A DISH SERVED COLD                                                            

by Richard Banks 

I want one thing clearly understood from the off – I am a cat. This is not one of those stories that beguiles the reader into thinking that the protagonist is a human being only to reveal in the final paragraph that he or she is nothing of the kind of literary device known, I believe, as a twist in the tail. No way! My tail is not for twisting, especially as it no longer exists. Like the rest of me, it is as dead as dead can be which, of course, accounts for my ability to articulate my thoughts beyond the restraints of my feline creation. Yes, the afterlife is a wonderful place, an equal place, where animals of every kind, can communicate their thoughts as well, if not better, than their human masters. We have long been silent and therefore have much to say.

         From now on the ‘you’ I will be addressing is a single you by the name of Jason who is the central character in the story I am about to tell. You, Jase, are asleep. You think you are dreaming, that my thoughts are really your thoughts, an amusing little entertainment you have devised to occupy the nighttime hours. Think again, this dream is a developing nightmare that will continue into your waking world, it is in the way of a haunting.

         So, having filled your dreams with discordant thoughts, how shall I continue? Subtly, I think, a gradual escalation starting with the trivial quirks of peripheral vision, those half seen, half sensed movements that may or may not have happened. Tired eyes you think, a trick of the light, but when it occurs for the sixth or seventh time a cold shudder tells you that something odd and inexplicable is happening and is showing no sign of stopping. Nonetheless, in search of rational explanation, you go to the optician who is unable to provide one. Your sight is unchanged from your last check-up, there is nothing he can do. Perhaps, he says, a few early nights might help, less time in front of the computer. You follow his advice but to no avail, the only change is that now you expect to see what you previously were at pains to deny. One day that little blur of motion will come sharply into focus, then what will you see, nothing pleasant you are thinking.

         You, Jase, have a secret that the world has yet to learn. You have been clever as well as evil, you have laid false trails and left no clues but now all that cleverness is about to unravel. Strange things are happening and you are no longer pulling the strings. The visual distortions increase to the point that they are ever present. You try to avoid them by staring straight ahead but sideway glances are a part of the human condition, a lifetime habit impossible to break. And then you see it. For the first time, the blur takes shape and you glimpse not what you are expecting to see but the face of the almost forgotten Tibbs. Yes, you are looking at me. Your face registers horror, confusion but you manage to stay silent. Your brain is whirring, attempting to make sense of what you have seen. Is this really the same cat who saw what you did and tested your patience once too often. You search for logical explanations but there are none. You go back to looking straight ahead. While you do so the world is normal, but you are not, and never will be again.

         For now, you are able to escape me by being out. You hurry off to the town centre buy a few groceries and take a coffee at Costa’s. There you feel better, reassured. It is just imagination you tell yourself, get a grip when you return home everything will back to how it used to be, how it should be. Nevertheless, you delay your return for another hour.

         I hear the rattle of a key in the door and observe you coming in through the front door. You are whistling, affecting a nonchalance unconvincing even to yourself. Even so I will allow you a short respite, a few more hours of hope. You hang up your coat and proceed briskly into the kitchen where you prepare your evening meal. Having consumed two large mugs of coffee and a doughnut you have little need for food but the cooking of it will take your mind of the things you don’t want to think about, the things you try and banish from your mind like they never happened. Then the telephone rings and the pupils in your eyes involuntarily flicker across to the hall where your landline is located. Your vision is clear, taking in only the reassuring things that should be there. You answer the phone and talk animatedly to a friend who asks about Annette. No further news, you say, since she used her debit card in Calais. From there she could be anywhere, a new life, a new identity, who knows what she’s up to. Having promised to meet the caller when next in London you replace the receiver and return to the kitchen. You are more confident now, things are looking up, what happened before was just nerves but now you’re back on track. To test the waters you deliberately look both left and right as far as you can go. Everything’s normal and normal has never seemed so good. This, of course, is a false dawn, my purpose now is to build you up, that way you have further to fall. The landing when it comes will be a painful one, no torture could be worse. The landing I postpone until the following evening.

                                           *****

         Twenty-four hours have passed without a single sighting of what you don’t want to see. You, Jase, are in a good mood, almost euphoric. You feel like celebrating. Your microwave dinner is almost eaten and you are washing it down with a large glass of wine. There’s football on TV and your team is winning. They score again but as you leap up off the couch you realise you are not alone. The realisation is shattering, the blur is back and what’s more, it’s beginning to clear. You fall back onto the couch, wine and glass falling from your hand. The red stain on the carpet is the least of your concerns.

         It’s time to tighten the screw, I add sound to the mix. Above the roar of the football crowd, I meow. You think I am behind the couch on which you are sitting, my much used hiding place from you. It enters your head that you must catch me but can you catch what should not exist?  Nevertheless, you pull the couch away from the wall. You see a movement, a translucent swirl that moves away, tantalisingly out of reach. I meow again to signal that I am now on the wall unit where your wedding photographs used to be. This is more than a generous hint as to where I am but your senses are scrambled, overwhelmed by confusion and fear. I prepare to meow again but there is no need, another voice is heard. It calls out a single word, your name, in a voice that fills you with dread and me with joy.

         Annette’s back. No gradual escalation for her. Having made herself heard she now sits down on her chair and materialises. I drop down onto the floor and scamper towards her. As I jump up onto her lap I also become visible. We look lovingly at each other and then unlovingly at ourselves. Once we were in fear of you but now there is no need. This is payback time. You sink to your knees. Logical thought is beyond you now; you stare in terror at us and then at yourself, at the hands that made us what we are. For a while you are incapable of movement then you crawl across the floor to the drinks cabinet and begin to down a bottle of Scotch. You drink straight from the bottle and having finished one you begin another. You pass out. You have achieved a reprieve through oblivion but, no matter, in the morning you will have come to.

         Until then Annette and I will share our thoughts in a way impossible before. She says she always knew I was a clever, knowing cat but even she didn’t know how right she was.  As her decease predates mine by almost three weeks I bring her up to date with Strictly and Corie, plus what she didn’t know, but I did, about the plumber and Mrs Brown two doors along. It’s the best girls-in ever and we talk away the night until a light through the curtains informs us that it’s morning and time for breakfast. We may no longer be flesh and blood but that doesn’t mean we’re off our food; it’s just that now we smell it rather than eat. So, off we go to the Bentley’s who are cooking pancakes to be followed by croissants and freshly ground coffee. Perfect, heaven can wait!

                                              *****

         We return home for the serious business of the day. There we find you, all woke up and attempting to walk in a straight line. It’s like Bambi on ice and when we materialise again the shock’s too much and you come crashing down onto the coffee table. Annette giggles, but somehow you manage to rise to your feet and stagger towards us. You have murder on your mind, but even in the grip of the worse mind-numbing hangover, you have ever had you know that not even serial killers murder their victims twice. To increase your confusion we turn off the visuals and you stare stupidly at the empty space where we were. It’s all a dream you mutter but when did that dream begin? - you have no idea. Maybe Annette is still alive, maybe you didn’t bury her at the top of the garden. There’s only one way to find out and having fetched a shovel from the shed you begin digging until Annette’s mouldering body comes into view. You groan like you are in pain and Mr Phillips from next door peeps over the fence to see what’s going on. Only when you are back in the house does it occur to you that disinterring Annette in broad daylight was not a good idea. By then the police are on their way and when you do not respond to the ringing of the doorbell they break down the door and come in anyway.

                                            *****

         Needless to say, everything has turned out rather well. You, Jase, are in the asylum, and Annette and myself free to flitter from house to house sampling the varied cuisines on offer and watching the TV screens tuned in to our favourite shows. For all of this and much more, we thank you. Yes, of course, you were a heartless, murdering bastard. For what you did you deserve to rot in hell for the rest of all time, but the inescapable truth is that now you have freed us from your odious self we have never been happier. But don’t count on our forgiveness, that’s never going to happen and when your wretched, detestable life comes to an end your one certainty will be that Annette and myself will be ready and waiting to make the asylum feel like heaven on Earth. The worse is yet to come, we can hardly wait.                                                                                                                                     

Copyright Richard Banks