Lockdown

Eighteen

There was no need for masks. There were no cameras inside the apartment, and the only witness was the person they’d come to kill. The taller man knocked first, while the smaller of the two men stood off to one side of the door.

No one answered at first. The men traded worried glances, but said nothing. The taller man knocked again. Maybe the TV was up too loud. Or she’d gone out. They were just about to leave when the door cracked open and the side of the woman’s face pressed between door and frame. It was that kind of neighbourhood.

The taller man smiled. ‘Mrs Parker?’ he asked.

‘I told you people already, I don’t know where they’re hiding.’

‘It’s not about that, Mrs Parker.’

‘Did someone complain about my cats?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but may I come in?’

He could see her thinking about this, taking in that he was polite, well dressed and, most important of all, white. She closed the door so she could slide back the chain, then opened it again and let him in. He stepped inside.

‘Let me get that for you,’ he said, closing the door, but not all the way.

The smell was overwhelming. He didn’t know how anyone could live like this. A cat vibratoed a miaow and rubbed itself against his legs. He stepped over it and followed the woman into the living room. Sure enough, the TV was on, Cesar Milan lecturing an anorexic woman about how to talk to her Rhodesian Ridgeback. So much for people looking like their animals.

‘Now, let me tell you something about these people next door to me. They don’t like my cats, y’see.’

‘And they’re such lovely creatures,’ he said, moving so that if she was to stay facing him her back would be to the door.

‘You think so?’

‘Absolutely. My favourite domestic animal. By some way.’

‘Do you have one?’

She was side on to the door now. Almost in position.

‘No, afraid I live in a co-op with a no-pets rule.’

‘That’s a shame.’

The smaller man appeared in the doorway now, the woman oblivious to his presence. But the half-dozen cats dotted around the room weren’t. With some kind of feline sixth sense they began to yowl. First one, then another.

The smaller man moved fast, taking the last few steps in under a second, flicking off the plastic cap of the syringe as he did. As she turned, he plunged the tip of the syringe into her left buttock and pushed down on the barrel.

As she started to scream, the taller man wrapped his arms around her. The smaller man clamped his free hand over her mouth. A cat hissed and jumped on to the TV set where it stared, unblinking, as its owner slumped to the floor. Her mouth was open. So were her eyes. The expression on her face was one of complete bewilderment.

‘OK, let’s get her into the chair.’

Together, they hauled her into the solitary armchair, hands resting in her lap. The smaller man folded down her eyelids with thumb and index finger, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

‘She looks too posed,’ said the taller man.

‘You’re right.’ The smaller man bent down and pulled at her right foot so that one leg was splayed at an angle. A final check. ‘Perfect,’ he said, bending down to retrieve the plastic cap of the syringe.

‘What about the cats?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, won’t they starve?’

The smaller man took one final look at the dead old lady in the armchair.

‘They got a good three weeks’ supply right there.’