PT6

We had a small ginger kitten once.

We called it Ginger - or one of the kids did.

It wasn’t really ours. We belonged to it. The cat chose us.

Walked right in one day through the kitchen door. Right past us, flicking its tail in a small expression of superiority.

The dog looked on, gutted. Total refutation of its wild ancestory.

One day we were sitting in the living room when our little boy became more excited than usual.

"Ginger! Ginger! I can hear him in the wall!"

Kids can be imaginative.

Then we heard it.

"Meaow!"

There was something not right.

Ginger's little cry was so close, yet so far away.

Disembodied.

Then nothing.

A few moments later, another "Meaow!"

This time over behind the television.

No sign of the moggie.

Later another. This time in the hallway.

Then above the fireplace.

The full horror dawned.

We ran up to the boy's bedroom.

The airbrick ventilator was hanging away from the wall.

To try to retrieve him from the cavity was a non-starter. We'd have to dismantle the house brick-by-brick.

We mentally prepared for the smell.

The following evening, there was a piercing screech from upstairs.

We were jolted out of Eastenders.

Bursting into the back bedroom, we followed the boy's pointing hand.

There, on top of the wardrobe stood a small blackened cat.

"Meaow!"

About a week later, a work-mate walked up the drive.

He was holding something limp and depressing by its long ginger tail.

"I'm sorry, Kev. Is this yours?"

I snorted involuntarily. My eyes stung.

"Kind of".