3. Leo
Chapter 3
Leo
I’m halfway home when I receive a text message. I pull into the next side street, park, and read the text. It’s from my neighbour, Janice, asking if I can get her some milk. She’s in her nineties, makes the most amazing scones, and loves chatting over afternoon tea. I reply, telling her I’ll pick some up on my way home, and set off again.
The car park of the supermarket closest to my apartment block is less than half full. A man in a high-vis jacket wanders from one trolley store to another, collecting large trolleys in a stacked line. I enter the store. Pop music blares through the speakers. A tired young woman pushes a trolley with a screaming toddler through the vegetable aisle. I pull silly faces at the toddler until its crying morphs into giggling.
“Thank you,” the woman says.
“No problem. Sometimes, all that’s needed is a silly face.” I pull more crazy faces, making myself go cross- eyed and waggling my tongue. Followed by more giggling, I carry on towards the milk.
Janice likes full-fat milk. I also pick up a bottle of semi-skimmed for myself. I get a few other bits and pieces—a packet of pasta, some cat food for Cayenne, and tin foil—then walk to the till. I don’t have a bag and don’t want to use one of the supermarket’s plastic ones, so I juggle the shopping in my arms as I leave the store.
The man in the high-vis jacket has collected every large trolley in existence, or that’s how it seems as he manoeuvres the long train across the car park towards the side of the store, where the trolleys belong. I check to ensure the coast is clear and step off the pavement into the car park. The long tinfoil box falls off the pile of things in my arms and clatters to the ground. Luckily, it’s rectangular, not round, so it doesn’t go too far. I stoop to pick it up, which is no mean feat, considering how much I’m carrying. The two large milk bottles are making my hand and arms go cold.
“Look out!”
I glance up and freeze. The trolleys are hurtling towards me. Two dozen metal chariots pick up speed as they race downhill. I can’t move. Shouldn’t my fight-or-flight response be kicking in? Instead, I’m like a rabbit trapped in the headlights, unable to avoid the fate rattling closer by the millisecond.
An orange-and-white blur streaks into my peripheral vision. A guy grabs me, hauls me to my feet, and pushes me out of the way with so much force I end up on my arse five feet away. I cry out. The trolley express train slams into my saviour, propelling him into the supermarket wall.
High-vis jacket guy jogs up to me. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry.” He holds a hand out.
My shopping is scattered around me. The bottle of semi-skimmed milk has burst open and is leaking white liquid all over the asphalt. My arse and palms sting.
“I’m fine. What about the other guy?”
High-vis jacket guy frowns. “What other guy?”
Abandoning my shopping, I get up and hurry to the crash site, expecting to see the man who saved me trapped beneath the trolley pile. Except he isn’t. I crouch, peering through the tangle of metal. My heart patters like crazy as I spy a sleek ginger-and-white form. I stand and pull the trolleys clear, revealing a ginger-and-white cat. Not just any ginger-and-white cat. My ginger-and-white cat. Which is impossible. Cayenne is a house cat. Well, an apartment cat. Even if he had snuck out, how could he have got here?
“Woah, it’s a cat.” High-vis jacket guy stands beside me, with my shopping in his arms. Most of it anyway.
I kneel beside the cat. It’s breathing but is clearly injured. Carefully I check the heart-shaped metal tag on its collar. My phone number is etched into the tag on one side, while Cayenne’s name is on the other.
“How did you get here?” I’m scared to touch him, but I must. “Let’s get you to a vet.”
Cayenne opens his eyes .
“Easy, boy.”
He hisses, drags himself to his paws, and speeds away, far faster than a cat who’s had a stack of trolleys crash into him should. I stare after the ginger-and-white blur, unable to catch hold of him and too stunned to chase him. My mind is whirling. I don’t understand. I know it was a man, not a cat, who pushed me out of the way. How did Cayenne get here? What’s going on?
“Do you want your shopping?” high-vis jacket man asks.
“Thank you.” I take it from him.
“You weren’t hurt, were you? If you were, you’d need to fill in an accident form.”
“No. I’m fine.” And I’m not in the mood to talk.
I stride away from him toward my car. I need to get home, and I need to prove that Cayenne is safely dozing in my apartment, where he should be.
I take extra care driving home. My nerves are a jangled mess. My head is scrambled. Was I hallucinating? Why wouldn’t I see the cat who showed up a week after my last near-death experience? I press my lips into a grim smile. Two near-death experiences in one lifetime are two too many.
I remember the day Cayenne appeared like it was yesterday rather than almost seventeen years ago. I’d just got home from the hospital—not that the house my parents had owned felt like home anymore. It was cold and empty without them. Neighbours and extended family had shown up with flowers, condolence cards, and enough pre-made meals to last me a month. I was eighteen, alone, and numb with grief. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and forget the world existed.
Then I’d heard the most pathetic little mewl imaginable. The sound source was a tiny ginger-and-white kitten batting its paw against the patio door. The moment I held him—cold, trembling, and small enough to fit on my palm—he’d stolen my heart. There was never any doubt that I’d take him in. He needed me, and I needed him. He was a furry little light when I was surrounded by darkness.
He can’t be hurt. He can’t be.
I get into my apartment, shut the door, and drop the shopping on the worktop.
“Cayenne,” I call.
Usually, he comes and greets me, but he doesn’t run up to trip me up or rub himself against my legs. I look everywhere—in the living area, on top of the fridge, under the table, under the sofa and chairs, behind the curtains. The windows are firmly closed. He can’t have got out unless he slipped out when I ran back in to grab my lunch this morning. No, I would have noticed, wouldn’t I?
I check the bedroom next. He’s not curled up, snoozing in his usual spot on the bed. I’m frantic now. My pulse is too fast, my head pounds, and my mouth is dry.
Whoosh .
What was that ?
Whoosh. Thud.
It’s a soft thud, but I didn’t imagine it. What was it? I return to the living area. Cayenne sits on the arm of the sofa.
“There you are, Cay. I was so worried.” I step towards him and then falter.
His fur is matted. Is that blood? My thoughts flash back to the supermarket. The cat. The collar. The tag. It can’t have been Cayenne. The supermarket is miles away. How could he have got there? How could he have got back so quickly? Yet he’s here, and he’s injured. It’s impossible.
I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Come here, boy.”
He jumps gingerly off the sofa and limps towards me.
I scoop him into my arms. “You’re hurt.”
He nuzzles against my chest.
“The weirdest thing happened. I thought you were at the supermarket, but you can’t have been. Can you? No, of course not. I’m talking crazy. But you are hurt. What happened?”
He can’t answer. He’s a cat. He stares at me and purrs.
“I need to take you to the vet.”
Cayenne hisses.
“I know you don’t like the vet, but you need to get checked out. I wish I knew what had happened to you.”
He can’t have been hit by trolleys. It’s impossible. Besides, I know a man pushed me out of the way. A person. Not a cat. My mind is playing tricks on me. Making me imagine horrible things happening to the most important thing in my life. Because I’m afraid of losing him. Because I realised yesterday just how old Cayenne is. Because I almost got hit by trolleys. I must have got myself out of the way and imagined the rest. Yes, that makes sense.
I shake myself. Now that I’ve rationalised what happened, I need to focus on Cayenne, who is hurt and does need to go to the vet.
“I’ll get the cat carrier.”
Cayenne lets out a deep, rumbling grumble, which sounds like “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m sorry, Cay. You need to go to the vet.”
I put him on the floor gently and go to the bedroom. The cat carrier is stowed on top of my wardrobe. Without too much effort, I get it down. I carry it to the living area and then leap backwards, slamming into the doorframe. I press my hand against my chest.
A man is sitting at the table. He’s in his mid-twenties, with a shock of dark ginger hair. It’s straight, long enough to fall into his yellow-green eyes, and sticks up in various crazy angles.
“Who are you? How did you get into my apartment?”
I haven’t locked the door, that’s how. He should not have been able to get into the building without someone buzzing him in. Does he live here? I’ve never seen him before.
I clutch the cat carrier and flick my gaze around the room. Cayenne is nowhere to be seen.
“What have you done with my cat?” What a ridiculous thing to say. If this guy were a cat-napper, he wouldn’t be sitting nonchalantly at my kitchen table.
He smiles wearily. “I am your cat, Leo. And I don’t need to go to the vet.”