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Hello, my name is Theodore. The first thing you should know about me is that I’m a cat. In fact, I’m what humans call a tuxedo cat. The second thing you should know about me is that the man I live with hurts women. In the five years that I have been his pet, he has killed four women, and he has now found his next victim. I tried to save these women, but I’m just a cat and I can’t scream for help.
I’m five years old. Dean, the man I live with, rescued me when I was just a kitten. When my mum gave birth to me, the family she lived with didn’t know what to do with my brothers and me, so they put us in separate boxes and dumped us on the street to die. It was cold and windy that night, and I was afraid and alone. I meowed, hoping my mum would come for me, but she never did. Dean found me when he heard my desperate mewling and took me as his own. I don’t know what happened to my brothers—I hope they have a good life.
Let me tell you a little about Dean. He’s nice to me and takes good care of me. He feeds me and gives me water to drink, he keeps my litter box clean, and he buys me toys and lets me go out for walks. I’m content in my environment. Humans have this misconception that we felines are insensitive and uncaring. That’s not true - we simply display our emotions differently than, let’s say, dogs. We are often called sociopaths, selfish and ungrateful. This confuses me; it’s my human that is a sociopath, not me.
Dean is a quiet, reserved man, with a life as normal as it gets. He’s very handsome, and that’s an amiable quality to have when it comes to the females of his species. If only they would stop to think and see him for what he truly is—a predator. I’m sure if they looked hard enough, they would be able to see it, or if they searched within themselves and listened to their instincts, they would know something is not quite right about him.
It’s a sickness. I don’t think it can be helped. I like to think that good looks are often associated with ‘goodness’ and ugliness mistaken for cruelty. The reality is quite different. I think that good-looking people take advantage of their position as my human does. He doesn’t kill all women he comes across, and I don’t think the term serial killer should be used here as he doesn’t do it so often. He chooses his victims carefully. He has had long-term relationships with the opposite sex, and the women have had no idea what lies beneath his facade. How could they tell, when he’s romantic, attentive, and a true gentleman? He’s a cunning one, my human, but I know the mask he puts on. Dean is in his early thirties, his brown hair is styled in a greaser style, and he has piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones. Whatever it is, it works with women. He was married before, but it ended in divorce. I don’t know why the marriage failed, nor do I know what he does for a living exactly... He’s always at home working on his computer, like his next victim.
––––––––
Now, let me tell you about his next victim and what he has found out about her so far. Her name is Jane, she lives across the street from us, and she, too, always types on her computer - I think she works from home. I believe the term is a writer... or is it author? Either way, I like them; they have imagination and the ability to create. She lives with a man whom I presume is her husband as I have noticed the funny rings humans wear to mark their relationship. She also likes to cook, which I believe she’s good at it, judging by the smells that drift from her kitchen. A writer and a cook—she sounds almost too good to be true. She has long wavy auburn hair and green eyes. She’s tall and slim; I guess you could say she’s pretty. Since she’s married, which is different from what Dean usually goes for, it’s going to be a bit harder for him. This is good; this buys me time.
I am out on the balcony basking in the sun when Jane’s husband arrives home from work. Dean is also watching him with curious but cold eyes; a look I don’t like one bit. I know what he’s thinking, and Dean knows that I know. The prospect alone terrifies me. Dean will use any means necessary to get close to Jane, but I don’t want her to die, and I don’t want her husband to die either. Why can’t he stop? Why can’t he put an end to it before he takes a wrong turn, makes a mistake, and gets caught? Do I want him to get caught? Part of me does, the other part doesn’t. As I said, he has always been good to me, I just don’t like that he hurts other people.
My eyes return to the building across the road. Jane is out on the balcony sneaking a cigarette when she sees her husband, at which point she throws it out and goes inside, sliding the door shut behind her. Clothes are hanging on the lines. In Malta, they hang clothes on the roof or balconies, but right now it’s August and it’s too hot even for my liking.
A church bell is ringing somewhere in the distance - it’s so peaceful and quiet here. Dean slides our door open and looks down at me as I pad inside and jump up onto the sofa. Dean is not Maltese. He’s English, and we moved here to start afresh five months ago. I haven’t fully settled yet; us cats don’t take change lightly. We are a territorial species, but I’m slowly getting used to my new life. For five months, he has been watching and studying Jane. His work—that’s what he likes to call it—involves lots of time and patience. He has both.
The other day Dean was studying Jane. I went to the window, and she walked out of her house dressed in fancy clothes, followed by her husband. Every Friday night, they go out – it seems as though that must be their date night. Dean has found her on social media. Our Jane likes to be seen but doesn’t display herself too much. She has an Instagram account on which she posts anything writing and book-related, but she shares almost nothing about her personal life. She has a Twitter account too but is barely active there, and is only moderately active on Facebook. Dean joined her mailing list and has since bought all of her books; she’s going to see a spike in sales this week. He has a plan. I think he’s trying to discover something about her through her writing. He’s working on something major. This fills me with dread.
Dean has a plan, and so do I. I have to get to know her, and maybe I can do something to warn her, but what? Well, I’m still working on that. She usually goes out—I’m not sure where—and Dean sometimes follows her. Maybe I should go with him on those adventures to find out more about her as well. I’ll be like Dean, but instead of preying on her, I’ll do it for the greater good. One day, as part of my daily stroll, I sit by her block of flats. Dean is working on his laptop and not taking any notice of me, so I wait. There are other cats in the neighbourhood; there is a lady who owns about eight, and there are a few strays as well. I don’t interact with them though, I like to keep myself to myself and focus on the task at hand. Jane comes out wearing oversized sunglasses which make her face look funny, and a flowery perfume floats in the air around her as she looks down at me and gushes. What can I say? I’m a cute fellow.
‘Look at you,’ she tells me. ‘You’re wearing socks!’ She points at my white paws.
I lick my paw with disinterest, then walk away from her, leaving her frowning. I’m not going to be easy on her simply because I want to help her.
Dean doesn’t notice that I’m going out and trying to make a connection with Jane. I’m sure if he finds out, which he will in time, he won’t mind. It’s not like I can talk to her. Dean is speaking on the phone, and judging by his unhappy tone, it must be his ex-wife on the other end. I don’t know why they keep in touch; human relationships are so strange to me. The way they behave. How they treat each other. Every time she calls, he gets upset. He’s shouting now, and I manage to get a glimpse of his notes. Ah, my human is so organised, so precise. You have to be if you are going to commit a crime. He has managed to record most of Jane’s movements, which are something like this:
8:30 a.m. Goes out to the balcony to sweep.
9:30 a.m. Works on her laptop. Does marketing for her husband. Found out what he does. (This is circled in red.)
Noon Goes out to buy groceries.
1:00 p.m. Starts to write.
Underneath is written, I need her phone.
Dean slams down the phone which startles me. He settles on the sofa, scowling, then stands and takes a bottle of beer from the fridge before slumping back down and huffing. I go to him and start to purr, rubbing my head against his thigh, and he scratches men between my ears. If he is planning to steal her phone, he has a plan of attack. I move away from him, filled with anxiety. What if he gets caught? What if someone sees him? When is he going to make this move?
It’s the middle of the night, and sounds are coming from outside. I go to the balcony but the door is closed, and I can’t see a thing except for the orange lights. I sit there watching, trying to make sense of the ripples and the faint cries. The apartment is dark, and Dean isn’t home. I have a bad feeling; did he do what he had planned? Did he attack her to steal her phone? I hate not knowing. I hate not being able to help, to send some sort of warning to her. I don’t know her, yet I feel compelled, knowing who Dean is and what he’ll do to her. He wouldn’t attack her here, not in the neighbourhood. Our street is surrounded by flats and houses, and cars are constantly rumbling by or parking in the underground garage below. There are other cats too; a Siamese cat in his basket, a stray lying on a car roof, yet none but me seem to hear anything. Maybe I imagined it, or perhaps I dreamt it - I can’t be sure.
I linger by the sliding door; a fly has caught my attention as it crashes up and down the window. I consider trying to catch it until I realise it is on the other side where I can’t reach it—just like I can’t reach Jane. A few minutes later, the door opens. I run as if to greet him, but really I’m more curious than anything else. Dean removes his hood, his chest is puffing in and out as if he ran all the way here, and my heart sinks. He did it. He went out there and did it. He must have followed her when she went to meet a friend or run an errand. I keep my tail low to show Dean I’m worried, but he ignores me and proceeds to the sofa where he produces a phone with a red cover. I climb up next to him on the sofa; he taps in the code, and then scrolls through the contacts, emails, and apps. It’s her phone, and for the life of me I don’t know how he figured out the code. I spot her on Instagram, the bookish theme. Now what? What can he achieve by taking her phone? What if it can be tracked?
Worried for her safety, I trot over to the window. Her apartment lights are on, but the curtains are closed. Dean picks me up and I purr as he runs his hand over my coat, but my eyes are fixed across the street. I make out a figure pacing back and forth and someone sitting on the sofa with their legs under them. The standing figure moves to the sofa and envelops the sitting figure in a hug.
I don’t see Jane for a few days, even though I wait patiently by her block. I picture her nestled in her flat, hidden behind the curtains that she keeps closed, too terrified to go out. Going out of her mind, consumed by worry and stress, she wouldn’t be writing. I don’t see her husband either; I think he’s in there with her. I lie on the bonnet of a car, waiting, hoping she’ll come out, but neither she nor her husband does. On my way back to the flat, I see Dean peering down at me from the balcony. He smirks; although I know he wouldn’t hurt me, it makes me feel rather uneasy. He has been monitoring her phone day and night, checking her emails, going through her private messages. The app she uses the most is Instagram, and she chats with three particular people, all women, none of them writers. She hasn’t reported the phone missing yet, but I hope she will so he stops learning intimate personal details about her. It’s scary how people use these apps without realising how much they expose about themselves. Even though her private life is not displayed on the apps, she’s still giving Dean something to feed on. Any piece of information, no matter how small, is progress to him. Jane loves coffee, is obsessed with avocados, but hates cheese. Harmless things to share, yes, but not when a predator is after her. She has a writer friend on Facebook, and she’s a member of two writers’ groups to which she has posed a few questions. She uses Pinterest a lot; it seems pinning is popular with women. He also has access to her Dropbox, where all her writing and drafts are stored. Dean devours everything. He and I have been in this phase many times before. Well, four times to be exact, but I’ve never seen him as engrossed in anyone as he is with Jane. None of the others were writers; this one thing makes her different. Special. Maybe he will spare her. If not, I have to find a way to make sure she will survive.
Two weeks after the attack, Jane shows her face outside. She’s wearing those big sunglasses, and her hair is covering most of her face. She’s dressed in baggy trousers and a loose t-shirt with a logo on it. She has a new phone but hasn’t done anything about the old one. If Dean had attacked her and taken her phone or bag, why wouldn’t she report it missing? Maybe I was wrong; perhaps Dean did not attack her. He could have taken her phone when she was in a bar drinking with a friend. But if she thought she lost it, wouldn’t she still report it? Wouldn’t she have blocked the phone? Little does she know; someone now knows every detail of each online account she has, and has gained access to her most precious possession - her manuscripts.
I stand outside her apartment again, waiting for her to return from wherever she went. Dean is out too, but I’m not sure where. It’s unusual for him to go out during the day, as he usually stays in and works. I call what he does “work” because that’s what he tells me. When he’s working and I go to him so he can play with me, he tells me in a harsh tone,
‘Not now, Theodore—can’t you see I’m working?’
I then go and play on my own, which is much more fun anyway. Jane finally comes back, carrying a bag filled with groceries. She looks down at me, and I meow in greeting.
‘Oh, hello there.’
She gently bends down but winces as if in pain. She strokes my head, and I rub my body against her leg as she makes cooing sounds.
‘What are you doing out here on your own—don’t you have a home?’ she asks as if I could answer her.
She checks my collar; it’s blue and has a tag with my name on it. ‘Theodore,’ she reads. ‘Well, hello, Theodore. I’m Jane,’ she says and continues stroking me.
She straightens up, winces again, and I watch her open the lobby door. I follow her in, and she squeaks in pleasure. Dean will be home any minute and he’ll be looking for me, but I decide to follow her anyway. She opens the door, and I take in the scent in the air, a smell of roses mixed with floor detergent. The floor is white like the walls; the furniture is classic but modern. Everything is in light brown with hints of beige and grey. What I like most of all is the large L-shaped sofa, which I leap onto and get comfortable. Jane coos again. Behind me, the wall is painted purple, which makes a nice contrast with the grey and white. There is a glass-topped coffee table, upon which sit a plant, a pile of books about writing, and her laptop. She smiles across at me and puts the kettle on, before opening the cupboard and producing a small plate which she fills with water. She puts the plate near the sofa, but I pointedly ignore it.
‘Your owner must think I’ve stolen you.’
Dean shouldn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t get too close to his conquests. (I don’t want to call them victims.) He never speaks to them or establishes a connection, most probably because it would make everything more complicated. Jane stares at me, smiling. Her cheeks have a rosy colour to them. She winks at me several times, which makes me feel comfortable and secure. I stretch on the sofa and roll onto my back to show her that I trust her, and in return she gives me a few belly strokes, which I love. I purr and she grins.
‘Maybe I should get one like you,’ she says, stroking my head.
I stay curled up on the sofa while she works on her laptop, and sometimes I rub my head against her hands to remind her to stroke me, and she obliges lovingly. For a moment, I consider staying here with her, but I know Dean will be looking for me, and I can’t leave him, not yet. He needs me. I’m the only thing in this world that anchors the little sanity he has left. The intercom screams in the small apartment, throwing me out of my thoughts. Jane sighs, putting the laptop on the coffee table before getting up. She frowns and glances at me as if I can give her an answer.
‘Yes?’ she says to the intercom.
I stand to attention as I faintly recognise the voice speaking. Oh no. No, no, no. How does he know I’m here? I didn’t go out onto the balcony; how could he have known? Was he already home when I followed Jane into the flat, and did he let me go, give it time, and come to pick me up when it suited him?
‘Yes, he’s here,’ Jane says and sends a long glance my way. ‘He followed me, and I thought he was lost.’ She cringes and presses the button.
He’s coming up here. This is not how it’s supposed to happen. I want to form a friendship without him finding out. I have failed again. The lock makes a loud clunk that makes me sit up straight. I tilt my head sideways, confused.
‘You have been found,’ she whispers to me and turns to the door again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I stole him... I found him outside, and he followed me and...’ She places her hand on her cheek, and red splotches appear on her neck.
I’m not sure if she is embarrassed about the whole situation or just shy because of him. Maybe both. I jump off the sofa and walk to the door, meowing. He glances down at me, his eyes wide, while Jane is silently gazing at Dean, entranced.
‘It’s quite all right,’ he says. ‘Thank you for taking care of him.’
He picks me up and walks back outside. Jane is still holding the door open, gazing at us.
‘What were you thinking?’ Dean asks me.
Weeks go by, and Dean doesn’t let me go out, not even onto the balcony. I think he’s punishing me, but I’m a cat—punishment doesn’t work with me. He looks at me wryly. Although there was a brief interaction between him and Jane, he goes on tracking her phone. She only has a few friends from what I can tell, and those are more her husband's rather than her own. Every Sunday, she and her husband go out. They seem to have a good relationship, but he suffers from depression; that’s what Dean has learned from one of her Facebook chats with her writer friend. This stresses her out. She worries, and many times in her conversations she has confessed a desire to run away from it all. Reading about this gives Dean a motive, a way out for her, which I dread. He checks her phone, jiggling a pair of keys. They’re not to this apartment; I suspect they’re hers. Desperation seizes me. I meow and meow, but Dean doesn’t budge. Where did he get those keys? Did he take them the night he took her phone? Has he been going in and out of her apartment, looking at her things, learning about her life with her husband, and both she and I are unaware of this? But neighbours could have seen him! With a creeping sense of dread, I realise that he is going to kill her husband. Why, though? It’s her he wants, not her husband—what might he gain by killing him? Have I been wrong? Is Dean going to use a different tactic this time? Why? What is he thinking?
It’s the flashing red and blue lights that catch my attention. My ears prickle with the sounds—car doors slamming, footsteps, voices. Dean is in bed, but he isn’t asleep. He arrived home around nine. I saw him coming out of the flats’ garage, but I don’t know why he went down there because he doesn’t own a car. He has been observing Jane more than usual, and tonight she went out with a friend. I hop off the bed and go to the window. There is an ambulance and multiple police cars, with people scattering in the street like poker cards whilst others look down from their balconies. I meow to get Dean’s attention, but it’s like he’s asleep with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling in his white tank top. I climb off the windowsill, hop up onto the bed, and lay down by his feet. Something is wrong.
When you kill so much, you become hollow and empty. That’s what Dean once told me. He likes to talk to me about his killings, about things I simply do not understand. It helps him, having me to talk to, and the fact that I can’t run to the police and report him makes it all the better for him. It becomes a habit, killing, he said. The first time you cry and hate yourself, but after that you do it again and again and you don’t even blink.
‘I almost went to the police station myself and reported the crime,’ he confesses.
We are seated on the sofa. Dean is stroking my head, the TV is tuned in to a crime show, and a can of beer is on the coffee table.
‘I did it once—I went to the police station, but I couldn’t make myself go in.’
He has killed Jane’s husband. Dean concluded he was a problem; her husband was weak, and he didn’t treat Jane right. She cooked and cleaned, and he just locked himself away in his room. I disagree—I think her husband was a nice person, a good man who cherished her, and now Dean has taken him away from her. I wonder if she’s heard the awful news. I don’t want to imagine what she’s feeling, how distraught she must be. To take someone so important from someone’s life... It’s like Dean decided for her. I’m ashamed of my human. Who is he to dictate that her husband wasn’t good enough for her? She’s the one who knows that, not Dean.
It’s been a several days since her husband’s death, but the last time I saw her, a car came to pick her up. She wore sunglasses and baggy clothes. Her face was devoid of colour. Jane didn’t come home that evening, or the one after, or the next. A day ago, she posted on all of her social media accounts that she’ll be going on hiatus.
Months go by and nothing. Jane didn’t leave any clues as to what she was up to or where she was. She must have disconnected the apps from her phone, but I assume Dean can still track her location if he wants to. Maybe he is. He doesn’t say. Dean finally lets me out, and I go for a leisurely walk under the sun. Two neighbours gather nearby; one is sweeping the step, and the other has a grocery bag in her hand. It all looks serene. The sun is out, but the weather is getting cooler now. On the island though, it takes a while for the cold to really set in. The lady with the groceries glances down at me and smiles. They talk about trivial things; what they cooked for dinner, the weather, how the prices went up, and then the subject shifts.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No... such a tragedy, suicide.’
Suicide. How can it be? It seems Dean covered the murder by making it look as if her husband had killed himself.
‘I know. The poor thing. He should have asked for help, not gone and taken his own life like that. Locking himself in the garage and leaving the engine running, blocking the exhaust pipe so he would asphyxiate...’
How did Dean manage to make her husband sit in a car, inhaling the carbon monoxide, and cover it to make it look like he took his own life? It made sense, of course. Her husband had a history of mental illness and depression, and Dean likes to learn about other people’s weaknesses and make those weaknesses work in his favour. I go back home, thinking all the while about how sad the whole situation is. For a moment I consider running away and become a stray, just to ease the burden I carry. My human has too many dark secrets, too many demons.
Tonight, Dean has gone out. I could play with my toys, but I don’t feel like it so I stay in my bed in the dark, wide awake, waiting. I wait for a long time, and just as I’m about to doze off the front door opens. There are muffled voices, then deep inhalations of breath. The apartment is still dark but it is obvious Dean has company—a woman. He has her hands pinned to the wall and is kissing her. I hide under the table, not interested, not wanting to know. I tuck my tail under me, feeling cosy in my happy place, in my little corner, while my ears can’t help but move with each sound. Shoes being taken off, zippers, the woman practically screaming. Oh, God. I want to cover my ears but I can’t.
In the morning, I patiently wait for Dean to get up and feed me, but the bedroom door is locked and quiet murmurs are coming from behind it. Since he has a lady in there, I don’t exist. The door eventually opens, and a petite woman with straight black hair and long painted nails slinks out. Dean has two types of women; the dark-haired ones to fornicate with, and the others to kill. He follows closely behind her, shirtless, and she gives him a sloppy kiss on the lips before leaving. He sighs, turns, and spots me staring at him in a judgmental sort of way. He raises an eyebrow.
‘What are you looking at?’ he says before shutting the bedroom door.
To my utmost distress, Jane returns. I want to run to her and scream, No! Go back to where you came from. You shouldn’t be back! She’s wearing the funny glasses even though the weather is grey, and tiny droplets of rain dot them. She looks pale and tired, and somehow smaller, as though she has shrunk after her husband’s death. Murder. She keeps her head low as she walks, her arms at her side as she carries two bags with her. I go to her and meow to attract her attention. She glances down at me and smiles.
‘Hello, Theodore. So lovely to see you.’
I meow in greeting and follow her up the steps. She fumbles in her handbag for the keys and opens the door. The apartment smells of sadness and there is that faint smell that arises when a place has been kept closed for too long. She drops her bags on the floor and heads straight to the sofa to lie down, burying her face in the cushion. I glance out onto the balcony, climb up onto the sofa, and lie next to her and purr. As if this might offer her comfort, as if it will take all her pain away and bring her husband back.
I want to stay there with her, tucked in the safety of her small flat; she has slept for most of the afternoon. When the buzzer sounds, I know it’s Dean. She rubs at her eyes and lies there for a while, staring up at the ceiling as the persistent buzzing pierces the apartment. She eventually gets up and motions me to the door. I walk along with her and when she opens the door, as expected, Dean stands before us. He looks down at me with disapproval before picking me up.
‘I’m sorry...’ he says apologetically, ‘that he keeps bothering you. I don’t know what gotten into him.’
‘It’s quite all right—he’s a wonderful distraction...’ She pauses and shuts her eyes. ‘He’s good company.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ he says, ‘for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
He strokes my fur and looks at me, and then at her. ‘Would you like to keep him for a few days? He seems to like you, and he doesn’t like anyone.’
‘Um... you want me to keep your cat?’
‘Sure. I think it will help with...’ he trails off.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she says quietly before shutting the door.
It doesn’t take her long to think, as the next day she’s on our doorstep, asking if she can borrow me for a while. Dean accepts. This has to be part of his elaborate scheme, but the fact that he’s using me, an innocent cat, for his twisted agenda doesn’t sit well with me. He gives her instructions about my eating habits, and packs me up for the move across the street. I don’t know how long I’m staying there, but I know I will like living with Jane. I’ll keep her company while she slowly gets back to writing. She takes a few photos of me and shares them on her Instagram stories. She copes well during the day, but at night she cries herself to sleep.
I take my time to explore her flat. Strangely, none of her husband's belongings are there. Someone must have cleared them away—his mother, I suppose—before Jane moved in again, so she doesn’t have to deal with the trauma all over again. There is a door that’s always closed which could have been his office. Days drift by, and Dean doesn’t come to visit me, and honestly, I’m not bothered. I’m curious, however, as to what he’s up to. I’m sure he’s spying on us. I’m hoping he will mess up, slip, and she will become aware that someone has access to everything. Dean wouldn’t make a mistake, though; he’s too careful and precise.
He does, however, come to visit me three days later. Jane lets him in and offers him coffee. He accepts her offer, and I slip off the sofa and hide under the table. He lifts the tablecloth and raises an eyebrow at me. It still amazes me how his eyebrow curls into a perfect arc. There is an unspoken communication between us. Dean asks her if I have been a good boy, but I’m always a good boy. I can’t see where this is going; they have nothing in common, their paths shouldn’t cross like this. He shouldn’t be here, invading her private space. She’s allowed to have that, at least. Has he changed his mind? Is he trying to be friends? Does he pity her? She’s pitied because of him. I watch from under the table, the awkwardness hovering in the air as the basic questions that humans ask each other are being answered.
‘What do you do?’
‘Writer. You?’
‘I’m an illustrator. Writer, huh? What do you write about?’
So that’s what he does? Full-time illustrator, part-time killer. How lovely.
‘Illustrator! How nice. I always wanted to draw.’ She looks down at the floor, deep in thought as if a memory slashed into her. ‘I write crime fiction, but I’m going to change the genre.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘With what happened....’ She trails off.
‘What genre do you plan to write in?’
‘Sci-fi.’
He knows this, of course. He glances down at me, and I study him, the one who takes care of me and trusts me with his secrets. Jane is gazing at him in an adoring sort of way, the same way I have seen most females looking at him. This fills me with sorrow—they fail to see the man behind the mask, noticing only his good looks and his charm. I drop my head to the floor, focusing on the crumbs, and Jane glances down at her coffee.
Dean’s visits become more frequent, and I’m convinced he’s using me as an excuse to get close to her. For what, I do not know. Jane tells him he can have me back, but he says, ‘You can have him for as long as you like.’
Have me for as long as she likes? What am I? A trophy? He comes to me then, and I hiss at him. He smirks at me, unfazed about my mood change. Jane laughs while I hide under the chair. I see their feet as they talk. He doesn’t ask her how she’s feeling; he doesn’t offer words of sympathy or comfort. He talks to her normally, avoiding the elephant in the room. Her husband. I guess it’s too early to talk about any of that. And what he’s going to do? Sit there and pretend? I suspect he’s using himself as a distraction. Weeks go by, and the meetings inside her apartment become outings. They go out for coffee around the neighbourhood while I stay at home. Dean has taken me back to his place, but Jane is coming over to see me, or perhaps she just uses me as an excuse to see Dean, I am not sure. They are friends. She’s still in mourning and wears black, so I do not think she’s ready to establish another relationship. That would be the horror of all horrors. However, my horror soon becomes a reality. It’s summer again, and he and Jane are making plans to go to the beach. Dean seems reluctant about the offer, but he doesn’t say no either. She tells him about a secluded beach that she likes.
‘I used to go there with...’ She trails off and sniffs.
Dean places his hand on hers. ‘It’s all right,’ he coos, ‘take your time.’
Oh, he’s good. He’s very good. I have watched him for long enough now as he plays the part of the charming knight. He opens doors for her, he helps her with the cooking, he reads to her, and she shows him her writing which he, of course, has already read. He gives her his opinion and holds her hand, and she looks at him as if she’s won a lottery of some kind. This displeases me, and to show my displeasure, I hiss at him. There, I see it—the real him, who he really is.
‘What the fuck are you hissing at, you little beast? If it weren’t for me, you’d be starving, if not dead. Hiss at me again and I’ll break your neck,’ he spits.
I have my claws, and I’m fast, but if he catches me, he will kill me. My tail is bushy to show how angry I am, but that doesn’t frighten him. I’m living with a killer.
The relationship blooms when they go to the beach. I’m not present for this event, but I’ll tell you how it might have gone. The beach Jane wants to show him is called Slug’s Bay; I know because I heard her mention it. It’s in the whereabouts of Mellieha. There is a long walk through the rocks to get to it, but according to her, it’s worth it. It’s like your own tiny pocket beach, she told him. It sounded romantic and this made it altogether more devastating as she is falling for him, the same man who is planning to kill her. He would kill her there if given the chance, pull her underwater and say she drowned. But no, it wasn’t time, yet.
I imagine he helps her as they begin the little hike down to the beach. Nobody would be there, so they have the whole beach to themselves. The sun would be reflecting on the sea like diamonds, and everything about the atmosphere would be serene. Jane would be the first one to go for a dip; she gasps as she gets in. She goes into the water slowly, cautiously, because the water is cold, while Dean just dives in. They meet halfway, and maybe she pushes him under to be playful. She has those deep laughs that come from the belly, and then they fall quiet, and she leans in, taking in his good looks, and kisses him. Maybe it goes beyond kissing, and with her legs wrapped around him, he lays her down on the sand and consummates their relationship right there on that beautiful beach. This is how it plays out in my mind, but the fantasy isn’t the reality. Dean comes home a little after three o'clock in the afternoon. I’m hiding behind the curtain, and he isn’t alone. Jane is with him. They look happy, their skin radiant from where the sun has caressed them. He turns to her, pulling her to him, and kisses her. He takes her hand and guides her to the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. I have been right after all. Things went better than expected.
It is a happy time for her. Dean has given her colour again; she’s writing more than ever. If only it weren’t tainted with the truth of how it is going to end. Jane starts to spend the night at the flat, and I sit and watch her sleep when Dean leaves the door open. Before she comes over, Dean makes a full house inspection to make sure he hasn’t left anything suspicious lying around. I’m waiting for something to warn her of the level of danger she’s in. I know where he keeps his notes and the mobile phone he took from her — he hides them in the bathroom above one of the ceiling tiles. I have seen him a few times, placing the items there before she arrives. I have to make her notice, but first Dean has to be out of the flat, and that is the tricky bit.
––––––––
It’s raining and they have set a date for a movie and pizza. Jane gets the pizza and Dean forgets the wine. It’s still early, so he tells her he’ll go and buy it. My ears prick up when I hear he’s going to leave her alone in the apartment, trusting her with what it contains. This is it. I have this one chance, and I can’t screw up. Who knows when Dean will leave the apartment again? As soon as the door closes, I jump off the sofa and meow. Jane ignores me, busily tapping away on her phone. I want to yell No, you idiot! This is the only chance you’ll have before you end up dead. I go to her and paw at her jeans and meow desperately. She looks at me wide-eyed and attempts to lift me, but I don’t want to be petted or cuddled. I want to show her. She blinks at me as I walk away, meowing and stopping by the door. I hope the store is closed, and Dean has to go further to buy the wine.
‘What is it you crazy cat?’ she asks me.
I go on, howling now, and disappear into the bathroom. I climb on top of the toilet.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks. ‘Are you unwell?’
I sit on the toilet seat meowing and looking up. She looks up at the ceiling then at me, pointing her finger upwards. I reach out my paw to her, indicating yes. She climbs onto the toilet; her hands inspect the ceiling tiles, and one of them moves. Jane glances down at me, concern consuming her face. She moves the tile aside, her hands sliding in. Her eyes widen as she finds something, and grow wider still as she retracts her arm, her mobile phone gripped in her palm. Her face is serious as she switches it on and taps in the code, which he didn’t bother changing, and flicks to the apps. She covers her mouth with her hand, and there is a faint cry. She’s afraid now. My ears detect the sounds of footsteps, the jiggling of keys. He’s back. She has to move before he finds us like this and kills us both. I meow again, and Jane's head snaps to attention, the fear being replaced by alarm as the key turns in the lock.
She climbs back up onto the toilet, replaces the phone, and closes the ceiling tile. Her temples are moist with sweat, and I notice how badly her hands are shaking.
‘Jane?’ Dean calls out.
I exit the bathroom, and she shuts the door.
‘I’m in here!’ she shouts from behind the closed door.
There is a slight tremor in her voice, and I hope he doesn’t notice it. He walks cautiously, scanning the flat, then stops and looks at the bathroom door, then down at me. He knows, I think. He knows, he knows, he knows. What have I done?
The toilet flushes. Dean goes to the kitchen, opens a cupboard, and produces a small glass bottle labelled Succinylcholine. My body goes icy cold. He opens the drawer. All of this is done in practised calm, as if it’s a daily task to be completed, another thing to tick off the list. Of course, both he and I know that he has done this many times before. I have never seen him kill, though. Maybe he thought it unsuitable for me to witness something so inhumane. I’m just a pure animal after all. Tonight, however, is different. He’s going to show me how he does it, or at least how he’s going to kill Jane, make her disappear, or make her death look accidental.
He pours the substance onto a white cloth, soaking it. A few drops of the liquid drip onto the floor. I go to smell it, my whiskers arching forwards, but it is odourless like water. The bathroom door opens, and Jane comes out, her face so pale it looks almost transparent. The pizza box lies abandoned on the coffee table along with the two wine glasses that stand empty.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
There is a hint of concern in his voice, but Jane acts casual, even though what I directed her to has shaken her to her very core.
‘Yes,’ she says, nodding gravely.
He leans her against the door and kisses her the way lovers do. His final goodbye to her. Jane smiles at him after he pulls away. Licking her lips, she moves past him.
‘I have to go,’ she announces.
He attends to the bottle of wine, a red Maltese Cheval Franc. The bottle has a peculiar oval shape, but it seems like a good wine. He opens the same drawer from which he had taken out the cloth. I growl at him, knowing what he’s going to do. He glares at me as he takes out the corkscrew. Jane looks at me, her eyes large and her pupils dilated like mine. He turns his attention to her.
‘Why?’
‘I just got a call from my mum—she’s not feeling well,’ she says.
Dean's eyes go to her. The silence is chilling as the corkscrew twists into the cork.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says, playing along whilst not believing her.
She isn’t going to leave this apartment, not alive at least. I continue to growl, angry now.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She has vertigo,’ Jane replies as her eyes land on me. ‘What is wrong with him?’
I bristle my tail and arch my back as I continue to hiss in fear. Dean casts a sideways glance at me. His eyes are nothing but pure hatred and disgust. He smirks.
‘Well, I should go,’ she says, turning, and walks to the door.
Jane makes a mistake here because her movements aren’t relaxed but rigid. She takes big steps to the door, almost leaping to it. Dean takes the white cloth off the counter and follows her. I growl as she opens the door, she’s close enough to make a run for it, but Dean is too fast, too strong. The door slams shut, and he grabs her by the waist, pulls her to him, holds her in place, and presses the cloth to her mouth. I can almost hear his inner dialogue. We both know there is nothing wrong with your mum; you found something, but you’re not going anywhere. You’re mine now. And you’re going to die like the rest of them.
She struggles to break free, kicking hard at him and everything nearby. A vase drops, then another object as he drags her back into the kitchen. Jane stomps on his foot several times and manages to pull away but as she runs to the door, her legs betray her. They become jelly, and she walks as if sinking into mud. She falls to the floor, flat on her stomach, and drags her body forward with her hands. She groans as if in agony, but she keeps on fighting. Dean walks slowly to her. Her left hand goes numb. She is desperate now. She lifts her right hand as if to reach the lock, but before making it halfway it too falls to the floor, numb.
Jane lies face down, breathing heavily.
‘Oh Jane,’ Dean says, kneeling beside her. ‘Things were going so well—why did you have to ruin it?’
He glances back at me. ‘Actually, Theodore ruined it, but I’ll deal with him later, after I’m through with you.’
Her breathing slows.
‘I knew this was going to happen, but along the way, I developed some sort of affection towards you. I wanted to get close to you, to know you. Yes, Jane, I killed your husband. His death wasn’t a suicide, but I think deep down you knew, didn’t you? He didn’t leave a note. I followed him down to the garage. I grabbed him from behind when he was unlocking the door, and I used this...’ He waves the bottle of Succinylcholine. ‘I dragged him into the car, and well... you know the rest. He was weak; he put so much pressure on you, and you deserved better.’ Dean pauses and runs his hand tenderly through her hair. ‘You deserved someone like me. Someone who can take care of you, treating you as you should be treated. Well, it’s not going to happen now.’
He turns her over. She’s immobilised now.
‘It’s terrifying to have your body, to own it, but you have no control over it,’ Dean says as he picks her up. ‘All I wanted was to spend time with you, and now that’s not going to happen either. I have no other choice.’ He stares at her.
Her eyes are wide open as if she’s awake.
‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘Such a shame. What a waste.’
He takes her to the bathroom, lays her in the bath and begins to fill it with cold water. He’s going to drown her. I growl.
‘Shut up, you stupid cat!’ he shouts.
His voice booms and echoes in the white-tiled bathroom. He attempts to chase after me, but I’m too quick and light for him. I hear the splashing of water and run into the bathroom. Dean is kneeling by the tub, but I can’t see Jane. I have to act. I can’t let another life be taken. It’s like a cycle—it goes on and on, forever repeating itself. I leap at him, my claws digging into his skin. He yelps in pain as he releases his grip on her, and water splashes onto the floor. He reaches for me, but I manage to break free from him. He attempts to come after me, but he slips on the wet floor and hits his head hard on the edge of the tub.
Both of them lie there. Jane in the bath, staring ahead, still not moving, and Dean on the floor, blood pouring from the side of his head. I ignore him and stand on my hind feet to see. Her feet are moving, only a little. She’s not blinking, her lips are parted, and her hair is wet. I meow and growl as if it might help as if someone from the flats below or above would hear me and call the police, but nobody pays attention to a cat. Even if it is in distress. Her eyes are moving sideways and blinking rapidly; now she is floating on the water, and her toes are moving. She’s trying to grab the string of the plug with her toes. Her eyes plead with me in desperation to help her. I climb up onto the bath and meow but someone groans, and it’s coming from behind me. Dean is regaining consciousness. My heart thumps. Blood is smeared down the side of his face and shoulders. I hiss at him, arching my back and leaping to attack. He screams as my claws dig into his skin once again. He grabs me and yanks me free and throws me across the room. My body slams into the tiles, and I race out of the bathroom, my tail low to the ground. Dean is on his feet now, his footsteps stomping around the apartment as I lie still.
‘Where are you, you little shit? I’m going to break your neck when I get my hands on you, you four-legged monster!’ he roars.
He would break my neck. He’s strong, but I’m faster. I hide in a dark corner and pee a little because I’m so afraid. Suddenly, his shoes come into view and he pauses, seeing the slowly spreading puddle. Then things happen quickly. He’s hit from behind and slams onto the floor, face down. Jane stands behind his body, wobbling slightly, and gripping a Buddha statue tightly in her hand. Fresh blood pours onto the floor. Dropping the ornament at her feet, she starts to weep, then holds her stomach and vomits — an aftereffect of the Succinylcholine, I suppose. I meow.
‘How did you—? You saved my life,’ she says. ‘It’s like you knew.’
She picks me up and stumbles out of the apartment. She can’t run, her feet are still a bit unsteady, and she bangs on the door of a neighbour. The man’s expression is one of utter surprise and confusion. In front of him stands a wet, distraught woman holding an equally frightened cat.
With the blow from the Buddha ornament, Dean is dead. He killed four women, and Jane would have been the fifth if I hadn’t acted. The neighbour calls the police, and there’s a great spectacle of uniformed officers coming in and out, with some applying dust to the furniture. More men come in, not in uniform this time, followed by paramedics to treat Jane’s wounds. Even a vet arrives to check up on me. I struggle and fight. I hate vets. They are what dentists are to humans. I want to be left alone and to rest.
A big case is opened after this. The local police connect with the authorities in London, and it escalates to a huge investigation. Jane moves out of the flat and away from the neighbourhood, but she keeps me. She owes her life to me, she explains to the woman at the animal welfare centre.
‘It’s so strange,’ she says as she pets me. ‘It’s like he knew. He helped me.’
The woman smiles at her and hands me back. I purr as Jane goes on petting me. She kisses the top of my head.