‘I’ll owe you big time.’
I only just stopped myself from suggesting that she cleaned my flat as payment. We entered the main door and Eve headed straight for the stairs, casting a glance over her shoulder in my direction when she realised I wasn’t following.
‘I’ve sprained my ankle,’ I told her. ‘Old sports injury. I’m going to take the lift.’
She frowned. ‘That’s sounds painful. Let me know if you want any bandages. I know a great physiotherapist, too.’
I waved her off. ‘I’ll be fine. But thanks.’ I nodded towards the stairs. ‘You go on.’
‘If you’re sure…’
Good grief. I had to come up with some better excuses. I was actually starting to feel guilty. ‘I am.’
‘Well, take care.’ Eve smiled brightly and started to sprint up the first flight. ‘See you later, Ivy!’
I punched the lift button and slumped against the wall. It was hard work watching Eve.
***
As soon as I got inside the door, I dumped my bag and lurched for the sofa, flopping down face-first. Bliss.
From somewhere above me, there was an irritated hiss. ‘Food.’
I strained my head upwards. ‘Hi, Brutus.’
His yellow eyes stared down at me, unblinking. ‘Food, bitch.’
I sighed. ‘I’ve told you time and time again. If you call me that, I’m not going to feed you.’
‘Food.’
‘Give me a minute.’
‘Food.’
‘I’d like the chance to get a cup of tea first.’
‘Food.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Food.’
I muttered a curse, got up and hobbled to the small but perfectly formed galley kitchen. The remnants of this morning’s breakfast lay on the counter. I swept all the dishes into the sink and turned on the tap while Brutus kept up his nagging. ‘Food. Food. Foooooooooood.’
I sighed, found a clean bowl and opened a tin, gagging slightly at the familiar scent of processed tuna. I scooped some out with a spoon and presented it to him. Brutus stepped up and sniffed delicately. I turned away to close off the tap.
‘Food.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘I just gave you food.’
He pawed at the bowl and looked utterly disgusted with tonight’s offering. I gazed at him in exasperation. ‘You liked this one last week.’ His head turned away. He wouldn’t even look at it. ‘Brutus…’
A low growl reverberated from deep within his throat. I crossed my arms. He wasn’t giving an inch. ‘Foo…’
‘Fine,’ I snapped, interrupting him. Sometimes the path of least resistance is the best. I opened the cupboard, selected a different flavour and presented it to him. I received the tiniest purr in response. Rolling my eyes, I got rid of the first lot of food and gave him the second. Then I stomped to the phone to order myself a pizza.
Chapter Two
It would be nice to think that the rest of my week improved but things only went from bad to worse. It’s fair to say that if I’d appreciated how bad life was about to get, I would never ever have emerged from my duvet on Friday.
Even with Brutus perched on my chest repeating his mantra for breakfast, I was tempted to pull the cover over my head. It was so snug and warm. Unless I got up and threw him out of the window, however, it was clear I wouldn’t get any peace and quiet. I could have done that but it wouldn’t have been worth the hassle afterwards. Not that Brutus would have hurt himself; he’s only used up two of his nine lives so far, which I reckon is pretty good for a cat of his age and temperament. But given that the time I accidentally stepped on his tail caused seven full days of feline hatred, where I was afraid to open any of the doors in my own damned flat, I dreaded to think what I’d receive in return for giving him flying lessons.
‘I’m getting up,’ I told him. ‘In two minutes.’
‘Food.’
‘Quit it.’
I tried to relax once more; it wasn’t hard. I was drifting back into the wonderful land of snuggly slumber when a paw, with claws outstretched just enough to rake my skin, scraped along my cheek. I opened one eye. I suspected that Brutus had waited the exact two minutes that I’d promised.
‘Food.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Sighing, I stuck one foot out from under the duvet. It was freezing. I yanked it back and moaned. Brutus went for my face again but I dodged his attentions by smothering my head into the soft pillow.
I could do this. On the count of three.
One.
Two.
Three.
I didn’t move. Gritting my teeth, I steeled myself and tried again. This time I sprang upwards and darted for my dressing gown hanging on the bedroom door. I wrapped it round me and ran, wondering why I lived in a flat which had beautifully polished parquet floors that were bloody freezing under my feet rather than inch-thick pile carpet. Where the arse were my slippers?
Hopping from foot to foot, I nipped into the kitchen and flipped on the kettle before opening the cupboard that housed the small boiler. I peered at it. It was still there; it hadn’t blown up in the middle of the night. So why, in the name of all that was icy and unpleasant, wasn’t it working?
I thumped it a couple of times. There was an odd gurgle but, other than that, nothing seemed to be happening. I wrinkled my nose and tried to think. I knew various runes for starting fires but I’d never had occasion to use them and somehow I didn’t think setting my own home alight would be wise.
I grabbed a bowl for Brutus and poured out some dry cat food that I knew he liked, then made myself a mug of tea. I warmed my frozen fingers round it while I considered my options. The trouble with magic is that it involves ancient skills and knowledge which have very little to do with technology. When it comes to the mystical arts and twenty-first century advances, it’s always best to work on the premise that never the twain shall meet. If they do, you can expect explosions and violent death and the very real possibility that you’ll be engulfed in a hailstorm made up of shards of glass and hornet stings.
I pondered my options. As I’d told that good Samaritan yesterday, some things are best left to the professionals. I glanced outside. Eve would have already left for her trip up north, which meant I could vamoose over to her place, check on her cat, call a plumber and wait in the warmth. Sounded like a damn good plan to me. I nodded wisely to myself; go me.