Working It Out. Alex George

       ONE

      Johnathan Burlip zipped up and sighed. There was something reassuring about peeing in Chloe’s bathroom. Watching the blue, Domestos-drenched water in the bowl ripple and then assume the hue of the flesh of a ripe avocado, he had reflected that some things in life never changed, immutable in their truth and simplicity. Two and two still made four, and when you mixed blue and yellow, you still got green. Such things were precious, to be grasped in times of crisis.

      He looked around the terracotta and black bathroom with distaste as he pulled the duck that sat suspended in mid-flight on the end of the flushing-chain. Blue noisily replaced green, ready for the process to be repeated. Johnathan sat down on the loo he had just used, and wondered what to do. He desperately didn’t want to go back downstairs. He traced a line through the brown Terylene shagpile with his foot, and considered possible excuses. An upset stomach, perhaps. Chloe’s aggressive vegetarian dietary tactics always had an adverse effect on his digestive system. Results were spectacular, having a similar effect on the lavatorial plumbing to that of a jack-knifed lorry in the Dartford Tunnel on a Friday night. Nothing got through. No U-turn. No U-bend, for that matter.

      Johnathan decided that nobody would be convinced. He belched chickpea and got up. He opened the door and slouched towards the stairs, stopping outside the kitchen to consider a petunia, which he had given Chloe some months previously by way of apology for some deemed transgression, he forgot what. The plant looked how he felt. Thirsty. And wilting.

      The door opened and Chloe’s sister Harriet appeared. She looked at Johnathan balefully. Her eyes were smudged with cheek-bound mascara.

      ‘How is she?’ he asked.

      Harriet considered. ‘Like Eeyore with a period.’

      ‘Oh dear,’ said Johnathan.

      He went into the kitchen. Chloe was slumped in a chair at the large table in the middle of the room, staring into a half-empty wine glass. She did not look up as he approached.

      ‘Um,’ said Johnathan.

      Chloe did not move.

      Johnathan waited, wondering what to do. He glanced over towards the sink. Troilus was lying on the floor, horribly inanimate. The pool of blood which surrounded his squashed head like a halo had started to expand with a ghoulish inevitability towards the fridge.

      ‘I’ll get a cloth,’ he said. He went to the cleaning cupboard and began to pad kitchen roll around the edges of the growing puddle.

      Once the tide of blood had been stemmed and the sodden roll disposed of, Johnathan stood up and waited for instructions. Her eyes still fixed firmly on her wine glass, Chloe finally said, ‘Bury him by the mange-touts, and then leave. Don’t come back.’

      ‘Right,’ said Johnathan, wondering what decomposing cat did for the nutritional qualities of vegetables. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up the dead animal, who responded with a last spirited gush of cloying blood, scoring a direct hit on Johnathan’s trousers. Johnathan smiled grimly. He didn’t care. Got you at last, you little bastard. He went outside to look for a spade.

      Johnathan Burlip detested cats.

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