I wrote this short story, commissioned by a magazine, over twenty-five years ago. Although it’s written in the First Person, the narrator isn’t anything like me. It’s written through the eyes of a character. Fiction, you know? That character is a man very different from myself. An evil man or a man whose wiring works in a different way to the rest of us? Does it matter whether he’s mad or bad? Aren’t they the same when evil deeds are involved?
The Girl and the Kitten.
She walks with an elegance that is without artifice; her head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. I admire her mode of dress: sober and understated. Demure. Perfect.
As she draws near, I see the top of a paperback book peeping from her bag. Keats. Love poems. A romantic soul or an essay project? No laptop, no notepad – a Romantic then.
Even better. I can quote Keats to her.
‘I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.’
I know her now. All I need to know. She is lovely, yet she disregards her loveliness. Makes nothing of the blessings at her disposal. The time of innocence, true innocence, is passed. She’s moved on from childhood to the stage of knowledge. Awareness of the gaze of men and boys. Their secret thoughts and longings. She knows this, yet isn’t seeking advantage. I’ve looked long and hard for a girl like this. They’re rare jewels. Perfect, yet untainted.
I glance quickly in both directions. Nothing to see. No cameras here. I already checked. This is the third day I’ve watched her. Twice before I followed, at a distance. Always the same route.
Here, this bench with the trees behind, was always going to be the place to meet, but another person would spoil the meeting. In that case, there would be other days, other girls, but fate was on my side today. She is alone.
From the plastic bag at my feet I withdrew the pathetic bundle of fur. A tear ran unchecked down my cheek. The doctors said I was incapable of emotion, but they were wrong about me in so many ways. At times of impending rapture I have feelings.
The kitten whimpered as I cradled it in my arms. The girl stopped, three paces away, then ran forward.
‘What happened?’
I shook my head. ‘I never saw it until the last minute. I was driving along and it ran out from the trees. I swerved, but…’ My voice tailed away.
She dropped her bag, knelt by the bench. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘he’s still breathing. A broken leg, I think.’ She pointed at the limp left foreleg, hanging at an odd angle.
I fought the urge to stroke her hair, fanning out across my lap, wiped a fresh tear away with my sleeve.
‘A vet?’ I said. ‘Is there one near here?’
She raised her lovely face, brow creased with concern. ‘Yes. Not far. I take my own cats there.’
I stood up, still cradling the kitten. ‘Would you show me?’
She never even hesitated. ‘Of course.’
I motioned to my van, parked at the kerb. ‘No need for you to come along, if you’re busy,’ I said. ‘Just point me in the right direction.’ God, I’m good.
‘No, I’ll come,’ she said. ‘They know me there.’
I carried the kitten to the van as she picked up her bag and followed. I nodded at the rear doors. ‘Could you open those for me? I’ve got a blanket I can wrap him in so you can hold him.’
She nodded, moved past me and opened the doors. Inside, there was no blanket. Just a wooden floor, panelled sides, all covered in high-density foam rubber. No windows, just a discreet ventilator in the roof.
She half-turned as I dropped the kitten in the gutter, pushed her inside and slammed the doors. I’d carried many passengers in the back of this van and knew it was impossible to get out until I was ready.
The kitten bleated, but I ignored it. It had served its purpose and there was no shortage of kittens. I could always get another when I needed one.
No one in sight. I walked to the driver’s side, got in and started the engine. I drove away leaving no sign of my presence. Just a kitten with a broken leg, lying in the gutter.
The girl would be missed in an hour or so, but there’d be no serious search for many hours yet. By then she’d be far away and any search would be useless.
Of course they’d search. Diligently and with purpose.
A middle class white girl from a good family. Pretty enough to rate a picture on the front page of the newspapers.
To no avail.
That was part of the reason I’d chosen her. I’d become bored with nonentities. Girls who no one mourned, outside of their immediate family. It was time to raise my profile.
Leave a mark.
I was well away from the area by now. Fifty miles, at least. Driving carefully. Observing the speed limits. The leafy suburbs had long since been left behind. This was an area of desolation. Rundown housing, graffiti, very few pedestrians. A place where hope was an alien quality.
I love it here. My kind of town.
If Hell exists, this is what it will look like.
Gulliver Smith 