Let's Hear it For the Cat!

'It is thirty years ago in this city we love. The darkness of midnight, but the city still buzzing with late night revellers, thrill seekers, and the young lovers who forever gaze up at the stars and the moon through the cities haze. Not even news of more murders can stop the people of this city searching for fun.
'It begins to rain a little. A woman ' a young, attractive woman ' makes her way home. She is whistling the latest pop tune. She feels good. She has just been out with the girls from work and discovered that Anthony, the VP, has a thing for her. Maybe she'll get that promotion after all.
'She pauses to light a cigarette. She's been trying to give up, but darn it, you gotta have some pleasures in life. Her lighter struggles to catch as the wind blows down the wide mall. She glances up for a second; against the night sky is silhouetted a statue of some forgotten hero. Maybe he was blowing out her light, trying to tell her to give up. For a moment she gazes at the cigarette. In that moment, though she can never guess how, she holds her life and death in the intractable flame of a Zippo. She chooses death and no hero in marble can save her.
'She steps out of the mall and into an alley. She is out of the wind and out of sight of the other nocturnalists. A hand reaches out to her: not to light her cigarette, but to extinguish her life.
'A life so short. A future extinguished. No marriage to Anthony. No promotion. No children. No more joys and no more sorrows. A beautiful face now a hideous explosion of meat and blood to be photographed by the crime scene investigators. A face that the morgue boys will do their best to pretty up for the formal investigation by the broken inside father.
'Who could do this? Who could slit a young woman's throat for no reason that we can see? And not just one girl ' for we know that he did it many times.
'Ladies and gentlemen, tonight The Whole Truth will try to answer some of these questions. Tonight ' please, forgive me the tremor in my voice, for I am as excited as you are ' we have as our guest the man who terrorised this city a decade ago; a man who has gone down in infamy; a man who has now been released amongst us!
'Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up large, for the Cat!'
The crowd exploded into an orgasm of applause. From the right a man shambled onto the stage as though he had lost his way looking for the washroom; he was balding and in his late fifties. He squinted against the bright studio lights and looked out at the audience. Those audience members who he looked straight at felt a frisson of delight and horror. Barry Gate ' chat show host extraordinary, winner of the entrevue d'or on three occasions and host of The Whole Truth for eight years ' grabbed hold of the man's hand and shook it solidly between his own, before leading him to a plush settee.
It took a while for the applause to die down, when it did, Barry began, a beaming smile never far from his lips.
'Welcome to The Whole Truth, John Spencer, or can I call you Cat?'
'Please, call me John. The Cat doesn't exist anymore.'
'That's what the shrinks say, but it's the Cat that we're interested in, right folks?'
The audience cheered their agreement.
Gate (sincere): John, you killed seven girls in all, didn't you? At least seven the police know about, right? (winks at audience)
Spencer (tetchy): Just the seven.
Gate: Just the seven. (Looks to audience) Do I note a hint of disappointment, folks? (raise laughter cue) Sorry, John, only teasing. So, seven young beautiful women slain. Tell me, how did you select your victims?
Spencer: They selected the Cat.
Gate: (sincere interest ' puts hand to chin and leans forward intimately) John, please explain that. How did they choose you?
Spencer: To the Cat the girls were his destiny; his fate. The Cat didn't go out searching, he went out waiting for the girls to come to him: and they always did. Seven nights he went out and seven times they came to him.
Gate: So you had no particular favourite type of girl. (looks to audience)I know I prefer blondes! (raise big laughter cue)

Edith Clinker so wanted to turn the monitor off: but Spencer was her job, and she was being paid top kale.

Gate: You taunted the police with emails. Was that a cry for help?
Spencer: No. The Cat was full of nine prides. Remember, the Cat was caught by pure luck, not by any mistake on his part.
Gate: Remind us all how you were finally caught.
Spencer: The Cat had sat waiting for girl number 7, behind a rubbish skip. What the Cat didn't know was that a destitute was using the skip as his board and lodging. When the girl came to the Cat, the dropout heard the scuffling and witnessed the Cat in his act. The man followed the Cat home and the rest is a matter of public record.
Gate: And you haven't seen this tramp since you were convicted, have you?
Spencer: No.
Gate: (rising from chair and moving stage right) Tonight you will meet again! Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for Jimmy Jazz! (raise applause cue)
Enter stage right, Jimmy Jazz. (raise cheer cue)
Spencer moves right and hugs Jazz. (raise 'go crazy' cue)
Gate smiles and nods.

Clinker looked to heaven and then to her vodka bottle. The telephone buzzed at her; she gratefully hit mute on the remote and picked up the handset.
'Are you watching it? Are you?'
Edith took the phone from her ear to avoid any permanent damage from Mother Number 4's screeching voice
'What in gosh darn are we paying you for? You see him? You see him! You'd think he was the Pope himself, the way he's parading about on TV. He's probably being paid to be on the show as much as we are paying you: and you know how much that is. Start earning it, little lady!'
'These things can't be rushed.'
There was a slight pause. 'Can't they. Time is relative, but cheques can be stopped. Remembrance 7 are meeting in 2 days time: I do hope we have some news by then.'
The phone slammed dead. The silence was blissful.
Damn, you'd never have believed Mother Number 4 was a ninety year old. Heaven help Spencer if she ever got hold of him, Clinker thought. She killed the monitor and poured herself another vodka, adding a little cranberry juice to assuage the health conscious part of her. She perched slim glasses upon her small nose and perused the file on John Spencer for the hundredth time.
John Spencer, a.k.a. the Cat, had risen to infamy thirty years ago for the killing of seven girls over a twelvemonth period. All this is public knowledge ' the tabloid cuttings and newsreels had merely refreshed Clinker's knowledge (even though she had barely been born at the time). The Cat had been locked up for life and had long faded from the media spotlight until, quite suddenly, he was released.
The authorities had kept it all hush-hush, hoping to give Spencer a new identity and not reveal details of his release until he was secreted away ' possibly out of the country. He had been a model prisoner; the shrinks said that he was repentant of his actions and no longer posed a threat. But it was the cancer of the liver that finally got him released ' he would be dead within 6 months.
John Spencer didn't want to hide away. He hired Michael Morlock, agent to the rich and famous, to represent him, and the PR avalanche began, smothering everything in its path. Spencer became a celebrity - the must have guest at parties, functions, interviews and the face to sponsor your product: If the Cat can transform into John Spencer, then just think what going blonde will do for you! Try our new Blonde-on-blondeâ„¢ today and become a new you!
It may have been thirty years but there were still those who remembered the Cat more than John Spencer. They may have buried their pain and their anger, but seeing Spencer released had unlocked every little black feeling, fresh as the day they were born. There were the mothers, the fathers, the siblings, the aunts, the uncles and the cousins; at least two relatives for each slaughtered girl, formed into a group called Remembrance 7, to pressurise for the re-incarceration of the Cat. But when petitions and protests banged against political expediency and the public fascination with this walking waxwork horror, they hired Edith Clinker: private detective.

'There's really only one window for your interview, Miss Jones, and that's today at three. You must be aware that tomorrow Mr Spencer is opening L.A.'s new airport, and then he's off to tour Europe.'
Edith agreed to the time. She examined her wardrobe. She pulled out the clothes she had bought from Gerhard's the day before; they were clothes that she wouldn't even consider wearing for Halloween. Shit, she couldn't remember the last time she had worn a skirt that short, and as for the fishnet stockings, don't even go there. The things she did for money.
Morlock, a garrulous man in his early forties who wore a garish Hawaiian shirt, met Edith in the foyer of the Metropole and guided her into the elevator.
'You can ask about the murders, but not in detail. Don't mention the victim's names. If you need to refer to them then do so by number. Don't call him Cat. He is John Spencer. You can talk about his time in prison, about his psychiatric treatment, about his cancer.' As they stepped out of the elevator, Morlock gripped her arm. 'If you break any of these rules then the interview is over.'
Edith Clinker, who was freelance journalist Mandy Jones for the day, nodded.
Spencer was sipping tea when they entered. He rose to greet her and Clinker was reminded of her old headmaster, a singularly timid man who could always be relied upon to cure insomnia with a rambling lecture.
'A great pleasure to meet you,' he said slowly.
'The pleasure is all mine. You're all the rage.'
'I'm just this year's model. Give it a year or two and nobody will remember the name of John Spencer.'
Morlock offered her a chair. As Edith sat down she crossed her legs slowly and deliberately.
'Do you mind if I record the interview?'
'Not at all. But we will confiscate it if anything untoward is said in the interview,' Morlock said.
'How are you enjoying your freedom?'
Spencer smiled. 'It's not exactly freedom. I step outside and a thousand flashbulbs go off; still, rather a camera than a gun.'
'How were you treated in prison?'
'I'm glad you asked me that. I'd like to take this opportunity to record my admiration for the Alsatian Security Corps. They have come under a lot of criticism recently, but they were always very efficient and courteous with me.'
'I'm sure they will appreciate those remarks. What about the psychiatrist who treated you.'
'Dr Cobble is a great man. He helped me come to terms with what I had done. He made me a new man, like a second father. I am born again.'
'Do you mean in the Christian sense?'
'Good heavens, no! How can you believe in a God that creates a monster like me? I had to learn to forgive myself my terrible sins, not hope and pray that some invisible deity would forgive me.'
'So do you feel guilt for what you did?'
'No guilt whatsoever,' he said firmly, and for the first time he looked straight into Clinker's eyes.
'So what was it that made you kill?'
'I presume you mean, what made the Cat start killing.'
'If you wish.'
'The Cat was afraid, alone, weak. He just wanted to be loved.'
'We all want to be loved, but we don't all go round slitting girl's throats because we ain't getting any.'
'The Cat wanted something else - he wanted to know what life was made of. You can only really know what life is made of in the moment of death. Have you ever seen death close up, so close that you feel the last breath on your face?'
Clinker stiffened. 'What's it like?'
'It is true life. A moment of pure, undiluted life.'
'Do you ever crave to be the Cat? Don't you want to taste an eighth moment of pure life?'
'That's it,' Morlock exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the recorder.
The interview might have ended abruptly, but Clinker had succeeded in her motive for visiting Spencer: she had managed to slip him the note.

Clinker huddled inside a large coat against the biting wind. She checked her gun for the third time; for the third time it was still loaded.
The alley behind the hotel was like all alleys: dark, dirty, smelly. She could hear the city moving by. It made her feel safer.
A man coughed behind her and she span, whipping out her gun. He stood there, holding up his hands.
'Your note didn't say anything about guns.'
'You're just the same as any man. You're prepared to risk everything for a young tart in fishnets. Did you really think I was attracted to you?'
'Of course not, my dear, it's the Cat that attracts you.'
'I thought the Cat was dead.'
'I thought you were sent to kill him.'
Clinker raised the gun. Spencer became a blur of motion; she had never believed he could move so quickly. The gun was knocked from her hand. An arm circled her waist. There was the sound of a flick knife. Cold steel pressed against her throat.
'One thing about prison - it does afford you plenty of time to keep in shape.'
Clinker said, 'Shit.'
'Shit indeed, my dear. More than you can guess, actually. I'm afraid you've been duped.'
'The cops will be here any moment; they've been watching and waiting for you to make your move. You've been set up ' don't make it worse for yourself.'
He laughed and the blade rubbed against her throat. 'Let's see: I'm dying of cancer; could it get worse than that? Anyway, you're right, the cops are coming, but this little movie isn't going to end the way you think.'
'What?'
'I guess this is the part where the villain reveals all. My dear, Remembrance 7 have been involved with this before my release. It is true I have cancer and my dear Dr Cobble and other silly people like him really believed that I was no longer a menace; the government wanted me to be released due to the usual prison overcrowding (I cost a lot to keep) and the media wanted the big story of my release. It was only the relatives ' when informed ' who were against it. They were ready to go public whip up a storm against my release. It took the genius ' me ' to come up with a solution.
'I pondered how everybody could be kept happy: the government wanted me off their hands; the do-gooders wanted to forgive me; the media wanted their story; Remembrance 7 wanted revenge; I wanted to taste pure life one more time.
'I signed a contract with the media, giving them the rights to film my last killing.'
'You can't be serious! Remembrance 7 wouldn't agree to that, let alone the authorities.'
'Remembrance 7 did agree to it. Here's why: righteous indignation. Just think how great they are going to feel telling everyone: "I told you so. Then I go back to prison to slowly die. So they hired you as the sacrificial victim. As to the authorities not allowing it - don't you know that the media are the authority!'
'This is being filmed.'
'Now you've got it! Prime time! I know you'll play your part for real.'
Clinker felt the blade run across her throat in a detached way as though it was happening to somebody else. She tried to scream but the noise was lost somewhere in her throat.
The Cat released his grip and she fell.
- Zoom in on the girl's eyes ' catch the reflection of the falling rain. Zoom out slowly. The Cat kisses the girl softly on the mouth. He stands and wipes the blade on his trousers.
- Policemen wearing body armour enter from right. The Cat drops the knife and raises his arms. Zoom in on the Cat's face. Raindrops run down his face like tears, but he is smiling.
- Cut to close-up of machine gun.
- No music. No noise. Just the sound of rain.
- Machine gun is raised.
- Cut back to close-up of the Cat. His smile begins to fade.
- We hear sound of gunfire but still keep in tight to his face. Blood begins to pour from his mouth. Then long shot of police on left and the Cat falling dead on right, with the girl in-between them.
- Policeman steps up to body of girl. Camera moves into him and follows him left to right. We see him standing over body. He takes off jacket and lays it over the girl. Push in slowly to his face. We see that he is crying.
'Cut! Excellent people!'
There was a ripple of applause.
'Let the real cops in now.'
The policeman standing over Edith Clinker turned and said: 'Anybody got a tissue, that onion really stings my eyes.'