Flash Fiction 2nd Place: Cat Burglars by Tom Duncan King

The doorbell wakes both of us.

Me, wearing my purple cardigan, sat in the armchair beside the electric heater. Teacup, a warm, purring ball of fluff curled up on my lap. He looks around, agitated by the sudden disturbance, so I scratch behind his ears until he relaxes.The voices outside are loud and angry. What if they’re burglars? They ring the doorbell again. And again. Teacup nuzzles his nose against my arm. He can always tell when I’m
worried. He looks up at me, that white face with the splash of brown, and shakes his head; burglars don’t use the bell.

A woman hurries to the door. The people outside talk quickly, too fast for me to make out. The woman talks slowly, softly. I hear the odd word. Episodes. Frequently.

Harmless.

Teacup yawns, displaying tiny sharp teeth. Then he miaows. He is harmless.

The woman walks through into the room. She has a nice round face, and her blonde hair is tinged with grey. She smiles at me, but not entirely happily.

“You found the cat?” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “He was out on the road on his own. He’s safe now though.” The woman
nods.

“Well that was nice of you,” she says. “But we have to hand him over.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he belongs to the people at the door.”

“No he doesn’t! He’s my cat. My little girl and I picked him ourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. She doesn’t believe me.

“We called him Teacup for his brown mark. That’s why my daughter picked him; because he was messy. She said it looked like he’d spilled tea down his chin. Look! He’s my cat!”

“Does Teacup have a tag?”

“What?”

“Does Teacup have a tag?” She speaks so gently, like I’m made of glass.

“Yes, of course.”

“Can we check his tag together then?”

I don’t want to check the tag. I don’t need to check the tag; I know what it says. But her eyes are glistening. And her mouth is quivering downwards. And I don’t want to make such a nice face sad.

“Fine. It’s here, see?”

Except it doesn’t say Teacup – it says Snowy. That doesn’t make any sense. I look at his face again; it’s completely white. Was it always white? Are his ears too pointy? He doesn’t really look like Teacup anymore.

No, I don’t think this is my cat. He doesn’t have Teacup’s tag. He doesn’t have a brown
mark. And he hasn’t been in an accident.

An accident… How could I forget there was an accident? I remember now. I remember the milkman, standing there with his hat in his hands, unsure how to begin.

“Teacup died,” I say.

She nods. She starts to cry, quietly, but not entirely sadly. I hand her the cat, which isn’t my cat, and she carries him away.

“When?” I say.

She turns at the door; smiles through her tears. “When I was still a little girl.”