Sally (It’s Not What It Looks Like)

‘It’s not what it looks like!’ cried the old man behind me.

My cat and I had just discovered my blood-soaked neighbour with his dead wife’s corpse propped up in an office chair in the middle of his kitchen. I think on this occasion I reserved the right to believe that it was, in fact, exactly what it looked like.

But at the same time, some would say that the way we had just discovered her body was equally inconceivable, so maybe I would need to hear him out.

* 

Three Minutes Earlier

I couldn’t say with any certainty why Sally was always so desperate to leave my apartment each time I opened the front door. But judging how poor her hunting skills were when recently faced with a fly and a mosquito tag-team, it could’ve been that she wanted more on-the-job training from the outside world. Irrespective of the reason, I’d be lying though if I wasn’t hurt at her relentless wish to escape the privileged existence I’d given her.

It was Thursday after work. That meant a stint at the gym. To conclude legs day, I decided to take the stairs to my fourth floor home. Light headed and out of breath, I arrived and opened the front door. With my reflexes dulled, before I remembered to block Sally’s stealthy exit, she was already out in the stairwell.

Damn it!

Excited by the sudden chase, she sprinted ahead of me, climbing the apartment block’s polished stairs with glee.

A slow and painful pursuit, I cursed everyone and everything I could think of: Sally, my over-worked legs, whoever had started to domesticate cats (the Egyptians, right?) . . .

Then, an alarming sound.

The unlocking of a neighbour’s front door above.

As brave as my cat appeared at that moment, she was frightened to death of humans she hadn’t met and smelt before, and she had been vocally resistant, and dare I say prejudiced, to the presence of dogs. Any dogs.

This was my fault. She’d led a sheltered life since I adopted her as a kitten. And now she was about to come face to face with a stranger. Human or canine.

I’m so sorry, my darling.

The rest was a matter of timing.

When I reached the sixth floor, I caught the flash of her tabby tail running between my blood-stained neighbour’s legs and into his apartment before he knew what was going on.

Obviously disorientated, Sally had believed she’d performed some kind of circuit and was about to run back into her own home. The layout of the building’s apartments must have only compounded her assumption.

Like my own home, the door nearest the front door was the kitchen, and Sally ran straight in. And stopped.

Then came the yowling. 

With an unusually fluffy tale resembling a raccoon’s, she made it clear in no uncertain terms that this jaunt hadn’t played out as she expected. I couldn’t agree more. In so many ways, the small kitchen was different to the one she was used to. In the middle, a deceased eighty-something-year-old woman sat slumped in an office chair – with wheels. She donned an elegant blue evening gown and lime green high heels. Her chin nestled in her chest. She wore excessive makeup – including red blush on her cheeks and skewed electric pink lipstick.

My kitchen lacked that unique feature.

Capitalising on Sally’s state of frightened paralysis, I lunged at her and managed to pick her up. She squirmed while digging her claws into my neck, but I didn’t let her go. Not this time.

I made for the door and sped down two floors, barely even hearing my neighbour’s terrified clamour behind me, ‘Stone, listen. It’s not what it looks like! . . . It’s not what it looks like! . . . It’s not what it looks like! . . .’ 

* * 

I made it down the stairs and my front door was still wide open from three minutes earlier. Sally couldn’t get into the flat quick enough; and I couldn’t get her claws out of my neck quick enough either. 

After cleaning my wounds and placing a compress on my punctured neck, I poured myself a well-deserved whisky. Despite not wanting to reward her rebellious behaviour, I had to acknowledge that she had just been through potentially the most traumatic event of our life – that made two of us – so I gave her treats and an extra serving of wet food.

Then the doorbell rang.

Sally scarpered into the distant bedroom.

‘Stone, it’s me. Can we talk?’

The peep-hole informed me it was the old neighbour from above. Clancy.

‘Depends,’ I said through the door. ‘Are you armed?’

He smiled, dramatically holding his old hands out and emptying his pockets. I looked over my shoulder. Half of Sally’s figure was visible in the hallway.

I opened the front door and quickly ushered Clancy onto a nearby armchair. Again, another check before I closed the front door. Sally hadn’t moved. Still reticent, but curious. 

‘Drink?’ I said, showing him the tumbler still in my hand.

‘No,’ he chuckled, ‘the wife’d kill me.’

I laughed. ‘Not if you got there first.’ I took a large swig of whisky as I sat opposite him. ‘Or maybe that was a dream? Tell me that I didn’t just see your wife chilling in your kitchen.’

‘No. You saw it. But I can explain.’

He was a small man in his eighties. A creased bald head and crow’s feet. A neatly trimmed moustache. And cologne. A bow tie, braces and brogues. This really was a special occasion.

‘Not to sound like a foregone conclusion, Clancy, but maybe you should explain to the police, not me.’

‘She died of natural causes, Stone.’

I tried to hold back a smirk. There seemed absolutely nothing ‘natural’ about this situation and I didn’t know why he emphasised that word. My gaze drifted to his blood-stained shirt. 

He looked down too. ‘Oh, this? I’ve been making gazpacho – you know, Spanish tomato soup. Had an accident with the tomatoes. I was actually on my way out to buy some more when Sally stopped by. I wanted to make it before they took her away.’

And lock you away, you nutter!

‘You know, Stone, you and me, we’re not too different.’

I laughed a little too loudly and giddily at that. Maybe it was shock? Or the whisky?

‘Of course. We’re identical. Just tell me that she died already dressed like that, Clancy. Please. Because if you tell me that you–’

‘I dressed her.’

I knew it.

‘Don’t worry. I will phone them to take her away.’

‘When? How long are you going to wheel around a dead body who you’ve dressed up like The Joker?’

‘That’s unkind, Stone. But it’s okay. We know that unkindness comes natural to you these days. I’ll tell you what happened. But only once you tell me why you did it.’

‘Did what?’

The old man pressed his aged hands against his knees and struggled to his feet. He peered into the hall. ‘We all know that that cat didn’t used to be called “Sally”.’

I scoffed. ‘And that makes me the same as you, does it?’

‘Actually, yes it does.’

* * * 

I couldn’t believe this was happening.

I wasn’t like him. Not in any way. He was obviously senile. I wasn’t.

As my old neighbour returned to the armchair, he continued, ‘You know, Stone, maybe this was meant to happen. If you get it off your chest, you’ll feel better.’

‘I wish I could get you off my chest, old man.’

He chuckled. ‘Now who’s the joker, Stone? I’ll tell you what – I’ll start. I placed her on the office chair for ease. You know, what with my back issues, carrying her around has its challenges. Now your turn.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Why did you name your cat after Sally, I mean, the other Sally?’

‘Okay, I’ll say it if it gets rid of you! I’ll say it. I regret it.’

‘Regret what, Stone?’

‘Letting her go. I didn’t fight hard enough to keep her.’ I involuntarily looked to the hallway. ‘And that’s why I’ll do anything to spoil her. Anything to keep her. Because it’s what I should’ve done. Because I’ve not been able to . . . to let her go. Happy now?’

‘I’m not the one who should feel better, Stone. You should. Well, my work here is done.’

He got up again and walked to the door.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Why did you dress her up after she died?’ 

‘“After she died”? I washed and dressed her every day, Stone. You’d know that if you came to our community meetings. You’d also know that she wasn’t well. You’d also know that today is a big day for us.’ He looked away with glassy eyes. ‘I wanted to recreate what we were both drinking that day in Spain. I couldn’t let her go until I’d made that, Stone. You know?’

I did know. At least, kind of.

‘How many tomatoes do you need, Clancy?’

* * * *

As the front door closed, my cat walked between my legs. I bent down and stroked her and looked at where the tomato-soaked, heart-broken man had sat.

I got my phone out of my pocket. With ease, I located Sally’s number and hit EDIT.

Then, DELETE CONTACT.

My cat would need a new name; I was open to suggestions.

It was exactly what it looked like.