She stole the cats in broad daylight. Twiddled her fingers, flicked their whiskers then shoved them in a black sack. She’d throw back her head and laugh wildly, thinking of her husband.  Back up the hill to the bus stop she'd beat the black sack like a child with a punch balloon at the circus.

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When home, she aligned the caged animals in order of most attractive. She liked the cats with sad eyes. Wonky expressions made it seem they’d seen it all. When she wanted to touch one, to see why her husband liked it so much, she’d flick open its lock, sit on a stool in the centre of the kitchen and wait for the animal to approach her. When it chose to remain in the cage, she took it personally. 

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I cry eating breakfast and tell everyone I’m fine, she’d announce to the animal in the silent room. Her Councillor told her vulnerability makes people like you. Try it, you might surprise yourself. After such a declaration, the cat often approached her. Even lick her.  When it did, she held out her sweaty palm and felt the rough touch of its itty-bitty tongue. It reminded her how easy it was to manipulate people. That's what she’d done with her husband, before he killed himself. 

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                                                                                                            *

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When she found her husband floating dead in the garden pond, she blamed him. Then, after a Hobnob and sit down, she still blamed him. She viewed him a basic man obsessed with getting a pet cat.

How basic to take your own life, she’d screamed at the submerged body. You’re not getting a cat like that, are you?!

 

When he was alive, on winter mornings she liked to wake and plunge her face into a sink of freezing water. Her thick hair fell forward and clumped into wet strands she’d carry around the house, dripping. His morning offering was always a smile and decaffeinated black coffee, no sugar, left balanced on the edge of the bath tub. He never turned his back to her so shuffled out of rooms in reverse, head lowered as if sacrificing his only son to an Emperor. If she took the coffee, it would be a good day. If she left it to turn cold and stain the mug, he knew to keep clear. On these days he stayed in the garden looking for cats to stroke. He’d sweep up soggy leaves, help worms off the stone patio and when Jasper, the neighbours ginger cat wandered round, he’d twiddle his fingers and flick his whiskers. When she saw this from the nice warm kitchen, she’d get an uncontrollable urge to fight. She’d open the back door, move across the patio, stepping on the snails he hadn’t yet reached and take a swing at him.

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She was aware she was unhinged. A bit kooky, she’d be the first to admit it. And she was working on her flaws, the way we all think we are. At a Tesco’s cheese counter, she once silently linked her long fingers into his, to make an effort. But years of abuse meant his entire body tightened as if a loaded rifle was placed in the arch of his back. He nervously stumbled ordering the Gorgonzola, mixed up the cheddar's and left without the crackers. That evening over a disappointing cheese board she said something vulnerable.

Your want for a cat is greater than your want for me.

He lifted his chin, avoiding her stare and closed the Battersea Cats App. He fell for it and reached across the kitchen table to hold her bruised hands. She noticed he didn’t deny it so later that evening she beat the crap out of him.

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When he ran to the station for his commute, and he always ran because she was running after him, he’d throw himself into the carriage as the doors were closing. Lights flashing and beeping, warning for someone to do exactly not that. Collapsed on the floor among polished Brogues, he’d turn to see her shut out, screaming abuse from platform 2. On the days she caught him, and she normally did, he’d nervously turn to see her standing between the heavy doors, pushing them open like the Incredible Hulk. Chatty train folk helped her in, offered her a seat. Once she got a laddish round of applause. Once in, they stood in silence, clutching the dangling bar, wobbling like penguins. He’d learnt to use this 20-minute journey to have an internally insufferable break down, without showing a tear. He’d silently scream and howl and think of ways to kill himself while she Google Imaged pictures of cats, flaunting them in his face.

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Stealing her neighbour’s cats was how she grieved her dead husband.

Everyone grieves in their own way, her Councillor told her. You do what feels right for you.

So, neighbours watched behind net curtains as the woman with wet hair cleared the streets. They'd been fine with grieving until it impacted their lives. Like an honest alcoholic she told herself she was ready to give it up. All the violence. Over a Hobnob and sit down she’d look out at the garden pond and think how everything was just bad timing. Irritatingly she’d come around to the idea of getting a cat. A fluffy-wuffy friend. If he’d just hung on a little longer for her to get the crippling abuse she’d experienced as a child out her system for good.

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The end.