to stem the ensuing nasal catastrophe.
Troilus, unfortunately for him, had been particularly fond of Johnathan. He loved to coat Johnathan with his fur, huge quantities of which seemed to disengage automatically on contact. Johnathan’s enmity towards cats in general developed a new focus of Troilus in particular. Over time, this had gradually developed into an unhealthy paranoia. He used to have nightmares in which Troilus could speak, dance and sing. One night he appeared as Mephistopheles and explained how Macavity wasn’t that much of a mystery cat, he just had a good agent.
Johnathan kicked Troilus into the hole he had hurriedly dug. The chapatti pan had scored a direct hit on Troilus’s cranium, causing instant departure for Cat Heaven. Johnathan had been drying the chapatti pan after dinner, while Troilus, as usual, had been sitting archly at his feet, particles of cat wafting from his fur up Johnathan’s nostrils. Just as the chapatti pan was dry, the urge to wallop Troilus became overwhelming. Johnathan hadn’t really thought through the consequences. He was suddenly overcome by tiredness and irritation, and after a brief internal dialogue, the essence of which was ah, fuck it, he had deftly played a forceful on-drive with uncharacteristic accuracy and panache, Troilus’s head obligingly playing the part of the cricket ball. Wop. Out.
Johnathan covered the dead body with topsoil and enjoyed a brief jig of victory on his victim’s grave to smooth out the surface. He trudged back towards the warm lights of the house. Chloe had vanished from the kitchen. Instead Harriet had returned downstairs and sat at the table, watching the steam rise on the last cup of decaf of the day.
She looked at him. ‘She’s gone to bed,’ she said.
‘Right,’ said Johnathan awkwardly.
There was a pause.
‘Prat,’ remarked Harriet.
Johnathan shrugged. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he said.
‘Bye,’ said Harriet.
Johnathan nodded, and opened the front door.
On the cold Fulham street a few empty crisp packets tangoed listlessly between the parked Peugeot 205s. He turned up the collar on his coat and headed down the hill towards Parsons Green tube.
The telephone was ringing.
Slowly, very, very slowly, its insistent shrilling filtered through the syrupy mire of Johnathan Burlip’s sleeping brain. As consciousness arrived, he became aware not only of the telephone but also of a brutish throbbing just behind his eyes. He groaned, rolled inelegantly out of his bed, and tottered out of the bedroom. Barely awake, he picked up the phone and said,
‘Ugh.’
There was a pause. Then:
‘Bastard.’
Johnathan blinked. He swayed slightly. The throbbing was spreading from his eyes backwards into his brain and upwards to his temples, where it sat, deeply malignant, radiating pain. The clock in the hall seemed to suggest that it was six o’clock in the morning. He waited.
‘Bastardbastardbastard.’
Johnathan closed his eyes. It was Chloe.
‘Hello Chloe,’ he said.
‘Oh no you don’t. Oh no you bloody don’t. Don’t think for one minute that you’re going to sweet-talk your way out of this one. No way. Not this time. End of story. You’re history.’
‘OK,’ said Johnathan.
‘Look,’ said Chloe, ‘don’t even bother trying. It’s a waste of time. It won’t work. It’s pitiful, actually. You’re pathetic. You’re just a drivelly, snivelling pathetic man. God. I can’t believe this. At least have a bit of dignity.’
‘OK,’ said Johnathan.
‘I mean, Jesus. You killed my cat. You’re a murderer. I should report you to the police. The RSPCA. You are in serious trouble. Serious. You can just forget everything. How you can even ask me to contemplate having you back at this stage is beyond me.’
Johnathan woke up. He had asked no such thing, and nor was he going to. Best to make that clear right away. ‘You’re right,’ he said quickly. ‘I killed your cat. I killed Troilus. I am a murderer. I am vermin. You wouldn’t want to see me again even if I was the last person on the planet.’
Chloe’s tone softened. ‘This self-hate is not good for you,’ she said. ‘You’ve always had low self-esteem. It’s not going to get you anywhere. You need to look at yourself in a more positive light. You do have some good qualities.’
Johnathan started to hop up and down in agitation. This was not going according to plan. ‘I killed Troilus,’ he reminded her.
Chloe sighed. ‘I know. I don’t pretend to understand why. You were looking for a form of externalizing your emotions, you wanted to project your frustrations. You were caught up in the sub-luminous ego strata.’
Johnathan frowned. ‘What?’ he said.
‘But you have a problem. You’re angry about something. You should try and talk about it. You need professional help. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I go all the time. It’s been enormously uplifting, just to be able to share my problems with a sympathetic ear. Voicing my hopes and fears out loud helps them to crystallize within me. I come out more fulfilled, more rounded. More me.’
More fucking nutty, thought Johnathan blackly.
‘Chloe,’ he said after a few moments. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’
‘God, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. It’s never over. Things are never that bad. Christ. Things are worse than I thought. You must snap out of it, Johnathan. Come back from the edge. Take a step back and see the better you.’ Chloe’s reedy voice rose a few pitches with excitement.
Johnathan sighed. ‘No, not that. Us. You and me. We’re over. Finished. Aren’t we?’
‘Oh,’ said Chloe, the disappointment audible. ‘I see.’
‘I mean,’ said Johnathan reasonably, ‘I did kill your cat.’
Chloe thought about this. ‘We all have our moments of madness. The insuperable super-ego plays its trump card.’
‘But surely you must hate me now,’ said Johnathan hopefully.
‘Hate? What is hate, at the end of the day?’
‘Listen,’ said Johnathan quickly, keen not to get side-tracked. ‘You’re obviously still very upset. I understand that. You need some time alone. I’m sorry to have caused you so much grief. I understand if you’ll never want to see me again,’ he said.
‘Sweetie,’ cooed Chloe. ‘You’re being terribly hard on yourself–’
‘But I must, I must,’ cried Johnathan, and slammed the receiver down. He
