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Music by Julius H. from Pixabay

Rumours started when the estate was being built. Missing tools and disappearing materials led to mistrust between the different gangs working across the site. Irish navvies deliberated, clutching mugs of dark brew, whispering tales about, ‘…the little people being up to no good.’

The stories continued long after the builders had left. Things started to go missing from inside the residents’ homes. Back then, people didn’t have much. Children ran in and out of unlocked doors whilst they played together, until what little they did have started to vanish, and suspicion grew. The odd bag of sugar or a loaf of bread was bad enough, but when objects of real value disappeared – the wife’s bits of jewellery, the old man’s wallet – neighbour started to close their home off to neighbour.

This didn’t reduce the number of thefts, however. In fact, despite their best efforts, pilfering continued regardless of the routine locking and securing of windows and doors. The local police were mystified. Without any obvious signs of breaking and entering, they decided that most ‘thefts’ must be family members pawning heirlooms, or fraudulent insurance claims. Whilst not disputing the link between crime and poverty, there is likely to be more truth in legend than your average police detective can understand.

***

In the early hours of the thirteenth of last month, in the home of John and Teresa Cawley of Arbor Way, the couple were woken by screams from their new-born child. He was the victim of two diabolical entities known as Grotesque in their native France. Quite how they came to settle in central England is mere conjecture. As an Englishman is typically prejudiced by a more rational mindset than his Celtic cousins, it’s possible that the grotesque were able to stow upon boats trading between France and the southwest, mistaken for rodents. Once invention created the railways in Britain, these fiends would have been able to ride into the heart of the country.

The Cawleys wouldn’t have heard the grotesque entering their home that night. Although about the length of a rat, and despite their powerful limbs and oversized ears, the grotesque can force themselves through the tiniest of spaces. Whilst still unexamined, it can only be assumed that they are endowed with a collapsible skeleton. A gap as wide as your thumb’s width can be infiltrated by the grotesque, leaving insects and mice vulnerable to attack from their marauding parties. The pipework entering the house through the kitchen cupboard supplied them with ample room.

The only tell-tale sign of their presence was the faint rustling of a bag of food. Sacha was partial to a bit of catnip, and always began a sortie with a search for pet food. Quite why humans insisted on housing and pampering the furry menace was a mystery to him, though he was glad of the easy pickings cats and dogs provided. Perhaps dried food was not as tasty, but the convenience of modern packaging had its advantages. The days of having to bite through cans of processed meat with his sharp, overcrowded teeth had passed.

Whilst their speed aided a clandestine existence, their over-enthusiasm was often counter-productive. As Sacha tore through a bag of cat food with his ragged nails, the hard pellets tumbled onto the cupboard floor. He paused momentarily, waiting to hear whether the cascading morsels had alerted anyone. It stayed quiet in the house. Estelle joined Sacha at the food, diving into the open bag. She scooped nibbles into her gaping mouth, barely chewing. Her eyes began to bulge as she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. She put her hands to her scrawny neck. Estelle looked around for her mate, distressed and panicked. Sacha had gone, mooching around again. Suddenly, Estelle coughed, clearing the blockage in her windpipe. A lump of phlegm and soggy cat food landed at her feet. She sniggered, finding the possibility of her death amusing. Estelle crouched down and hoovered up her vomit.

Sacha was busying himself with a small bag of cat treats that he’d found. As he wrestled with it, he was unaware of the sound carrying to the Cawley’s cat, Henry, beyond the kitchen. The cat was sitting on a low wall in the front garden, staring into the dark. He wouldn’t have expected his owners to offer him a treat at this hour, but being sure of what he had just heard, he jumped down and made a hurried return to the house. Henry entered through the cat flap. He started his habitual purr, rubbing himself against the kitchen cupboards as he walked around. Sacha and Estelle alerted, they stopped to listen. Estelle gently eased open the cupboard door whilst Sacha peered out. He saw the cat now standing still, his purr subsiding.

Sacha quickly climbed up the interior of the cupboard and pushed out through the top of the door. His claws made a faint tapping noise as he dashed around the steel of the kitchen sink. The cat turned to follow the sound, registering the tiny figure moving in the darkness. He paced towards Sacha. Henry started to wind-up his haunches, preparing to leap onto the work surface. Sacha reached the store of kitchen knives, and as he drew out a blade, it sang like a sword leaving its sheath. The cat bolted as the missile whistled past his head, the knife landing heavily on the kitchen floor. Henry disappeared through the cat flap, only easing down his run when clear of the front garden.

The cupboard door slowly opened, and Estelle fell out. She rolled around on her back, holding her stomach, laughing hysterically. Sacha celebrated up on the kitchen top, standing triumphant above his new kingdom.

They were interrupted by voices upstairs.

Teresa sat upright in bed. ‘John. John. Wake up.’ She shook her husband as he slept. ‘John. John. Wake up,’ she continued, as she switched on her bedside lamp.

John groaned as he rolled over. ‘What? What time is it?’ He groaned again as he peered at the alarm clock. ‘Hell. Look at the time.’

‘Shut up, John,’ she replied. ‘I heard a noise.’

‘What bloody noise?’

‘Shhh!’ She held a finger to her lips as if instructing a child. John lay quietly for a moment.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Nothing. Now switch off the light and go back to sleep.’

Teresa continued to listen before shaking her husband again. ‘John. John. Go and check the baby.’

John jumped out of bed with an angry throw of the bedcovers. He muttered to himself as he crossed the landing.

Sacha and Estelle had moved into the hallway, hidden in the darkness at the foot of the stairs.

Estelle looked at Sacha with excitement. ‘Bébé,’ she whispered. Sacha nodded his head and smiled.

John returned to the bedroom, satisfied that his son was safe in the nursery. ‘He’s fast asleep. Now, can we go to sleep?’

As soon as Teresa had switched off the light, Sacha and Estelle ran up the skirting of the staircase, their claws spiking the wood as they climbed. They crept into the child’s room with over exaggerated steps, raising their bulbous noses as they followed the sweet scent of talc and lotion. The grotesque paused at the base of the cot, exchanging excited glances. Sacha pulled himself up first, swinging through the narrow bars and onto the child’s bed. He reached down and lifted Estelle: even the grotesque, selfish as they are, prefer the company of others when feasting. They sidled up to the baby’s head, gathering around his nose and mouth as he lay on the mattress. They began to inhale. Short, shallow breaths at first. Then longer, deeper breaths as they settled into a rhythm.

Longer and deeper.

Longer and deeper.

The baby started to writhe the more that they stole his breath. Their eyes became marble white as they rolled to the back of their skulls.

Longer and deeper.

Longer and deeper.

The child tried to scream, but there was not enough air in his lungs.

Longer and deeper.

Longer and…

Estelle knew nothing of the attack. She was still intoxicated. Henry’s paw crashed through the cot bars. A wild strike, the cat hissing and wailing as he mangled her. Estelle’s body flopped onto the nursery floor, tongue protruding, eyes glazed like a dead fish.

Sacha was startled out of his trance. He fell from the cot, his limbs uncoordinated for a moment. He stumbled across the floor. The baby, his breathing free from the grip of the grotesque, was now screeching like a train brake. As Henry spotted Sacha’s attempt to escape and prepared to pounce, the light in the nursery came on. Teresa screamed.

‘Oh, John. He’s caught a rat!’ She screamed again, jumped, and grabbed her husband. ‘Oh, there’s another one!’

Sacha bolted past them and leapt off the landing. He tumbled down the stairs. Despite the heavy fall, he continued to run, into the open kitchen cupboard below the sink. He could hear the cat bounding down the staircase as he squeezed himself past the plumbing and under the floorboards.

Henry came out into the garden, carrying Estelle in his jaws. He lowered her body till it rested on the ground, and he chewed. As his teeth cracked and crunched through her bones, he heard a sound. He stopped eating as he listened to a grotesque snigger from the flower bed.

© 2022

John looked up from his newspaper. ‘Apparently, there are millions of stray cats in France. Can you believe it?’

Nick took a sip of his coffee. ‘Judging from our trips around Europe, yeah, I can believe it. Always cats everywhere. Every side street: cats and cardboard boxes. Not too many around here, mind.’

‘They’re making each town and village responsible for keeping the numbers down. Every mayor must find the money to neuter their local population,’ continued John.

Nick laughed. ‘You are still talking about the cats, I take it?’

John stopped to think what he’d just said. ‘Oh, yes, just the cats.’

They were still laughing when the waiter appeared on the terrace. He smiled as he approached their table. ‘Was everything okay with your meal, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Yes, great thank you. Can we have the bill, please?’ asked Nick.

‘Certainly, monsieur. I’ll get it for you.’ 

As the waiter went back inside the café, Nick finished his coffee and lifted the last remaining flakes of croissant from his empty plate. Licking his fingers, he turned to John. ‘I have to go back to the hotel to make some arrangements. The rest of the crew are due later this morning. I’d like to be there when they arrive. Can I leave you to visit that restaurant we passed?’

‘Yes, no problem,’ said John. ‘Le Petit Somme, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s the one. You have a walk up and see if they’re willing to have us film there later. I’ll pay the bill and go back to the hotel. Give me a call later. We’ll catch up for lunch, okay?’

‘Yes, sounds good,’ confirmed John, and he wandered off.

***

John came to Le Petit Somme. Driving past the restaurant on their arrival, they had been drawn to its decorative exterior and riverside location; the perfect place to start filming. 

The restaurant appeared closed, although it wasn’t unusual for the better establishments to have someone inside starting to prepare food by mid-morning. 

John walked up to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. He pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to block out the glare of the sun. It was dark inside and he couldn’t see anybody, but he noticed a light towards the back of the restaurant, a door slightly ajar. ‘Perhaps there is someone through there?’ he thought. 

John rapped on the window. He stepped back, looking up at the apartment above, but nobody appeared. He stood, hands on hips, contemplating, and noticed a side gate. He held down the lever and it opened, a metallic screeching as it swung around its hinges. John hesitated, waiting for movement.

He closed the gate behind him and edged forward. He felt a little uncomfortable, like an errant schoolboy nosing around, but after years of working in media production, John had learnt that people were far more forgiving if they thought they might end up on TV. 

He pressed on into the yard and towards a side door. He tapped on the glass, and after waiting for a response, twisted the doorknob. It eased open. ‘Hello. Is anybody there?’ John shouted. 

He called again as he stepped inside a small room, cardboard boxes stacked around. There was a corridor beyond, housing the doorway he’d seen through the restaurant window, and a stairway down to a cellar. ‘Someone has to be down there,’ thought John. 

He felt increasingly uneasy about going further but remembered Nick. 

Nick was a nice guy, and he enjoyed a good working relationship with him, but Nick was the celebrity chef, very much the boss and expected results. John felt obliged to return with something from his morning’s research. 

He stood at the top of the stairs. They weren’t particularly well lit, and the room below was cloaked in shadow. ‘Hello,’ called John. ‘Is there anybody there? Is there somebody I can talk to?’ 

He thought he heard a noise, something moving around in the darkness. ‘Hello?’ John repeated. 

He started to go down, slowly. He could feel his pulse rising, throbbing in his throat, and a peculiarity to his legs. He forced himself to continue his descent, fighting the desire to turn and flee to the safety of the street. 

John heard the noise again. 

His eyes had started to adjust. There was a single bulb dangling above him, casting a feeble light, but enough for him to make out a large table in the centre of the room. A few chopping boards were positioned on the tabletop, assorted knives and cleavers about them, others housed in wooden blocks. He could see fresh blood and sinew on the boards, evidence that someone had recently been working there, preparing meat. 

The noise continued, and although intermittent, was regular enough for him to try and locate it. He thought the sound organic, like the tumbling of a manic creature. John’s ear rested upon the cold, stainless steel of a large, walk-in freezer. He saw that the door was closed, the latch across. If something was alive in there, it was locked inside. 

John slowly opened the freezer door, peering through the widening gap. He panicked momentarily as a fluorescent light flickered on inside, causing him to slam the door shut.

‘Come on, John, calm down,’ he said to himself. 

He threw the door wide open, as if inviting something to happen and get it over with. But as the ticking of the fluorescent tube fired up again, John saw nothing other than animal carcasses hanging, and a large aluminium chest against the far wall, its lid closed. 

He walked inside the freezer. He was dressed for a summer day and felt the cold air alighting upon his skin. He calculated that there must be at least fifty bodies hanging: some solid, perhaps frozen for weeks; others hung recently, pools of liquid forming beneath them. 

He looked closely, struggling to identify the animals. He wasn’t a chef but had worked long enough with Nick to be able to recognise typical cuts of meat. The carcasses had their heads and fur removed, and with their long back legs, he settled on hare, rather than rabbit. 

There was movement in the aluminium chest at the back of the freezer. He crouched down beside it, inspecting its shell, feeling over the exterior for air holes. Finding none, he shook his head, rising anger masking his trepidation. ‘That’s never right,’ he said. ‘They might be for the knife, but they can’t be left to suffocate.’ 

He stood up and thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I can wedge it open a little whilst still keeping them inside?’ 

He loosened the latches at each end of the chest, and carefully raised the lid. He bent forward, trying to see. The light in the freezer wasn’t sufficient to illuminate the contents, so John lowered the lid and took out his mobile phone. As he switched on its flashlight, the chest burst open, a chorus of hisses and wails filling the chamber. John reeled back, slipping on congealed blood. He fell onto the floor, his phone jarred from his grip. 

He lay for a moment, overwhelmed by a searing pain in his skull. He groaned as he reached around and felt a liquid mess on the back of his head. As he lowered his hand to examine the damage, the freezer door slammed shut, and the light went out.

***

‘No news from your friend, monsieur?’ asked the restaurant owner. 

‘No, it’s going straight to answerphone,’ replied Nick. ‘It’s odd; we agreed to meet for lunch, but I haven’t heard from him all day. You say nobody here has seen him?’

‘No, monsieur. Nobody. It is just me and Serge, my chef. We ‘ave not seen your friend, I’m afraid.’

A man entered the restaurant. He was greeted by the owner, and they spoke quietly to one another. Nick understood enough French to know they were talking about him, and their body language suggested his impromptu visit may not have been convenient. He was used to that; chefs and restaurant owners often became defensive when they thought their food was about to be critiqued. 

The two Frenchmen broke from their huddle and moved swiftly towards Nick’s table, both wearing fixed smiles.  

‘May I present to you our maire, Monsieur Dupont,’ said the owner. ‘Monsieur Dupont, this is Nick, er…’

‘Klein,’ replied Nick. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, rising from his chair.

The mayor shook Nick’s hand. ‘So, you ‘ave come to stay in our little town? I ‘ope you like what you see?’

‘Oh, it’s very nice,’ replied Nick. ‘I must congratulate you on how clean it is here. You don’t seem to be plagued with the usual problems.’

‘Okay, Monsieur Dupont’, interrupted the restaurant owner, bustling the mayor away.

‘Your table is ready. You don’t want to lose your reservation.’

Nick slowly sat down, looking around at an empty restaurant. 

‘Now, monsieur,’ said the owner, returning from his shepherding duties, ‘chef has your special ready. Voilà, monsieur.’ 

He placed the dish on Nick’s table and stepped back.

‘Superb,’ said Nick. He cut off a slice of meat, and chewing it, began gesticulating his approval.

‘You like it, monsieur?’

‘Oh, it’s magnificent. The cat’s whiskers!’ exclaimed Nick.

There was a clash of cutlery and porcelain at the mayor’s table. 

‘The cat’s whiskers, monsieur? What is it that you mean?’ asked the owner, looking troubled.

‘Oh, that’s a good thing. It’s an English expression. It means it’s excellent.’ The owner looked across at the mayor who was taking a big gulp of wine.

‘It’s just a pity John’s not here to try it,’ said Nick.

‘Don’t worry, monsieur,’ said the restaurant owner, his forced smile returning. ‘I’m sure your friend will be passing through soon.’

© 2022