the words, ‘You’re a good girl, a good girl, Daddy’s good girl.’
Twinkle was a house cat, he made sure of that. He didn’t want her going outdoors where she could be stolen or run over. She was his baby, his purpose, and he took no risks with her. Instead he kept her litter tray in the kitchen, though he wasn’t always scrupu -
lous about cleaning it out regularly, but Twinkle didn’t mind.
The entire maisonette smelled of cat shit, leftover food and stale piss, but it was always warm and even in summer he would have the heating on for a couple of hours, in the morning and evening, because he knew that cats hated the cold. Living alone meant that he could wash up when he felt like it, usually no more than once or twice a week when he ran out of plates and cups. This summer had been a terrible one for flies, especially in the kitchen. Twinkle’s litter tray had hordes of flies’ eggs on the stale cat shit, but he couldn’t open the back door in case she got out. He was petrified of losing her so instead of opening 98
doors or flinging the windows wide he hung fly papers in the kitchen and toilet. He liked to watch as they became stuck and struggled to get free. He would never have described himself as a cruel man, though. On the contrary: everything he did was for love.
He’d been lucky to get a two-bedroomed maison -
ette with a small garden. At least the silly cow he’d been married to had come in handy for something.
He wouldn’t have qualified for the place without her and his sick, ageing mother-in-law, so when he’d got shot of both of them, he had said nothing and no one ever questioned their disap
pearance. It had all
worked out quite nicely really. This was his little castle now. As long as he paid his rent down the local housing office, no one ever said a word.
It made him giggle, the way no one had ever cottoned on, but with the wife and mother-in-law having no other living relatives it had been too easy.
No one had ever seen much of them. Silly bitch always stayed with her mum indoors, never went anywhere. Getting shot of them had been a piece of cake. A bit messy at the time, mind you, but nothing that a good scrub hadn’t cleaned away.
There were no distinguishing features to his home; no bright baskets of flowers or imaginative placing of garden ornaments. He wasn’t much of a gardener, rarely even troubled himself to cut the small patch of grass outside the back door which had reverted to a 99
kind of inner-city meadow with dandelions and cornflowers sprouting up between the tall blades of grass. Buddleia from next-door had seeded itself incongruously and butterflies hovered around it. In the corner of his back yard stood a shed filled with rusting tools and a bicycle that hadn’t been used for years, but he still kept a lock on it at all times though no one seemed interested in his way of life or the little property that time had forgot.
The front of his home was similarly nondescript and offered no clues as to the tenant’s personality.
No one called, and no one bothered him. Even the electric and gas meter readers put cards through the door and he did the readings himself. The front door was painted standard issue council blue and the plastic numbers had long since fallen off. The front door was now jammed shut in its frame from years of neglect and only the letterbox, through which a meagre trickle of mail passed, was still in working order. The letters made a slapping sound when they hit the lino in the passageway.
He hadn’t bothered to carpet the hall, stairs, kitchen or front room, and the grey lino was scuffed and in places buckled. It served its purpose, though.
Only the two upstairs rooms had been crudely covered in off-cuts and remnants, which he’d laid over the stained floorboards after those two bloody women had gone. He had picked up oddments at local house clearance shops for next to nothing. He 100
hadn’t bothered with carpet tape or nails, so they
Twinkle was a house cat, he made sure of that. He didn’t want her going outdoors where she could be stolen or run over. She was his baby, his purpose, and he took no risks with her. Instead he kept her litter tray in the kitchen, though he wasn’t always scrupu -
lous about cleaning it out regularly, but Twinkle didn’t mind.
The entire maisonette smelled of cat shit, leftover food and stale piss, but it was always warm and even in summer he would have the heating on for a couple of hours, in the morning and evening, because he knew that cats hated the cold. Living alone meant that he could wash up when he felt like it, usually no more than once or twice a week when he ran out of plates and cups. This summer had been a terrible one for flies, especially in the kitchen. Twinkle’s litter tray had hordes of flies’ eggs on the stale cat shit, but he couldn’t open the back door in case she got out. He was petrified of losing her so instead of opening 98
doors or flinging the windows wide he hung fly papers in the kitchen and toilet. He liked to watch as they became stuck and struggled to get free. He would never have described himself as a cruel man, though. On the contrary: everything he did was for love.
He’d been lucky to get a two-bedroomed maison -
ette with a small garden. At least the silly cow he’d been married to had come in handy for something.
He wouldn’t have qualified for the place without her and his sick, ageing mother-in-law, so when he’d got shot of both of them, he had said nothing and no one ever questioned their disap
pearance. It had all
worked out quite nicely really. This was his little castle now. As long as he paid his rent down the local housing office, no one ever said a word.
It made him giggle, the way no one had ever cottoned on, but with the wife and mother-in-law having no other living relatives it had been too easy.
No one had ever seen much of them. Silly bitch always stayed with her mum indoors, never went anywhere. Getting shot of them had been a piece of cake. A bit messy at the time, mind you, but nothing that a good scrub hadn’t cleaned away.
There were no distinguishing features to his home; no bright baskets of flowers or imaginative placing of garden ornaments. He wasn’t much of a gardener, rarely even troubled himself to cut the small patch of grass outside the back door which had reverted to a 99
kind of inner-city meadow with dandelions and cornflowers sprouting up between the tall blades of grass. Buddleia from next-door had seeded itself incongruously and butterflies hovered around it. In the corner of his back yard stood a shed filled with rusting tools and a bicycle that hadn’t been used for years, but he still kept a lock on it at all times though no one seemed interested in his way of life or the little property that time had forgot.
The front of his home was similarly nondescript and offered no clues as to the tenant’s personality.
No one called, and no one bothered him. Even the electric and gas meter readers put cards through the door and he did the readings himself. The front door was painted standard issue council blue and the plastic numbers had long since fallen off. The front door was now jammed shut in its frame from years of neglect and only the letterbox, through which a meagre trickle of mail passed, was still in working order. The letters made a slapping sound when they hit the lino in the passageway.
He hadn’t bothered to carpet the hall, stairs, kitchen or front room, and the grey lino was scuffed and in places buckled. It served its purpose, though.
Only the two upstairs rooms had been crudely covered in off-cuts and remnants, which he’d laid over the stained floorboards after those two bloody women had gone. He had picked up oddments at local house clearance shops for next to nothing. He 100
hadn’t bothered with carpet tape or nails, so they
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