Tinkle, tinkle. Hattie froze, her whole being unable to accept what her ears were conveying. He was here. Gary – for once in his life (or death) – had stepped up to the mark and met his obligations. He was going to show himself to Jack and Hattie would do a little dance of I’m not nuts, no one believed me, I’m not nuts … OK, Jack was strolling back and the kitchen door was slightly ajar and … ‘I don’t believe it! I do not fucking believe it!’
Hattie watched as the next-door-neighbours’ cat, Goebbels, strutted across the kitchen tiles, tail held aloft. As repulsive as its namesake, its fur was a manky grey with splodges of brown, its face one that would induce nightmares. The only time Hattie had tried to stroke it, it had sunk its teeth into the back of her hand. Now it was parading around like a bit-part player in a Stephen King movie, the bell on its scarlet collar jangling away.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish