None of his childhood friends seemed to know where he was. But that was hardly surprising, since he’d fallen out of contact with most of them years earlier. From what Charmaine could tell, he hadn’t made any new friends while staying in Newcastle. There were people he spent time with, but she didn’t know them by name and couldn’t find any contact details.
They had no other family worth mentioning, so there was no one to call and no one for him to bunk with even if he’d been so inclined. Given her own state of mind, she didn’t search for him long. She had enough to deal with without worrying herself over a brother who clearly didn’t care enough about her to be there for her when she needed him most.
She was all alone in the world, apart from a few scattered distant relatives. And certainly all alone on Coral Island. She lay on the daybed against the window that looked out onto the road. A mound of pillows behind her head meant she was propped up enough to watch the comings and goings of the locals on Kellyville’s Main Street. It was the only way she had, on her day off, to connect with someone other than the characters in the book that was spread open in her lap.
She stared at the book cover, sighed, picked it up and continued reading. The mood she was in wasn’t conducive to falling deep into a story, but she wasn’t sure what else to do with her time off. She wasn’t much into using her computer or her phone since she hadn’t no one to contact and would likely end up doomscrolling through worthless content that would make her feel worse about her own life.
There was a scratching noise at the other end of the apartment. An external door led to a set of steps that ran down the outside of the building. She rarely used those steps. She mostly entered her unit via the florist shop. It made her feel more secure, since the steps were internal and less exposed.
The scratching happened again. It sent a shiver up her spine. There were no trees on that side of the flat, so the noise couldn’t have come from a tree branch against the siding.
The sound happened again. She swung her legs over the side of the bed with a frown. What was that? Had it come from someone’s fingernails? What if there was an axe murderer waiting outside her door, hoping she’d open it? He could push by her into the flat and kill her. Would anyone know? If she screamed, who would hear her? There were shops on either side of her building, and as far as she knew, there weren’t any other flats nearby. And given the time of day, most of the shops were likely to be shut. Her scalp tingled, and goose bumps broke out along her arms. Surely no one would run their fingernails over a stranger’s door. That would be utterly creepy.
Another scratch.
She tiptoed across the flat, adrenaline spiking and eyes wide. When she reached the back door, she tugged aside the thin curtains that hung across a large window in the top of the door and peered out. There was no one there.
She sighed with relief. Perhaps she’d imagined the sound. Or maybe it was coming from somewhere else. Then it happened again, right under her nose. She pushed her face to the window and looked down. A grey cat with its tail held high turned a circle on the landing, then stared up at her. She smiled, her heart rate slowing back to a normal pace.
“Kitty! You scared the life out of me.”
She was about to return to her book when the scratch came again. She glanced down and noticed there was a cat door set into the larger door. It was locked and painted the same colour as the rest of the door.
She squatted before it and tugged at the peg that locked it shut. With a bit of effort, the peg shifted, and the door swung slightly back and forth in place. When she took a step back, the grey cat pushed through and rubbed itself around her legs in a figure of eight, purring.
She gaped. “Oh, hi. Uh… How did you know about that door? And where did you come from?”
The cat looked up at her, then continued rubbing against her legs, purring.
“Why am I asking you questions, waiting you to come up with some kind of answer?” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m losing my mind. I’ve been alone for so long that now I’m talking to animals and expecting to have a conversation.”
She bent down to stroke the cat along its back, and it rose to meet her hand in a snake-like movement. Its fur was soft to the touch, and she noticed it wore a collar with a small bell attached, along with a tag. She read the tag.
“Watson. That’s a pretty great name.”
The cat wandered off into the unit, then bounded up onto her armchair and curled into the seat, tail wrapped around his lithe frame.
“Make yourself at home,” Charmaine said, one eyebrow arched. She’d never owned an animal, and she wasn’t sure if this was normal cat behaviour. But he certainly seemed to have been there before—he acted as though the unit was very familiar and he was as comfortable there as anywhere.
“Are you hungry? I’m sure you’d eat if I had food to give you. Now, what would a cat enjoy?” She rummaged around in the small cabinet that served as her pantry, looking for something the creature might eat. She found a can of tuna and flicked the lid open, then spooned the contents into a bowl. “Here you go. I’ll bet you like fish, huh? Come and have some tuna, Watson.”
The cat leapt down from the armchair and ran to the bowl, then bowed his head to eat. He didn’t hesitate and immediately began licking up pieces of tuna, grasping at the fish with his teeth. He soon settled down in front of the bowl, eating and then occasionally glancing up at her with curiosity in his green eyes.
“Where did you come from?” Charmaine mused. She sat on the floor beside the cat while it ate and reached gently for his collar again. Turning the name tag over, she discovered a phone number. Should she call the owner to let them know she had their cat? She wasn’t sure about the etiquette for cat owners, but presumed the animal would find his way home on his own once it was finished with the tuna.
In the end, she relented and sent the number a text message to let them know Watson was with her and she’d fed him tuna. She ended the message withyour neighbour, Chaz. She received a message almost immediately telling her that it was fine, Watson was a wanderer and would come home when he was ready, but to kick him out if he became a pain. The person signed off withofficial cat owner, Finn.
Finn — could be a male or female name. She’d had a female friend in high school who was a Finn—they’d played on the netball team together. Well, whoever Finn was, wherever he lived, he’d named his cat Watson, so he must be a Sherlock Holmes fan and that was good enough for Charmaine. She hoped it was the books that Finn enjoyed, which were far superior in every way to the movies and TV show, although she’d enjoyed them as well.
She stroked the cat’s head, and he purred, licking his chops. “You couldn’t ever be a pain. Could you, Watson?” she whispered.
A few minutes later, Charmaine decided to take a walk. The sun would be setting soon, and she needed to get out of the tiny flat and stretch her legs. She’d taken a swim that morning but had spent the rest of the day lounging about the room, reading books and eating. It was time to breathe some fresh air.
She waved goodbye to Watson, reminded him of the swinging cat door should he wish to leave, then headed out through the internal staircase and the empty, darkened florist shop. A sound at the back of the shop, in the storage room or kitchen, caught her attention.
She hesitated halfway across the floor, then turned and tiptoed back. She should leave it alone and go upstairs to look at the security footage. Betsy had installed cameras well before Charmaine arrived on the island and had given her access to view the footage on her phone. But she’d left her phone on her bed.
With a shake of her head and heart pounding, she crept forwards. Perhaps it was a giant rat. She didn’t have any desire to confront a rodent. Although she did have a cat upstairs that might do the job. Maybe Watson would come in handy as a rat catcher.
