Free Red Ribbons by Louise Phillips

cul-de-sac. The only living thing other than himself in the house was Tabs, the cat. Tabs was the last in a long line of cats called Tabs from Cronly, an unwanted but necessary bequest from the big house. Despite having no particular affection for the animal, it was nonetheless a tolerable pet. The cat demonstrated traits that he found matched his own – predatory by nature, incredibly selfish and, for the most part, kept himself to himself. As well, of course, as being impeccably clean.
    As he poured the just-boiled water over his tea leaves, he watched with amusement as the cat cleared his bowl of milk. Tabs reminded him of Jarlath, both of them had skeletal-like frames. Indeed, on closer examination even their eyes looked similar – strained and watery, with a keen sharpness about them. Jarlath looked liked someone in need of a good meal, or at the very least some physical exercise to build him up a bit. He himself enjoyed his keep-fit routine, believing it was an essential part of a good life balance. He knew many viewed him as something of an intellectual, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take care of his body too.
    Of course, this had not always been the case. When he was younger, like Jarlath, he too could have been thought of as sickly. If he had had siblings, he most probably would have been described as ‘the runt’ or ‘the weakling’, something that in another species of animal would be considered for extermination. It was only after finishing his studies at college that he set about improving himself physically; a change of image part of his fresh start. Most exercises he did alone, like walking, running, hill climbing. He enjoyed swimming too, usually early morning or late evening, times when most people would be someplace else.
    He emptied his cup of Mokalbari as diligently as Tabs cleared his bowl, and his mind wandered to events earlier in the day. At work, little had changed from before: Susan was still there with her sniffles,and Jarlath was just as enthused about Pascal’s unfinished work on the Pensées.
    He had wondered if any of them would have guessed at his little secret, or did his quiet disposition still fool them into thinking he was harmless? The thought brought a smile to his face. In part, he liked being a man of mystery, it allowed him to deflect questions, surprisingly enough, rather than answer them. No, he was quite certain that none of them thought there was anything unduly strange about him – even of late, when life had proved so challenging. After all, he didn’t look like the type of man to do anything out of the ordinary. Even his ongoing, uninvited visits to other people’s homes would be laughed at as ridiculous. Visualising him going into places he was not supposed to was not an image that would spring immediately to mind.
    The first place he’d broken into was the sacristy of the local church. Not that he considered it breaking in, more childish curiosity than anything else. He had obsessed for a long time about the place where the priest prepared himself for mass, wondering what rituals and mysteries would be involved. Was there a mirror in which the priest could admire himself in his colourful robes? Were there treasures hidden in this priestly place, things specifically for the ordained and not for mere mortals? He took his opportunity one Sunday after mass. His mother had engaged Fr Mahon in the type of conversation that didn’t allow interruption, making it easy for him to slip away unnoticed. His curiosity about religious customs was aroused well before his and his mother’s trip to Suvereto later that same year.
    The moment he was inside the sacristy, his excitement rose. He had stood leaning with his back against the door, taking in all around him, as if he’d just entered a cave full of treasure. The room had smelled of candle grease and incense and was filled with heavy, dark furniture, which he had suspected had been there long before FrMahon. There had