Free Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) by Malcolm D. Welshman Page A

patted the oak bressumer. ‘Mine’s original. But at least this one’s in keeping.’
    I felt the tic in my temple begin to start up. Ever so slightly, but there nevertheless.
    ‘Still,’ she said, turning to me, ‘we must feel privileged to live in something that’s part of our national heritage. Don’t you think?’ She arched her grey eyebrows imperiously.
    I couldn’t argue with that; and didn’t dare.
    The sound of the back door opening was a welcome distraction. Lucy’s voice called out from the kitchen. ‘Paul, Bugsie’s got the bloody squits again. I told you we should have cut down on his greens.’
    ‘Er, Lucy,’ I shouted, ‘our new neighbour’s just popped round to see us.’ I smiled weakly at Eleanor.
    ‘Oh shit, sorry.’ It was Lucy again. ‘Just get my boots off. Won’t be a sec.’
    Eleanor’s chin worked up and down. ‘So tell me, Paul, how long have you and, er – Lucy, is it? – lived here?’
    ‘Just on three months,’ interrupted Lucy, emerging from the kitchen in stockinged feet. ‘Hello, I’m Lucy.’
    Eleanor stretched out her hand.
    ‘Better not,’ said Lucy, ‘just been mucking out Bugsie’s hutch.’
    Eleanor’s hand was rapidly withdrawn.
    ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
    ‘Er, maybe another time. When you’re not so busy.’
    And not so dirty, I’m sure she was thinking.
    ‘Oh, we’re always busy, aren’t we, Paul?’ said Lucy, pushing a strand of hair from her eye. ‘That’s the way it is when you have animals.’ As if on cue, Nelson snuffled through from where he’d been snoozing in the kitchen and stopped a metre or so from Eleanor.
    The terrier looked up at her with rheumy eyes and emitted a high-pitched woof.
    Startled, Eleanor took a step back.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured. ‘Nelson’s perfectly harmless. A real softie. But he’s getting on and is a bit deaf.’ I bent down and tickled Nelson’s ears. He gave another little woof vaguely in the direction of Eleanor and then, having decided he’d done his duty by alerting us to the presence of a stranger in the cottage, he ambled back to his box in the kitchen.
    ‘Have you any pets?’ I asked her, thinking that she wasn’t really the type to have a pet; besides, I hadn’t seen any sign of one yesterday. So I was surprised when she told us that, yes, she did have a pet – a tortoiseshell cat called Tammy. As she mentioned the cat’s name, her face lit up.
    ‘She is very independent,’ Eleanor said. ‘But then aren’t all cats?’ She uttered a tinkling laugh.
    Uhmm … I could foresee problems arising when Queenie and co. met the new cat on their territory.
    ‘You can say that again,’ said Lucy, heartily. ‘My Queenie can be an absolute bugger.’
    Eleanor’s face dropped. Her chin snapped up and down. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll all get along,’ she said, a little hesitantly, her confidence ebbing slightly. ‘Meanwhile, I mustn’t keep you. I’ve got lots to do as you can imagine.’
    ‘Do you need anything,’ asked Lucy, wiping her hands down the sides of her jeans. ‘Milk, sugar?’
    Eleanor shook her head firmly. ‘Oh no, dear. I brought everything with me. I always like to be well prepared.’
    I’m sure you do, Eleanor, I thought. I’m sure you do. But it turned out she wasn’t prepared for what occurred in the ensuing months.

LET US PREY
     
     
    I t started with a decapitated mouse.
    ‘Tammy, how could you?’
    I didn’t have to put my ear to the partition wall to hear our neighbour’s cry of anguish. Although muffled, it was pretty clear that Tammy had done something to annoy Eleanor. Later that Saturday afternoon, I discovered the cause of her vexation when, as I was doing a spot of weeding in the long border running down the back of our garden, I saw the top of Eleanor’s grey head over the panelled fencing that divided our two properties. She was muttering to herself, her tone of voice plainly reprimanding.
    I was in a good mood, relishing my