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And that’s when I hear the sirens.   Awesome.   Just what my head needed.  

Trouble is, they’re getting louder, and now they’ve stopped.

Outside my house.


Unlikely.   Unlikely they’re coming here.   Fucking unlikely.   Coincidence.   Might just do a quick whip around and make sure I haven’t left anything – significant – about.   Or that Py hasn’t.

I hurridly take asprin, rinse out the stained glasses we toasted with after the kills, wipe over the coffee table and rinse the dishcloth until it’s just faintly pink.   Flush the toilet, wash down the sink, take a couple more asprin, change the clothes.   Look about for the Cat.   All the while listening to the sound of silent sirens, until I can’t take it any more, and peek out the front curtain to see what’s happening.   Something next door.

And then I remember.   Start of the night.   The neighbours.   Geez, Jonathon, you fuckwit – what were you thinking?   Next door, for fuck’s sake.   What the hell possessed me to be that fucking reckless?

Shit.   Shit.   I pace, and then hear a noise.   Not the front door though.   Upstairs.   From Eddie’s room.

I take another quick look out the window at the flashing lights and gathering crowd at the neighbours’ house, and then head up the stairs.   A funny, tiny feeling of relief surfaces.   It’s the Cat.   It’ll be the fucking Cat, who hasn’t pissed off somewhere after just bunking here for a couple of nights, but has come back to rest after a good evening’s hunting.   Just like I did.   Dunno how the little bastard got into Eddie’s room, though.   Door’s still closed from when I stapled up the plastic inside.   See?   See?   I’m usually a cautious little fucker.   This was an unusual weekend, all right?

I open the door.   It’s not a Cat.   It’s a kid.    From school.   Year below – Mitchell.   Trussed up on the floor, eyes and mouth and hands and ankles neatly black-taped, as only Py can do.   He’s moaning a little and making hopeless kinds of fish movements on the plastic sheeting, but – luckily for him – not bleeding and still breathing.   Clearly a farewell gift from Py.   He even wrapped it.

I go to the bathroom, wipe my face and hands again, finish off the bottle of asprin.   And listen to Mitchell in the next room making ineffective fishy swishes for a moment.


And that’s when the police ring the doorbell.




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