Listen to the author reading this story:
Ingrid didn’t really like the cat, so when it disappeared, she wasn’t too worried. It was a long-haired grey cat with bright yellow eyes and a bad fucking attitude. The cat was, however, loved by Charlie, and that feeling was lavishly reciprocated. If he opened his laptop, the cat would vie for the keyboard; if Charlie plopped down on the couch, the cat, hitherto snug and warm on the windowsill, would get up, stretch, stare daggers at Ingrid, then relocate to Charlie’s lap.
‘That cat hates me,’ Ingrid said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Charlie protested while scratching under the animal’s ear. ‘Jones hates everyone. Cats are very democratic in their loathing.’
Ingrid was an early riser, and most mornings, she’d find Jones perched on the outside windowsill opposite the table. Ingrid would unlatch the lock and, with great difficulty, heave upwards until the heavy window opened. Then, typically, Jones would stare contemptuously up at her and decide whether or not he deemed her worthy of his presence; sometimes he did, sometimes not.
‘Hurry up, you silly bugger,’ Ingrid said, a cold breeze puckering the skin on her fleshy arms and shoulders.
Sometimes, to add insult to injury, Jones would come in from the rain, brusquely passing Ingrid’s proffered pat, and head straight for the base rail of the stairs, which he’d long ago converted into a scratch pole. He’d continue destroying the splintered baluster, rub his flank along the shaft, then position himself in front of the door to be let out again.
‘But it’s raining, you silly git?’ Ingrid told him.
Jones looked up at her disdainfully, his grey tail whipping around impatiently, his yellow eyes burrowing holes in hers.
‘Ok, ok,’ Ingrid said, opening the door, the drops spattering off the doorstep, ricocheting onto her bare ankles, dampening her pink slippers.
‘You’d rather be out there, in the dark and the rain, than in here?’
Jones looked up at her one last time before bounding into the driveway.
One morning, Jones wasn’t at the window. When Charlie finally got out of bed, Ingrid mentioned it.
‘He’s a cat; he’s got a mind of his own,’ said Charlie, blurry-eyed.
‘Well, it unsettling,’ she said, pulling at her hair rollers. ‘What if something’s happened?’
‘You hate him, what do you care?’
‘Doesn’t matter if I hate him, he’s family inn-he?’
Charlie shrugged and went over to the porridge pan to spoon out some breakfast.
When Charlie was about to leave for work, Ingrid stopped him ‘You’re a mess,’ she said, pointing to a cluster of grey hairs clinging to his chinos. ‘Gimme a sec,’ she said, reaching into a cupboard for the lint roller. She rolled it over his pants crotch while giving him a cheeky wink. ‘All right. All set. See you later, Love.’
That night, when Charlie returned from work, the cat still hadn’t turned up. The days came and went, and every night, Ingrid would empty the cat’s uneaten food into the bin and replace it the next morning. Four or five times a day, she’d go outside to see if he wasn’t lounging in a forgotten corner of the garden or hunting in the park next door. When Ingrid saw the neighbours, she asked, ‘Have you seen our cat? A grey bugger, not friendly, but still quite sweet.’
The neighbours frowned and shook their heads. By Friday, Ingrid admitted to herself that she was a teensy bit worried.
‘Still not a sign,’ she said to Charlie when he returned from work. ‘It’s been a week!’
‘He was here at the weekend, Love, that’s four nights gone. I’ve got students that would still consider that an acceptable study week,’ he guffawed, then seeing that she was genuinely worried, added, ‘Cats disappear for days at a time, Sweetie, it’s normal.’
‘Well, I’m not having it. I’m going to post flyers around the neighbourhood.’
‘No, for goodness sakes! Not more flyers. Those bastards print ’em, laminate ’em and duct tape ’em to our beautiful lampposts and never take the bloody things down. Surely, all those cats can’t still be missing? What good is gentrification if all the street renovations are plastered over with Missing Cat Posters?’
‘I’ll take them down when we find Jones, but I can’t just sit on my hands now, can I?’
Charlie shrugged and turned on the kettle. Ingrid noticed he had cat hairs on the forearms of his sweater.
‘Have you seen him?’ she asked.
‘Not since Sunday.’
That weekend, she found Charlie sharpening the kitchen knives with a whetstone. He’d been getting into exotic cuisine lately and could often be found in his free time painstakingly following a YouTube tutorial on preparing Ostrich eggs or marinating Guinea Pigs. Ingrid didn’t care for the meals, but after his misadventures with cycling, fishing, genealogies and model train building, she was just glad he’d found a hobby he liked.
Come Monday night, Jones still hadn’t turned up. Ingrid and Charlie were lying in bed. Charlie could tell something was bothering his wife. ‘What’s on your mind, Love?’ he asked.
‘You remember last Wednesday when I came home from Bingo and you were throwing up?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why were you throwing up?’
‘I had McDonald’s.’
‘You never eat McDonald’s.’
‘Exactly, and I never will again.’
‘Well, what did you have?’
‘A hamburger.’
‘No, I mean, what menu? Quarter Pounder Menu, Big Mac?’
‘I don’t know, just a hamburger.’
‘No one’s had “just a hamburger” at McDonalds since 1950.’
‘I don’t know, a hamburger with fries and a coke.’
‘You hate coke.’
‘I know,’ he said, and seeing this wasn’t sufficient, he added. ‘It’s on my way to the bus, and I just fancied I’d give it a try. You were at Bingo, and there’s only so much takeaway curry that a man can eat, so I tried something else.’
‘Well, what did you do with the wrapper?’
‘What wrapper?’
‘The one from McDonald’s.’
‘The wrapper from McDonalds a week ago?’ Charlie spit out, unbelievingly.
‘I didn’t see it in the bin.’
‘You’re looking in the bin?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘What question?’
‘Why wasn’t there a McDonalds wrapper in the bin?’
‘I’m not cheating on you!’ Charlie said emphatically.
Ingrid shot out of bed, ‘Who said anything about cheating?’ She replied, lumpily towering over him, her face a raspberry red, her hair rollers wobbling as she shook her head from side to side. ‘Answer me!’ she shouted.
‘Well,’ Charlie said timidly, having seriously missed the mark. ‘I thought in your mind “McDonald’s”’ he made air quotes, ‘might be a metaphor for a post-grad student or something.’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Ingrid yelled at him as she stomped out of the room.
The next morning, over an awkwardly silent breakfast, Ingrid heard a soft thump behind her.
‘I told you he’d turn up,’ said Charlie.
Ingrid turned. On the windowsill, a demonic glint in his eye, crouched the grey cat.
Luc Upson is a Kiwi living and working in Amsterdam. His debut novel, Blessed be the Billionaires, is coming out in the spring of 2026. He runs a writing group in the headquarters of an ex-cult building across from Central Station and has a well-read Substack. He loves honest prose & dislikes political correctness and other forms of lying.
Pissed myself laughing!
You kept up the suspense as to whether the husband was a cat killer! What doubt that would create. Terrific.
No wonder it was published