Ozzie Rozzie #11

[CAUTION: THIS STORY IS LATE TO BED]

This is a fiction series. It will make more sense if you read: Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine.Part ten.

Colin Thompson stared up at the fresh face of Angela Spender. The sky behind her fair hair was blue, and so were her eyes, he realised. He had never noticed her natural beauty before, her clear skin, the gentle curve of her cheeks. He could smell her as she bent over him. She smelled of Persil. It was the same smell that his ex-girlfriend's underwear used to have.

"Are you alright Sir?" she asked urgently. "You've been unconscious!"

He pulled himself up and stared at the wrecked MG, which sat motionless and silent astride a fallen gatepost, blocking the path, battered red nose pushed into the base of the fallen garden wall, rear number plate standing proud like a propellor. More beautiful in death, thought Thompson, as he tried to stand. The stabbing hot pain in his chest as he lifted himself told him that he probably had broken a rib, if not damaged a lung.

"Careful, Sir," said Angela, taking his arm as he wobbled unsteadily to his feet.

"Thanks, thanks, I'm fine, really," he said weakly.

Bless her, thought Thompson, one of the good ones. He turned his head to see an inert ginger and white cat, it's legs angled impossibly across the white line in the middle of the road, one end flat, staining the road dark. Shit. What on earth had he been doing? Oh yes - Rosbotham and Eastwood. Damn! Thompson remembered his mission suddenly, and in full, and groaned.

"Are you in pain, Sir? Shall I call an ambulance? There's a telephone two roads away," said Angela earnestly.

"I am better off than the cat, at least," he said. "What are you doing out of school anyway?"

"I have a dentist's appointment." She stood directly before him, eyes narrowed, searching his face for signs. "Are you sure you don't need help, Sir?"

Not the kind you can give me, he thought wryly.

"Thank you, Spender, no," he said officiously. "I shall report this, obviously, to the authorities, but frankly, I have had enough happen this afternoon already without also assuming the starring role of Cat Killer in every joke told at school from now on, so I would be grateful if you would keep this to yourself. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," said the girl intelligently, wondering whether her teacher had suffered more than a blow to his forehead and to his dignity. "Are you sure you will be alright, Sir?"

"Quite sure, thank you, Spender. Don't miss your appointment now, will you."

She fixed him briefly with a piercing adult stare, flashed him a perfect, white-toothed smile, turned and walked across the road to her bicycle, which was leaning against a picket fence. Despite his injuries, Thompson was touched by her consideration, vaguely aware that straightforward, uncomplicated feminine consideration was something he not experienced in years, and as she mounted her bicycle, satchel on back, his eyes brimmed, and she flickered as if in heat haze.

"Take care, Sir," she called back over her shoulder, as she rode off into the sun.

Alone once more in the quiet road, Thompson breathed and attempted to calm himself. He considered knocking on the door of the house whose garden he had demolished, but rapidly dismissed the idea. Staring at the dead cat dead cat lying next to the inexplicably marked number plate, something drew him towards it; he limped over and stared down at the corpse of the animal he had killed. He'd written a dead cat sketch, once, which was nothing to do with the dead parrot sketch, and was quite good, in fact; but it had been derided by his comedy contemporaries on the basis it was Python plagiarism, and had never seen the light of day.

He noticed a red collar around the animal's neck. This thing had an identity, he thought, and impulsively bent down to look at it. Poor bastard, he thought, not sure whether he meant himself, or the cat, or both. You had a home. You were loved. He felt his throat block with emotion, and stifled a sob. What the fuck is up with me? he wondered, as two tears fell down his nose and onto the fur below. It's a cat, for God's sake. Could've happened to anyone.

On one knee, with some difficulty, he detached the collar, went back to the wall, sat down, and unscrewed the tiny capsule. Inside was a rolled up, printed piece of paper with handwritten information. Squinting in the bright sunlight, holding arm's length for lack of spectacles, he read: "My Name is: FRISBIE. I live at: Flat A, 18 Harold Road..."

A shudder came over Thompson. He had very possibly killed the cat of Rosbotham, who had kidnapped Eastwood.

Oh shit, he thought quietly to himself, I am truly, truly fucked.

[End Part Eleven]