Love You Dead

18 Sunday 22 February

Jodie, sitting in her den on the first floor of her house, blinds drawn against the darkness of the cold winter night — and just in case anyone might be lurking out there, watching her — typed her reply, then sent it. As she did so she heard scratching out in the corridor, behind her. ‘Tyson!’ she called out, sternly. ‘Tyson, stop that!’

The room was functional, comfortably furnished in the modern style she liked, all in white and beige, with abstract prints of no value on the walls. There were just two photographs. No memorabilia. A flat would have been more convenient, but at this stage in her career path — as she liked to think of it — a flat would not have been practical — not for what she kept here.

After her bad experience with Walt Klein, she was being more careful with Rowley Carmichael. He’d checked out fine. A high-profile London art dealer specializing in Impressionists, he seemed genuinely to have amassed a fortune and sold out to a major auction house at the top of the market. Nowhere on any of the sites on which he was mentioned was there any hint of scandal.

She heard more scratching. This time, exasperated, she stood up.

The cat, Tyson, whom Jodie had picked up from the cattery straight after returning home, scratched the wall at the end of the first-floor landing, repeatedly. He could smell something intriguing and possibly tantalizing on the other side. To his owner’s annoyance, Tyson came up here and did this every day. He had scratched away the paint, and was now starting to wear away the plaster behind. That’s how desperate he was to find what was on the other side.

Hearing her footsteps approaching, he turned and greeted her with a plaintive meow.

‘Tyson!’ she said with real fury — and some panic — in her voice. ‘TYSON! I told you to stop scratching!’

She’d tried everything, from spraying the wall and the carpet in front of it with stuff she had bought from a pet shop, to putting up a child-gate on the stairs, to locking him out altogether. But he always got in, always found his way back up here, always scratched away at that very same place. Because there was something on the other side, something with a strong smell. Something that was clearly driving him insane with curiosity.

‘You know what they say, don’t you, about curiosity, Tyson? Eh? Is that how you nearly died before? Curiosity? Well, just stop bloody scratching, OK?’

She had found the grey and white moggie as she had arrived home one night, three years earlier, when the headlights of her car had picked out something lying by the kerb at the entrance to her driveway. It had been this cat, one she had never seen before, lying there barely conscious, making tiny little crying sounds. He’d had blood leaking from one ear, a broken leg and such a swollen area around his eye she thought he had lost it. He’d clearly been hit by a vehicle and just left there.

She’d scooped him up, brought him into the house, wrapped him in a blanket, then found a local twenty-four-hour emergency vet service and phoned them. When she’d told them the symptoms they’d said to come in right away but that it didn’t sound good.

The vet scanned the cat for a microchip, to see if its owner could be traced. But there wasn’t one. The unfortunate animal had a fractured skull, broken leg and ribs, bruised spleen, and a number of minor injuries as well. The vet was doubtful it would last the night. But it did, making a surprisingly rapid recovery. She’d never owned a cat before and had had no desire for one. But when the vet told her it would be put into a local animal rescue centre, she had softened and taken him home herself, regardless of the high veterinary bills yet to come for the creature’s continued recovery.

She’d done a tour of the neighbourhood, heavily disguised so no one would subsequently be able to identify her, trying to find out if anyone had lost a cat or knew who he might be, but had drawn a blank. Then she gave him every chance to wander off to his home, but he just hung around, not interested in going anywhere.

She named him Tyson, after the boxer, because he was clearly a tough guy. He was sullen, too, never quite giving her the unconditional love and affection she thought that maybe, considering what she had done, she deserved. Instead, generally regarding her as little more than his personal can-opener, he spent much of his time outside in the garden, in all weathers, or else scratching away on that wall upstairs.

Just occasionally, if she left her door open, he would stroll into her room in the middle of the night, jump onto the bed and then, purring, nuzzle up against her face affectionately, licking her and waking her up.

‘You know what, Tyson,’ she said to him one time, wide awake in the middle of the night. ‘I love you, but I just can’t figure you out. But then again, I guess you can’t figure me out either, can you? And the thing you really, really can’t figure out is what’s behind that wall, isn’t it?’