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Helen padded across terracotta tiles, cold even through her socks, and put her ear to the back door. It was there now. Right there on the other side of that door. The sound vibrated upwards, like nails on a blackboard. Trying to peer down through the filthy glass of the door in the hope of avoiding opening it, she saw nothing. If the noise wouldn’t go away, then she could. She would take her laptop upstairs.

Against all judgement, she slid back the bolt, turned the key in the lock and twisted the handle. On the mat sat the black tom, tangled and filthy, tumbling from his hind legs, caught mid-scrabble. Helen didn’t know much about cats – make that
anything
about cats – but he looked worse for wear than the last time she thought she’d seen him sneaking through the pantry window. Not emaciated exactly, but as if he hadn’t eaten for a few days. When she bent towards him he hissed. When she stepped away, he tipped his head and mewled. Part wail, part plea, part bitter fury at life’s lot. Then he tipped his head further, revealing a badly torn right ear.

‘Come in or go home,’ Helen told him.

The cat gave her a look. Then, before she had a chance to close the door on him, he slipped between her legs, through the scullery into the kitchen.

‘Hey …’ she started, almost forgetting to lock the door behind her. ‘What do I call you?’

He glanced at her over his shoulder, expression amused.

‘Cat? Ghost? Felix?’

Seeming to realise eviction was not on the cards, the cat launched himself up the stairs and then sat on the landing at the top, peering down through the banisters, as if waiting for her to follow. On the first floor his inspection was repeated. He paced the corridor, sniffing corners, vanishing into her little sitting room and reappearing several seconds later as if tracing some long-ingrained floor plan. In spite of herself, Helen watched, transfixed, wishing she had her camera to record his journey.

When he’d done the entire floor, he stopped at one last, closed, door. The door to her bedroom. He nudged at it with his shoulder, then meowed and looked back, as if to say, ‘Come on, open it.’ When she didn’t move, his tail began to quiver.

Curiosity, plus a certain neurotic empathy, made her open the door for him.

It was when she pushed the door open that she noticed the air for the first time. It tasted stale, despite the fact it was the third most used room in the house. And chill too. Although the window had hardly been open since she’d arrived and the chimneybreast was stuffed with newspaper yellow with age.

She stepped aside to let him pass. He ignored her. Instead, he stared straight at the painting of the boy above the fireplace, the amber of his irises almost totally subsumed by pupils, his tail flicking faster as his irritation increased. ‘In or out,’ she said, stepping over him. ‘There’s nothing here but you and me and a tribe of dust balls.’

Even as she said it, she wasn’t convinced.

Nor was the cat.

She watched, waiting for him to move. His sudden reticence unnerving when only a minute ago he had been inspecting the house with all the confidence of a previous owner who wanted to know why you knocked down this wall or replaced that window. When he still didn’t move, she bent down, ready to pick him up.

As she did so, his spine arched in a fury, fur standing on end, tail suddenly huge. Then he yowled, a long shriek that chilled her blood, and sharp claws swiped out, slashing towards her face. Then he was gone.

17

Liza’s house was exactly what Gil expected. Or would have been if he’d given it much thought. A small but neat new-build semi not far outside Keighley. One of the smaller properties on the estate but it must still have cost a few quid.

Pulling his Volkswagen up to the kerb, he turned off the engine, then sat for a moment, counting down in time with the engine’s ticking. He wasn’t nervous, not exactly. It had simply been a while and he wasn’t sure how he’d got himself into this situation. A date indeed. He hadn’t been great at this stuff at twenty. He was hopeless at it now. Even thinking the word made him wince.

For someone who didn’t want to be on one, he’d certainly made enough effort. Smartest of his three suits straight from the dry cleaner, packet-fresh shirt (with creases to prove it), silk tie and polished Church’s. He’d even been to the barbers. It was only the certain thought of Lyn laughing at him that stopped him buying Liza flowers.

Not that bothered, eh?

Just being polite. Manners, they’re called. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?

You leave Mum out of this.

That was another thing; he needed to stop having little conversations with himself. In his head was bad enough, but out loud? First sign of madness. Possibly second.

The car in the one-car drive was small, Japanese or Korean, with the look of an inflated yoghurt pot, reliable but dull. Red and, from where he sat, its paintwork illuminated by a carriage lamp over the garage, very clean. Made Gil realise how clean his wasn’t. Scanning the interior, the mess took him by surprise. CD covers scattered in the well of the passenger seat, the Stones, best of; a bit of Bowie; early Floyd, the stuff he liked … At least she couldn’t fault his taste. She might have more of a problem with the pasty wrapper and empty Coke cans, the Costa coffee cup from the other night at A&E, the empty B&H packet, and an old copy of the
Echo
, from the same night.

Scrunching his torso so he could reach into the gap, Gil started to pile the junk from the floor on to the seat. A tap on the window just above his head made him jump, banging his head on the glove compartment as he looked up. A woman was peering in. He stared at her blankly, before it dawned on him it was Liza. It’d taken him a second to recognise her. Another to realise his passenger door was still locked.

Flustered, Gil scooped everything up and tossed it on to the back seat before releasing the passenger door. ‘I, er, was just …’ He gestured at the now empty seat beside him. ‘Making you some space. Then I was going to come and knock.’

Amusement flickered in her eyes. Whether at the mess or his discomfort, Gil wasn’t sure. ‘I was ready anyway, thought I’d save you the trip.’ She swiped at the seat before smoothing her skirt beneath her and sitting down, handbag in her lap. ‘Do you need me to direct you?’

The drive to the restaurant wasn’t awkward. Liza was a talker, a journalist’s dream. In less than ten minutes Gil discovered she was divorced, a few years now, had two children, a girl and a boy, both grown up, the girl married locally with two kids on the other side of town, the boy with his girlfriend in Bradford. All this before they reached the table.

At this rate, Gil thought, they’d run out of conversation before the starter arrived. Then he wondered if they actually had to have a starter; or whether he could get away with a bowl of pasta. Not being tight, just wondering how he was going to fill a couple of hours.

‘What about you?’ Liza said, after the waiter handed them both menus. ‘Kids, I mean.’

Gil wasn’t sure what she already knew and how much he wanted her to know. ‘Same,’ he said. ‘Both grown up now. Eldest has a couple of kids, a girl and a boy, lives in Manchester. Youngest’s in London.’ Could he get away with that little?

‘What are you drinking?’ he asked.

‘Nice suit,’ she said. This was after they’d ordered what Gil considered a good red, and his hoped-for bowl of pasta turned into starters, mains, bread and olives and, ‘We’ll see how we feel about dessert.’

Gil found he didn’t mind as much as he expected. The being bossed around by a woman thing. In fact, he quite liked it. It had been a while.

‘This old thing?’ he shrugged.

‘It’s the one you were wearing the night we met?’

‘Not the very one. Similar.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t implying you hadn’t made an effort.’ She seemed flustered. ‘I thought I recognised it, that’s all.’

‘Let’s just say I know what suits me. And that’s what I wear.’ Gil grinned, ‘Day in, day out. All my suits look like this.’

He wasn’t sure who was more grateful when the wine waiter appeared with the Barolo and everyone could go through the formalities of uncorking, pouring, sniffing and tasting. It was good Gil thought. It wanted to be, given it was the price of ten pints at The Bull, maybe twelve. He nodded at the waiter and watched Liza watch her glass fill with the smooth red liquid. ‘Cheers,’ Gil said, holding up his own when it was full.

She tilted her glass against his. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ She put down her glass and held out her hand across the table. Unsure whether he was meant to kiss it or shake it, Gil shook. It was the hand of a fifty-something woman, just as his was the hand of a sixty-something man. If it was a test and he’d failed, then so be it. He’d never won a medal for chivalry and he wasn’t likely to start now. ‘I just meant,’ she continued. ‘I like the suit, it, er, suits you. Some men look good, you know, in suits.’

There was another silence that Gil realised almost too late he was meant to fill with a compliment. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You look lovely too. Nice dress.’

Liza picked at a piece of imaginary lint on the bodice. ‘It’s new. I mean, not new for now, just new in general. Don’t have much call to wear it.’

Picking up her glass, she took a sip. And then another.

‘Well,’ she said, looking him square in the eye as if the Barolo had given her courage. She had nice eyes, blue, clear, subtly made up. All the hallmarks of having been ‘one of the pretty ones’ when she was younger. One of the girls at school who wouldn’t have looked at lanky, gawky him. But she hadn’t gone the same way as plenty of those girls, the ones whose pretty round faces had bloated by forty. Good bone structure. Plus, she was slim, but not so thin she had one of those necks that looked ten years older.

‘I didn’t expect this to be quite so difficult.’

Surprised, Gil glanced up. ‘Didn’t you? I did. But I suppose I thought you’d be a pro. The way you got hold of my number and asked me out like that.’

‘God, no.’ Liza shook her head, ‘I haven’t done anything like this for years. It was Margaret, she encouraged me.’

Gil said nothing. He didn’t need to. His expression did the talking for him. Liza smiled. ‘Not much of a fan then? You’re not the only one. She’s such a busybody. But she told me you’d been single for a while and seemed lonely. Sorry if that’s not true. And I thought you looked nice. And, well, I hadn’t thought that for a long time. Not since … sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. Go on.’ Maybe Margaret Millward wasn’t too bad after all.

‘Well, it wasn’t a big deal, the divorce. It was sad, of course. Twenty-five years all in all … just fizzled out. But once the kids left it became pretty clear there was no point staying together for the kids. You know …’

Gil nodded and sipped the wine, tasting cherry and black pepper and maybe … Was that cumin? Whatever, it was good. When had he stopped drinking wine? He knew the answer to that. When he opened a bottle and drank the whole thing on his own. Too much of that and you were talking a serious habit.

‘So there hasn’t been anyone since?’ he asked, as he knew he was meant to. Getting the hang of it now.

‘Not really. Couple of dates. Horrible word, date, isn’t it?’ She paused, popped an olive into her mouth and chewed, spat the stone into her hand and put it neatly on the side of her bread plate. ‘Well, you know, a few. But I don’t meet many new people at work.’ She pulled a face. ‘Not that you’d want to go out with anyway. Married friends occasionally fix me up, divorcees, widowers, but you know, it’s embarrassing if it’s a friend of a friend and you think he’s dull as …’ Lisa shrugged. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but most of the men I’ve met only want to talk about golf or football.’

‘I can assure you I have no interest in either. Or any sport, for that matter.’ Gil put his hand on his heart as if taking an oath, glossing neatly over the cricket. ‘It’s one of my USPs.’

She gave him a blank look.

‘Unique Selling Points. Forget it. It’s a work thing. A good thing about me, though, apparently.’

Inclining her head, she fiddled with the stem of her glass. ‘And when you do, well, you know, meet a man you think might be nice, turns out they’re only interested in one thing …’

‘I have the same problem.’ Gil said it without thinking.

She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, poor Gil. All these women who want to get into your trousers.’

‘I was serious,’ Gil said, affronted. Talk about double standards.

‘Right.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘I’m not kidding, Liza. I’m not complaining either, mind. I’m just saying, all the women I meet …’

A cynical expression crossed her face.

‘And when I say
all
, I don’t mean hundreds, or even dozens. I can count them all on one … OK, maybe two hands. Definitely not more … They all just want “a bit of company”, which seems to be divorcee speak for a one-nighter.’

Liza laughed.

Noticing her glass was empty, Gil reached over and topped it up, refilling the top half-inch of his glass. The wine was good. Too good to stick to one glass. He wished he’d taken her up on her offer to give him a lift. ‘They seem to think all men are looking for someone to cook their tea and wash their socks.’

‘And are you?’

‘Am I what?’

‘Looking for someone to cook your tea and wash your socks?’

Gil shrugged, took a piece of focaccia, and tore it in half. ‘It’s been years since anyone else washed my socks,’ he said. It came off more melancholy than he intended.

‘Thank you. I had a lovely evening. Nicest in a long time.’

Somehow it was gone eleven and the Volkswagen was parked back under the street light outside Liza’s house.

‘Even the steak?’ Gil smiled.

‘We-ell, maybe not the steak. Remind me not to order medium-well next time if I want to be able to chew it.’

He pretended not to notice the next time and she didn’t labour it. ‘But the rest of the food, the wine, the company …’ She caught his eye. ‘Not that sort of company.’

‘I didn’t think …’