Unfamiliar Ground: a short story

Content warning: references to domestic violence; some actual violence against a human; swear words

The homeowner, Ro, had emailed arrival instructions: how to find her house, which was tucked away off a sleepy side road, the four-digit code for the key box, and the names and characteristics of Mr Shanks, Poppet, Poe and Maurice – my furry charges for the next three weeks. Even though it was a bit warm for it, as I got out of the car I pulled on the practical North Face raincoat my best friend had pressed on me when I entrusted my own cats into her care after running from my violent ex, Paul. I cast my eyes around the tall trees that shielded the property before I went inside, just in case.

After five hours on the road, the entrance hall felt like an oasis of calm where I could allow myself to let my guard down, at least for a bit. The décor and furnishings were dated but clean, and the late afternoon sun cast colourful patterns through the front door’s stained glass panels onto the laminate floor. Next to the front door and opposite the staircase was a sturdy oak dresser, on top of which were a handwritten welcome note, the wi-fi router, and a few framed photos of – I deduced – Ro with the relatives she was visiting in Australia. Three white-painted doors stood open, letting in extra light from the windows of the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The cats were yet to make their presence known, but that didn’t worry me; in the year and a half I’d been picking up housesitting gigs the length and breadth of the country, I’d experienced a whole spectrum of initial encounters with dogs, cats, rabbits, and the occasional non-traditional pet. They’d introduce themselves when they were ready – or when they were hungry.

I lugged the army surplus rucksack containing my clothes, toiletries, and laptop up the stairs and assessed the three bedrooms before opting for a simple guestroom with line of sight from the double divan to the door, as well as a generous window overlooking the front drive. Resolving to unpack my belongings later, I then headed back down to the kitchen to see what was what – some clients left their pantries fully-stocked, with an invitation to treat their home as my own, while others were mean, even going as far as to padlock their food cupboards. Thankfully – and in keeping with the impression I’d formed of her – Ro belonged firmly in the former category. She’d provided me with enough food to last at least a week. A note stuck to the fridge by a Sydney Opera House magnet gave details of the nearest decent-sized supermarket, as well as pet-feeding instructions: there were several plastic containers of homemade meaty chum in the fridge, with further supplies in a chest freezer in the garage, and biscuits for treats. She also helpfully let me know that all of the garden herbs I needed to water every few days were safe for cats to eat, so I needn’t worry if I caught anyone nibbling at them.

Typically, it was my exploration of the kitchen that finally induced the cats to materialise from God-knows-where. All four were black, but I could easily tell who was who from Ro’s descriptions: the corpulent Mr Shanks carried himself with a dignity befitting his formal moniker; Poppet’s name equally suited her, as she was barely bigger than a kitten, despite being the oldest; Poe had a little white patch on his chest; and Maurice was missing an eye, giving him a rakish look. None of them seemed at all wary of me, weaving around and headbutting my legs as I dished up their dinners on the counter.

I already felt like I’d been blessed with the perfect gig – though my bones knew I mustn’t let myself get complacent. After my own dinner, and a few hours watching low-effort TV in the cats’ company, I made a point of checking the external doors were locked and every window was firmly closed. As with every first night in a new house, I struggled to sleep as I acclimatised myself to its night-time soundscape. Was that someone thumping on the door, or just the boiler settling down? Was that someone yelling, or just a couple of foxes getting their ends away? I must have been up half a dozen times, peering through the window or peeking down the stairs by the light of my cheap, basic phone. At some point, all four cats drifted towards my bed, and it was surrounded by them that I finally felt secure – or tired – enough to fall asleep.

I soon fell into my standard routine. During the day, I would work on freelance editing jobs – all my assignments were managed by an agency, keeping my name, contact details, and location under wraps. The dining room table became my workstation, and I sat in the chair facing the window, so I could catch any movement out front over the top of my screen. I was nearly sick the first time the postman turned up, but learned to anticipate him as letters for Ro accumulated on the dresser. I didn’t explore the surrounding area, but made use of a cross-trainer in the garage, and after work I’d sit in a deckchair reading dark romance novels from Ro’s extensive collection while the cats grazed in the herb garden. They continued to share my bed, and I often woke to find one or more of them nuzzling me, and figured they must have been taken from their mothers too early. They were gentle, yet persistent – over time, I developed marks like love bites on some of my soft parts, but I couldn’t bring myself to discourage them, as they made me feel loved and worthy for the first time in so long.

It took nearly two weeks to get to the point where I absolutely had to replenish some essentials. Reluctantly, I drove to the supermarket, ten miles away and close to the centre of a sweet-looking little town I had no desire to linger in. I was able to find the groceries I needed and use the self-service checkouts, but had to practically wrestle myself through the door of the adjoining chemist – the marks on my body were getting quite sore, and maybe I could get a cream for that.

‘Can I help you?’ The pharmacy was one of those tiny ones that nonetheless pack in a dizzying array of products, so there was no chance of slipping in unnoticed. A smiling middle-aged woman emerged from behind the till.

‘Hurgh,’ I croaked, having only spoken aloud to cats for several days. I tried again. ‘Hi, yes please, I’m looking for some sort of skin cream? I’ve been petsitting four orally-fixated cats for a couple of weeks, and I’ve developed a few sores.’ I rolled up the sleeve of my friend’s jacket to indicate one on the soft underside of my arm.

The woman’s face changed rapidly and I could tell her professionalism was the only thing keeping her from recoiling.

‘Right, yes’, she said briskly, eyes darting over the shelves before she made a selection from a neat display of slim white boxes. ‘This should do the job if you apply it three times a day. Will that be everything?’ I gave my assent, and she took it to the till and rang it through just as efficiently, then practically escorted me out. Walking to my car, I wondered if she’d thought I was using the cats as an excuse for something contagious. If I needed anything else while at Ro’s, I decided, I’d order it online. I’d seen her postman several times at this point, and even though I’d had no reason to speak to him, surely if he was dangerous, I’d know by now? Though it wouldn’t be the first time I’d misjudged someone.

My final week at Ro’s passed uneventfully. The cream took the edge off the sores. I started preparing for my next housesitting assignment – a pair of Lhasa Apsos, 200 miles from here. I tried to be philosophical about leaving Mr Shanks, Poppet, Poe and Maurice – I’d always tried to keep in mind that they were never my cats, and they’d be so happy to see Ro again that they’d soon forget about me. I had to keep moving.

Still, on my last night, I held them extra close, breathing in their musty cat smell. I’d all but nodded off when I heard the unmistakeable tinkle of glass and the shouting voice that haunted my dreams.

‘Lou! LOU! I know you’re in here! Get out here NOW!’ Sure as shit, it was Paul, the ex I’d upended my life to escape from. The landing light came on, and I could hear him thundering up the stairs.

Now, I fully expected the cats to scram, and I wouldn’t have blamed them one bit. I had no way of anticipating what actually happened, which was that they made themselves bigger. Not just in the sense that they puffed their fur up – though that happened too – but they physically expanded. Mr Shanks took on mountain lion-like proportions. Even little Poppet became the size of a Scottish wildcat. And as Paul’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, four souped-up balls of fur, teeth, and claws leapt at him like they’d choreographed it. He struggled backwards, trying to throw them off, but they only got more enraged and clung tighter, and bit harder. He was screaming in pain as he retreated, and I rushed to the door to see what was happening. The five of them were almost at the stairs and, just as suddenly as they attacked, the cats, as one, let go of Paul and backed away, towards me.

Paul was bloodied and stunned. I almost felt sorry for him.

‘Lou, what the-?’

That’s all he had the chance to say before the cats threw themselves at him again. This time, they didn’t cling on. Instead, his momentum sent him tumbling down the stairs, as the cats flew down with him. They, of course, landed on their feet, and skidded on the laminate floor at the bottom, changing course towards the kitchen. Paul, however, kept going – until his head collided with the dresser with a sickening crack. Suddenly, everything was very quiet and still.

On shaking legs, I picked my way down the stairs and crouched down by Paul’s broken body. Blood around him grew from a puddle to a pond. My hands and feet were red. Four normal-sized cats gazed at me from the kitchen doorway and I gave them a watery smile. Because of them, this awful thing had happened. Because of them, I might finally be free.

I don’t remember going to sit on the stairs, but that’s where I was when Ro arrived home, just as dawn was breaking. Despite my haze, I noticed she had “love bites” like mine, albeit faded after three weeks away. She surveyed the scene in her hallway with a surprisingly level expression, then gave me a soft look of askance.

‘I’m sorry,’ I burbled. ‘The cats… they grew…’

She smiled then. ‘I guessed as such. They’re very loyal to people they form an attachment to, and you may have noticed their diet is a little unusual. Now, I’m going to get you a stiff drink, and then I’m going to need your help disposing of this body. I’m not as young as I used to be.’

In loving memory of Toby, Pebbles (aka Campus Cat), Dinah, and the heartbreaking number of online cats who have passed this year. You were all magical.