake. Last week you wanted to get rid of the cat. Now you are behaving as if you’ve lost the love of your life. Do you think she’s been kidnapped, or catnapped? Or do you just want to spy on Volvo-man?”

I stood, with one hand on the door. Maybe The Blonde was right. I was overreacting. Things aren’t always what they seem. Then again, what if something had happened to her?

“I’ll just go and check. I won’t be long.”

As I closed the door, I heard The Blond mutter something under her breath as she uncorked a bottle of Prosecco.

Night was falling quickly, with visible speed, like a black sea creeping over the earth. I followed the path the cat had taken and then turned left towards his house. I thought of calling her name. I even looked for blood on the path, but it was too dark to see.  As I reached his house, he was still in the kitchen. A square of light showed at the back of the house, and now and again his figure crossed the light.

The Volvo stood in the driveway, and I could hear the faint ticking as the engine cooled. The darkness was thickening. Maybe she had been scared by something and was hiding under the car. I moved around the square of light thrown from his rear window. Just then I heard a noise behind me. As I turned, the kitchen door opened, and steps sounded on the wooden porch. Volvo-man’s steps. He was carrying the black plastic bag. He was struggling with the weight of it. He still had gloves on, and I could see the sweat glistening on his brow.

I ducked down below the bonnet of the car as he came closer. He looked around furtively, and opened the trunk and heaved the bag into it. He locked the car and turned back towards the house. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, and I could hear his breathing coming in short bursts. He looked back at the car, as if he had lost something. He lifted his eyes as if he was looking directly at me. He stood motionless, his lips parted as if about to speak. I crouched lower, one foot advanced for a step I dare not take.

A pair of headlights came slowly from the right along the road. He turned quickly, climbed the steps to his kitchen and closed the door. I reached the pathway in two huge leaps and made my way back home.

As I walked into the lounge, The Blonde looked up from her book, her eyes searching me. “Well…..did you find her?”

I lit a cigarette, opened the back doors and walked out onto the patio. “No, I didn’t.”

She came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. “We’ll probably get a ransom note in the morning. I’m kidding! She’ll be home soon, I’m sure she will.”

I looked over towards the dark woods; I couldn’t help but wonder, what might be lying in the trunk of that Volvo.

I turned to The Blonde and stroked her face. “What are you reading?” I asked.

“The Shining.” she said, her eyes twinkling under the moonlit sky.

 

 

Between fact and fiction, and a fish pie.

Page 101 – Key West Florida – October 7^th 2002

She was standing alone at the prow as I steered The Pilar towards the harbour. We were two miles out when the sky darkened to pitch black, with tiny patches of deep blue peeping through.

I planned to get into harbour before dark but the wind had struck up. I wanted her to meet Tony. His fish restaurant was now considered the best in Key West. I had things to tell Tony. It’s not as if I don’t think back to that fateful night in April. I do – it still haunts me. I just cannot rationalise my feelings; I’m trying to process them. I just wish I had known about her condition?

“I think you’d be safer down below” I shouted at her over the wind. 

She turned and waved, and began to walk tentatively along the deck. The wind was making the boat pitch and roll, and I could see the growing bump of her tummy as she walked towards me. She looked up – her face fixed in a frozen mask of terror. I held out my hand and gently guided her into the cabin, and into my arms.

Later, as I walked Poppy Maythrop along the quay towards the restaurant, I caught sight of a small grey cat beneath a tamarind tree. The bright yellow eyes winked at me and appeared to smile knowingly.

Hemingway I remembered, had a cat with six toes called Snowball. I squeezed Poppy’s hand, and for a moment, felt as if I had somehow slipped through time.

*****************

 7.41pm

The blonde’s voice broke my reverie, and I snapped the book shut.

“I think I’ll make a fish pie and then grill the sardines as a starter, what do you think?”

I looked up at her face, beautifully backlit.

“I’m not sure I want fish pie” I said, putting the book down on the black gloss table.

“But you like my fish pie?”

“I do, it’s just that two nights ago I dreamed I was trapped in a giant fish pie and every time I tried to push my way out, someone, or something pushed me back down.”

“There you go again, letting your mad dreams into your life?”

I drew her close and held her hands. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to drown in a béchamel sauce?”

She looked up at me with a tired expression. “Frankly no, I don’t. I only dream about nice things like… like, Ryan Seacrest.”

I smiled and stroked her hair. “I think you have forgotten, my brother doesn’t eat fish.”

“Fine, you can both have chicken pie, unless you think there’s a chance you could drown in that too.”

The doorbell rang, just like the red buzzer on BGT.

“Oh god, that will be your mother, can you fix some drinks please and keep her OUT of my kitchen?”

11.41.pm

The Blonde bounced onto the bed: “I see you found your book then, after all?”

“Yes, or rather the cat did…..  I’ve been thinking; it’s time we got rid of that cat, she’s beginning to freak me out.”

“What are you talking about, you love that cat!”

“I did, but I think our relationship has changed. They say cats symbolise dark forces, and I don’t want her in the bedroom anymore please.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, cats represent love and fertility, and that cat loves you.”

“Well it has a strange way of showing it”

I could’t help but wonder….Do cats actually understand what we say?”

The Blonde yawned and turned on her side. I watched over her until she had slipped into a deep sleep with Ryan Seacrest.

Later that night, as I crept downstairs to double lock the front door, I thought I heard the patter of tiny paws somewhere in the house, followed by a high-pitched laugh.

There is a fine line between fact and fiction…

The Cat

Something strange in the potting shed…

April 3^rd 2002 – 8.20pm – Sunset Boulevard – Chap 1- Page 52

I cannot recall when I first made the decision to murder Poppy Maythrop.

 I think the idea slowly began to form in my mind the first night we met. I enjoyed her book, and it wasn’t that she had done me any injustice; it was just simply bad timing for Poppy.

 I still had the key to her apartment that she had given me that night.

I could feel my heart pump as I unlocked her front door. It was dark, just a ghostly flicker of light coming from the lounge. As I edged closer, I could hear a voice coming from the TV set. A familiar British voice; and then the singing started. It sounded like a talent show. Poppy loved talent shows. Somehow I always knew Wednesday night would provide the perfect cover.

I slowly pulled the bowie knife from the inside pocket of my jacket and dropped to a low crouch. My throat felt dry as I crept silently towards the sofa, the knife held tight in my left hand.

 

TONY! Where are you?”….. Her voice cut the air like a knife.

“I’m in here!”

“Where…I can’t see, it’s so dark?…”

“Here…in the potting shed”.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing?”

“Reading a book…..it’s a thriller.”

“Your Mum’s on the phone. She wants to know what TV channel Man v.Food is on…”

“Did you say I was here?”

“Of course I did. Why would I lie to your mother?”

“Everyone else does.”

I marked page 52 and put the book on the stool in the potting shed and took the call in the hallway.

“Hi Mum, you OK?”

“My dishwasher has been leaking and I’ve been waiting all day for the man to come and fix it. It’s so cold down here the dog won’t go out and Mrs Pringle next door has gone away for the weekend so I’ve got NO help whatsoever…is it cold where you are I think it’s going to rain here? I’ve put towels all around the bottom of the dishwasher and the dog had diarrhoea yesterday it was probably the duck pate she ate. How are you anyway? Ah…. there it is……Man v. Food Channel 142….I had better write that down somewhere…………. Bye darling lots of love.”

“Bye Mum”

“Did you find it for her?” The Blonde shouts from the kitchen.

“Yes dear.”

The Blonde was in baking mode. Iced cookies this time. Much better than Honeycomb; though every surface in the kitchen was now covered with a fine dusting of icing sugar. Even the cat looked a lighter shade of grey.

As I walked down the hallway towards the potting shed I glimpsed her shadow out of the corner of my eye.

“Now where are you going?” She asked tetchily.

“I’m going to finish reading that book….”

“Aren’t you going to watch American Idol?”  She asked in a that annoying sing-song voice.

When I opened the door to the potting shed I felt a chill run through my bones.  I glanced at the stool where I had left the book.

It was no longer there.

I anxiously checked every corner of the room. It was nowhere to be seen. The book had vanished. The world had changed. I switched off the light, locked the door behind me and pocketed the key. As I walked back to the house, I glanced up at the moon and heard the shrill cry of an owl coming from the woods behind the house.

“I think we’ve got a poltergeist in the potting shed.”

The Blonde looked up, her face a ghostly shade of icing-sugar white.

“Do you prefer the pink icing or the white?” She asked.

“I left that book on the stool in the potting shed, and now it’s mysteriously vanished.”

“Are you sure it’s not just you miss-placing things? I’m sure it will turn up. Please don’t start turning a missing book into a ghost story.”

Next morning I awoke at dawn. The Blonde, still icing-white, lay next to the ice-grey cat. They were both sleeping gently.

I crept downstairs and walked hesitantly towards the potting shed. A weak sun was peeping through the rushing clouds as I put the key into the lock and slowly pushed the door.

My stool was in the same spot I had left it, next to the bench. So too was the book which now lay open at page 101.

I turned quickly, aware of movement behind me. The cat leapt passed me, up onto the stool, and her pale yellow eyes gazed out knowingly. I stared at the cat, wondering whether to ask The Blonde about a missing book, or a ghost story.

Hemingway ate my Sardines…

I had this dream I was living in Key West in Florida where I owned a shop called ‘So Sardines’. I was standing proudly behind the counter surrounded by thousands of tins of tiny fish. Sardines in sunflower oil, Sardines in tomato sauce, fresh sardines. There were cookery books; Ceramic mugs with Sardine shaped handles, and cuddly Sardine toys for kids. There were even a few tins of pilchards in there I noticed.

What struck me most about this dream was just how annoying I was. Every time a customer came into the shop I would greet each one with a jaunty “Hello Captain!” As the shop grew busier, the louder my greeting became. I was intensely irritating! I wouldn’t want to go into a Sardine shop while I was behind the counter, and God knows what I was wearing!  As Hemingway sauntered through the door, I woke myself up (and The Blonde) by shouting “Hello Captain!” at him in a rather overly camp fashion.

I told The Blonde about my fishy tale over breakfast….

“Only YOU could dream about running a Sardine shop” She said.

“It wasn’t any old Sardine shop. I said. “It was where Hemingway shopped. So what did you dream about last night?”

“Vivienne Westwood”….she replied, smiling wistfully into her Sultana and Apple porridge.

I peeled a banana thoughtfully and pondered the significance of my dream. The shop did appear to be doing rather well. Maybe I was destined to own a shop called ‘So Sardines’ and meet Hemingway. Perhaps I’d just taken a wrong turn somewhere down the line. Or maybe it was all to do with being Piscean and reading The Old Man and the Sea.

“What are you thinking about?” asked The Blonde.

“Fashion and Food…Why women dream of fashion – and men dream of food!”

The Blonde looked up at me with a wry grin on her face (and a speck of porridge on her chin)

“I’m going to work now. I’ll see you later……Captain!”

So I couldn’t help but wonder…Do our dreams define who we really are?

Men in my family don’t dream about Sardines or Pilchards. I asked them. They dream about manly things like buying sets of spanners and Mini Air Compressors – Electric drills or step ladders. All the men in my family are fans of DIY; and are hugely practical around the house! So what use are they to me?

My research revealed that (normal) men definitely dream a lot about cars and girls but not Sardines. So where did I go wrong?

A Woman’s brain is much different. Women dream about clothes and shoes. Babies and kittens. They have anxiety dreams about the way they look. The Blonde once dreamed she was carrying all four members of  ll Divo across a field in France. (Think I know where that one was heading!) Women think differently. Like, what is it about women and mugs? Whenever we are in a store The Blonde somehow ends up admiring mugs. She fondles them gently, caresses them. Attempts to convince me we need yet another mug with hearts on it. She refused to leave the top of the Empire State Building without buying a NYC mug. She bought a Beatles mug in Liverpool, a Marilyn Monroe in Hollywood, and last year a Zippy and Bungle mug for my birthday! I’m convinced the One Direction mug is imminent! Men would never think about mugs!

Women dream endlessly….. About the Queen, the Diamond jubilee. Kate Middleton and Rachel Zoe. America’s Next Top Model. Mini eggs and David Beckham. Harry Styles and Prada bags. Katie Price and Valentino …… or whether Simon should have married Paula Abdul after all. But women never dream of fish. How odd!

Do our dreams merely reflect what we hope for?

So before I light the vanilla scented candles and The Blonde comes home. I should seriously study the price of sardines in Florida. I’m convinced it’s my destiny. I may even phone my brother and pitch the idea of doing a TV programme called The Fish Factor…..you never know it may catch-on!

“Hello Captain!”….

 

 

 

The Night of the Honeycomb Horror

I had just slipped through the gates of deep sleep when I heard the noise that turned my stomach. A sort of high-pitched scream followed by a loud gurgling, like a Gremlin being liquidised.

I sat bolt upright in bed and checked The Blonde for damage. I could detect only the soft whisper of a snore and the gentle rise and fall of her sleeping. I glanced up at the window and the full moon seemed to wink back at me knowingly. Then I heard the noise again, this time louder, and ending with a chilling howl…

I reached under the bed and felt the comforting handle of my gun. I pulled it gently towards me and in the pale moonlight I could just make out the water level was half full….I pulled the duvet back gently, so as not to disturb The Blonde, and moved stealthily towards the bedroom door. The Water Pistol felt good in my hand. Holding my breath I reached for the door handle, and looked back at The Blonde one last time…..before stepping out into the dark hallway.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I swept left and right quickly, holding the gun out in front of me. Nothing. No sound, just blackness. I could hear my heart thumping under the soft silk of my black pyjamas. My hand was shaking as I reached for the light switch, and then I felt it. A soft mushy splat of something wet under my foot. I hit the light switch just before I hit the floor, the gun tumbling from my hand and spinning away across the shiny black surface of the hallway.

When I finally came to, I saw them on the floor. A collection of white, wet piles of what looked like batter, each connected by a long yellowish dribble of gunk making a patterned path across the hallway. The stench was unbearable. Welcome to The Night The Cat Shat….!

What is it about cats that they have to be sick or poo ONLY at home? Why can’t they do it outside? I guess I ought to introduce you to Papoushka. (She’s our Russian Blue – not the bloke who owns Chelsea Football club) The trouble with Papoushka is that she likes to eat weird things…. Her favourite foods being cheese, butter, peppermint, chocolate (particularly Creme eggs) coffee, vanilla sugar and treacle tarts. So The Blonde has to be very careful when she is in ‘Baking Blonde’ mode. Which she was… The Night The Cat Shat!

This time it was Honeycomb/Hokey Pokey. She often makes Honeycomb. I’m not sure why as I’m not that fond of it. Obviously Papoushka is. As it was that night that she shat! After I had cleaned up, (while The Blonde continued to sleep) I checked the kitchen for clues and saw the paw prints by the cooker. I eventually found her (The cat, not The Blonde) sitting in my study under the desk, looking a slightly lighter shade of blue, more greyish really. She shot me a glance as if to say “I’m glad it’s all out in the open, but I still feel like shit!”

I picked up my gun and put it back under the bed.