CHAPTER 1.

 

Snipper-snapper, snipper-snapper.

The cat flap’s been busy today, as if I didn’t have enough to do. Another creature’s stuck fast. Poor thing. It’s dead now, and I only hope it didn’t suffer unnecessarily.

Last week, we had three mice and a bird from Mister Puss. Feathers everywhere, and a flipping albatross was flying round the kitchen. I expect there’s caca on the top cupboards where I can’t get up to clean. Not in my thigh-length boots anyway. No, missus. Some of the bigger kills do make such a mess! It’s got so I dread the noise of the cat flap.

Snipper-snapper.

In some ways, it reminds me of the axe at Sarah the ranger’s.

Swish-swish.

The way she chops up a trunk is pure art, that’s what. Great big muscles and a look about her like she could carry me up the stairs and away to bed if she should choose. Gawd, it makes me shudder just thinking about it.

Snipper-snapper.

My silly puss doesn’t care about my lonesome troubles though. Not him. He’s too busy being cute on his back, paws in the air, and that’s how it should be. Cats aren’t here to make us happy or to be convenient.

“Naughty boy. You’re a cheeky little murderer. What are you?”

He likes it when I say that. For all his strength, Amour is a sucker for a tickle behind the ears.

“Cheeky little murderer! What are you? Yes, you are.”

I wouldn’t have him any other way, but there’s no denying having a pet is a lot of work. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t leave the bodies on my new, rose-patterned carpet. Giblets and innards do take ages to clean off, and sometimes claws get lost in the shag pile.

Our feline companions don’t know or care about any of that, and why should they? We humans are too concerned about the surplus, material things in life. Puss knows what’s really important. What’s a shag pile compared to happiness and contentment? Knowing you’ve done your duty. Having good manners. Making the world a better place.

All things have a purpose in the world, and puss’s kills are no different. According to a programme on telly, cats bring food to Mummy Alpha as a token of esteem. It’s the same as taking an apple to a teacher, I suppose. No teacher in their right mind would say, no thank you to a dear little child. Aww. I’m just the same.

“Thank you for that delicious snack, my darling! Just what Mummy wants. I’ll eat it later. Are you getting on my lap for a snuggle?”

He’s grown so much. Seems like every day his shoulders have become wider, though it could be fur and not muscle tone. There’s no denying if kitty gets much bigger, we’ll need a special cat flap. Think of the questions that’ll bring.

“Up you come.”

My goodness, the sofa creaks from the extra weight. I shouldn’t wonder if another spring has gone. “That’s it, up on Mummy’s legs. On you get. What’s that you’re saying?”

I must be mistaken, but it looks like he’s pointing at the dead thing with his paw. Hah hah. Daft as a brush, I am. So funny.

“Yes, I saw, my precious fluff ball. You’ve brought a lovely delicacy for Mumsie’s supper. Settle down now and have a snooze. I’m exhausted from wiping up lumpy blood and guts, you tearaway.”

When he’s gone outside, I’ll get rid of the corpse. We don’t discard kills while he’s watching. No, misses. Imagine if I took a present to a girlfriend, and they hurled it in the bin while gagging.

I’d be the ideal girlfriend, that’s what. Cook their favourite meals and remember birthdays. If she brought me something in return, I’d never, ever throw it away. Certainly not. I’d keep it next to my heart for all time. Aww. Maybe one day.

Later on, I’ll go back down to the woods and have a chat with Sarah. Mummy’s shy, for all her boldness, and I’ve been busy.

How long is it since I brought home a tiny little kitten? Time flies so fast. Puss is a big fella now, with silky fur and long whiskers that twitch when I’m talking. I’m sure he understands every word, though the cat documentary says they can only follow basic language such as food, water, and poo-poos. That it’s unlikely our feline friends could have any assimilation of language.

Still, I would think he’s already learnt a lot, though it’s been but weeks. Scientists, they don’t know everything. There’s always more on heaven and earth than there are on bits of paper.

He rubs his head against my hand so lovingly when I call.

“You’re a clever boy, aren’t you?”

It does my heart a power of good, it really does. Later on, I’ll go down to the woods and visit my Sarah. Last time I went by, she winked and asked if I like the cinema.

It’s awkward. What I’d really enjoy is to invite her back here, but there’s Amour to think of. Like all mummies, I have to put him first. We don’t want my baby getting jealous or feeling second best. No, misses.

“And tonight, we’ll watch the tigers on TV, shall we?”

It’s only fair. I have my historical romances—Jane Austen is best—and Amour has his beloved cat documentaries. I do try to think of his education because ours is a relationship of give and take.

Gawd knows how I’d clean up his mess in one of them nice frocks like they had in olden days. I expect the undergarments would be quite a problem, and don’t even get me onto corsets.

Still, it’s got me thinking. As soon as puss goes out and I’ve cleaned up the kill, I’ll go down and visit Sarah. No, I will.

Got to clean up this mess first. The body’s right in the middle of my carpet and stretched out like he’s fast asleep, dreaming of home. Poor old thing. I shall have to shift myself and sort it before rigor mortis pays a visit. There’s nothing like a frozen body to turn my stomach, and then I shan’t think of Sarah and touchy-feely in the all-dark.

The limbs seem to be intact with its pretty tail, neat and tidy. No gooey bits or beheaded torsos today, though there might be broken bones. Kitty does enjoy crunching the skulls, bless his furry heart.

“Mummy appreciates it, dear. I’m not as young as I was. Where’re you going now, eh?”

Snipper-snapper.

Off out again, the big lump. My legs ache from where he’s been sprawled. He does leave his mark.

Off we go again. Snipper-snap. The flap is a nifty contraption, considering its size. I do hope there isn’t too much detritus around the edges this time. Hairy bits of skin tend to stick, and I’ve been a vegan for years.

“Don’t go too far, my love.”

I suppose he’s off hunting again. It’s always a worry about whether or not he’ll come home. Now he’s so big, I probably shouldn’t let him roam free. But it would be cruel to deny him the innocent and plentiful joys of the gardens.

I’ve learnt to trust that Amour knows what we both need. Anyway, God watches over all creatures, whether great or small.

It’s time to deal with the body before he drags in another.

“In you pop.”

I never would have expected to be so blasé about poking corpses into black body liners. It’s surprising how knowledgeable I’ve got about organs and soft tissues. It goes to show what Mummy’s capable of! Maybe I should look again at that job as a caregiver? It’d be proper lovely, that would. As long as Amour didn’t follow me and bother the old folks.

I don’t like touching when they’re still warm, can’t deny. “Get in.” Quite a loud thud as the body hits the floor.

Not that it’s different to wiping dog dirt off the bottom of a shoe. Being a mummy is a responsible and complex role, and I complete my daily tasks with pride.

 

CHAPTER 2.

 

Snipper-snapper.

Pussy’s loud tonight, the busy little bee.

Snipper-snap, snipper-snap.

Meowing loud enough to wake the dead. The floorboards do shake. I must admit it’s mainly during the dark hours that the sound of the cat flap stops me falling asleep and brings nightmares about black bags, and cesspits, and what have you.

Snipper-snapper.

Oh, now.

Snipper-snapper.

It’s got me all of a tremble; that it has. Whatever nasty creature he’s lured in is making horrible noises. Urgh. Bloody thing. I wish it would give over and die. If the neighbours complain, the army would take Amour away. I’d have to silence them, like with him at number forty-five. He was a loud old bastard who couldn’t keep his mouth shut or mind his own beeswax. Mummy can be cheeky when there’s a need, tee-hee-hee.

Snipper-snapper.

Gawd, he’s active at night, despite all those books about the challenging toddler and sleep training. It’s not like I haven’t tried to get him to stay asleep, but he’s stuck in his ways, and it’s not for me to force my will upon him. That wouldn’t be right or ethical.

Snipper-snapper.

I’m happy with Amour. Happy.

Snipper-snapper.

For fuck’s sake! Why doesn’t he stop? That bloody noise keeps me from sleep, and then I turn into a grumpy mummy bear.

Snipper-snapper.

In the middle of the night, I wonder if I’ve done the right thing. If my fluffy-wuffy is content. Whatever will I do if he carries on bringing home the wrong kinds of dead things? The shag pile can only take so much, and my nerves are all of a tremble.

Snipper-snapper.

Snip.

The cat flap’s stopped swishing. Ah. At last. Now I can breathe. Funny. It sounds like someone screaming down there. Silly old Mummy. So funny.

Here he is. Thudding up the stairs like nobody’s business.

“Mummy’s darling. Well done! Come under the quilt and get warm. Silly old fluffer.”

I do hope he hasn’t got organ seepage on his fur. Last time, I couldn’t wash it from the pillowcases, and Mummy hates waste.

I’m probably wrong, but it feels like he’s trying to pull me out of bed and tugging both paws at my winceyette nightie.

“What, dear? Mummy’s very, very pleased! Now, shall we have some shut-eye? Mummy’s fucking knackered.”

He snuggles down. I love it when he sleeps right next to me, close as a sweetheart.

 

CHAPTER 3.

 

OH. IT’S CAUGHT in the cat flap. That’s why we haven’t had any snipper-snapper for so long.

Poor creature. Stuck fast, one damaged limb up front, and another bent under the torso. Unlucky, that. I can’t see the tail. I expect it’s dangling behind. Got itself wedged in good and proper. Hair and blood. No wonder we had all that kerfuffle during the night. Snipper-snapper and snapper-snipper.

“Oh dear. Now you can’t get out. We can’t have that, can we?” I do resent it, blocking Amour’s entrance like that. Selfish. “Stupid mousey, aren’t you? Should’ve run faster.”

It shivers a bit when I shout, tee-hee-hee. Just about alive, then. I’m not going to get excited. Not yet. Calm down, Mummy. Mostly, they’ve already passed. Sometimes it takes longer. They all die in the end.

“We’ll need the extra strong lubricant to free this one, my lovely. Maybe the plunger?”

Amour’s beyond excited. Meowing and jumping about like a box of frogs. Proper proud of himself, the little love. I knew he’d kill the right one. We all need a soupçon of persistence and faith that our dreams can come true. Andrew Lloyd Webbed-foot knew what he was talking about.

“You’re a big soldier, aren’t you? What are you?”

Gawd. It’s trying to scratch its way forward, but the claws have been ripped out. It’s alive and kicking, all right. Grunting like the lovely tennis players in their tiny shorts. I like that. I hope it begs.

“What’s that, darling? Louder, so Mummy can hear?”

Screaming. Grr.

I’m wary of big ears next door. Two kills in one day would be too much, even for Mummy. “Shut it up, Amour. Good and proper! Shut it up forever.”

The way he whacks that creature round the head is pure poetry. Beautiful.

On with the greased lightning. I do enjoy getting my hands around those muscles.

“It’ll shift now.”

I’m right. Amour heaves the mousey through the cat flap, easy as you like.

Snipper-snapper.

Snipper-snapper.

That’s why we’re such a happy partnership. His paws can’t do the teeth extraction or the taxidermy, and I can’t do the lifting. A perfect team of brain and brawn, that’s me and my dinkums.

“Upstairs, my darling. Into the royal box room.”

This chap is ripped, not like the others. A veritable king. I suppose that’s why he survived longer than they did. His arm is broken though. It’ll look as good as new, if that’s what Amour and I decide is best. A few broken bones won’t stop the lovely things I’m going to do to him. I should say for him because he’d like to look his best, I’m sure.

Such a looker! Aww. Even should he wake up—and he won’t—he couldn’t talk or bother the neighbours. Not with all that gaffer tape, and the soundproof walls, and everything. I don’t want to snip his tongue out if I don’t have to. Stuffed, tongues are useful things. So pretty.

“Oh, Amour.”

It’s like in church, where you don’t know why you whisper, but it seems right anyway.

I don’t know why Amour only drags men back, but I’ve always understood it’s proof he can read my mind.

“You beautiful, beautiful kitten. You knew what I needed, didn’t you? A pretty little friend to fit on the middle shelf. Someone to keep and cherish forever. Sarah for the nice things, and men for the nasty. Everyone’s happy! Love and manners make the world go round.”

“Come on, Amour. Like Cagney & Lacey, we are.”

Together, we heave him onto the embalming table we call Sleeping Beauty.

My surgical gloves are laid out where I left them. No pulse. The chap’s definitely dead. Aww, poor old thing. What a relief.

“He’s ready for us, Amour.”

Mummy can play! There’s no joy like that of the imagination or of a scalpel. Now I know he’s dead, I can get proper intimate with my blade. “Don’t you worry about appearances. Mummy’s going to sort you out.”

His body is lovely, despite all the damage done trying to escape. By the time he’s stitched up and into the box, he’ll look plenty good enough to be with the other boys. I’m sure that’ll be a big relief for him.

“We can place him on the yellow shelf. Next to the one with little feet. Above the twins.”

Amour bounds off. I suppose it’s for the best. Mummies need their secret playtimes, just like kitties.

Snipper-snapper.