The Last Night

The Last Night

The cat won't go out. It sits stubbornly staring at something only it can see. Its yellow eyes are wide and unblinking. Melissa draws back again. The cat closes it eyes but every part of its body remains tense, as though any minute it might uncoil and explode.

Melissa sits down and lights a cigarette. Her hand shakes as she stares at the cat. It is a monstrous thing, ginger fur that is matted with age and thick pearly claws that are digging into the sofa cushion. Its face has a strange mottled appearance as though it had tried on different faces and forgotten to take them all off. Melissa takes a drag from the cigarette and blows a pillar of smoke into the darkened room. The fire is the only thing casting light, it is dying and the coals are burning a dull red. Shadows leap from the fire prongs and coal scuttle. Wait 'till I finish this cigarette, she thinks, then you're out of here. The cat digs its claws deeper into the cushion as though it could hear her.

A car drives past outside, the headlights momentarily penetrate the curtains and highlight a dusty room that is covered in pictures; old peeling photos hanging limply from the walls. Melissa's face is caught in sharp relief. Dark and shadowy with mascara bleeding down her cheeks. Dirty blond hair tied into a pony tail that leaves a scraggle mess around her face. The cat opens its eyes to regard her and she stubs out the cigarette on the arm of the chair.

She had forgotten that her mother lived surrounded by the fading faces of friends and lovers that long ago disappeared into the night of their soul. Melissa never visited her here, mother always made the trip to the sunny house in Dorset that Melissa rents. Melissa stands up and walks over to the fireplace. The embers still cast a heat strong enough to make her shins itch. She lifts a photo off the mantle and crouches down to see it better in the red light. Her mother had been a real beauty. Large oval eyes in a delicate heart shaped face. Smooth skin that slowly crumpled and was defeated by the relentless pull of life. There are no photos of the last few years. Melissa touches the dark photo briefly as though smoothing back the errant hair from that pre-frown forehead. She sets the photo back on the ledge and turns to the cat.

It was the last thing her mother had said: 'you will make sure the cat goes out, won't you love? There'll be accidents if not.' And Melissa had laughed. Her mother's last thoughts had been of this mangy cat. Once she had told stories of glamour parties and glittering guests preening in the light of crystal chandeliers. In her final moments she worried about cat shit. And Melissa was failing even in this.

The cat would not go out.

She had cooed at it, left the door open until the night air had filled every inch of the bungalow with ice, she had manhandled it until only the red streaks on the back of her hands told her to give it up. It won't go out, she thought suddenly, panic bubbling up inside her. It will sit in that cushion and starve to death and rot here. And no one will know. I won't visit, the neighbours won't think to call, and that stupid stubborn animal will let itself fade away into bones. The hysteria rises inside her as before her eyes the cat begins to slowly rot, those dribbling impudent eyes hanging lifeless from a skull patched in falling fur and withered skin. She has to get it out. She lunges at the animal and lifts up the whole cushion, staggering under the weight, they yowl together. It is heavier than she had thought, but screaming and shouting over the cat which clings to the cushion with its back rigid like a bridge she makes it to the door and heaves her shoulder against it. It flies open and she flings the cushion away from herself, collapsing on the step. She knows she is crying and her knee is throbbing from where she hit the concrete. She pushes the tears from her face and stares up into the night. It is soulless. Not a single star looks down at her. Her sobs have dried up and she gulps for air staring into the absolute of nothing above her.

The world is suddenly still and silent. The cottages around her are dark. She wonders what time it is. With shaking legs she gets to her feet and steps back inside, clicking the door shut behind her. The house is so quiet. As though there is nothing here. As though her suitcase is not on the end of the bed spilling out a waterfall of clothes to the floor. As though the pile of washing up stacked next to the sink is not really there, as though she is the ghost that is flitting through the rooms.

She drags herself back into the living room. The cat sits on the arm of her mother's chair. Red fabric hangs from its claws. It stares at her with those moon eyes and Melissa reaches out to the doorframe to steady herself. Cat and woman regard each other and finally Melissa gives in and sits down. She lights another cigarette.

She is very much aware of the house now, it seems to be breathing around her, waiting to see what she will do next. She could go to bed. Clamber into that lonely bed that still smells of mother even though she brought her own sheets with her. Lay in that dark silent room that whispers in her mother's voice, and be embraced by those cold clammy sheets that do not belong here. She smokes and watches the coals dim until it is more like that nothing night outside then she can stand. She closes her eyes and all she can see are the endless pattern of faces of the dead that are arranged on the walls around her. The stink of cat is on her right and the ash from her cigarette burns her leg. Her heart thumps in the vein in her forehead and gradually she lifts herself from the chair to tend to the fire. She picks the coal from the bucket with her numb hands, relishing the gritty dust that it ingrains in the creases of her palms. She rubs her hands together to feel the glittering residue biting her skin. She throws on damp logs and blocks of sharp smelling firelighter. The fire roars and the room is dancing. Heat thaws out the air and the glow of the fire casts a sepia tint over everything. Melissa sits back and lets the heat redden her face.

As she moves away she catches sight of a stack of records leaning against the old gramophone player. A smile appears from nowhere. She begins to sort through them. The sleeves are cold and she slaps them together as she flicks through them with joy. She finds Sgt Peppers Lonely Heart Club Band and fumbles with the player until the perfect sound of fuzz begins to play. She sits next to the cat and lights another cigarette. Music and light dance around the room and she imagines her mother before her dancing on the rug, in front of the fire.

Melissa stands up and dances too, she holds her hands out for her mother to take and they make up silly moves and whirl each other round.

Will you still need me?
Will you still feed me?
When I'm sixty-four?

Melissa is breathless and laughter shakes the sadness from the perch it had found on her. The cat makes itself more comfortable and closes it eyes. It misses the whole show that Melissa performs. And of course Henry the Horse Dances the Waltz!

Finally the record runs out and Melissa collapses to the ground, exhausted. Her cigarette has burnt out in her hand and she lights it again, watching the smoke swirl around the lifeless photos. She will take them down she decides. They don't belong here any more. She takes them down carefully at first, making sure the blue tack is removed from the wallpaper, but she gets careless. There are so many and soon she is dragging them down, ripping corners, tearing wallpaper crumpling photos with her hand watching faces curling in the fire. She massacres them all and the flames take the offering greedily ' spitting out remains in coughs of smoke and ash.

Her cigarette packet is empty and so Melissa sits back down and rests a hand on the cats head. She wonders how long her mother sat in that position before the woman next door finally let herself in to find out why mother never answered her phone.
They said she had just given up. Had lost the will to live. The neighbour had found her with glassy eyes surrounded by her own filth and unable to remember her own name. She only lasted a day in the hospital. Long enough for Melissa to make the journey up and for her mother to recollect her wits enough to worry about cat shit. Melissa strokes the cat slowly. Was it in this chair? She wonders, but it can't have been, the neighbour said they'd had to burn it. She wonders, what made her mother decide not to get up anymore, to let herself fade away like that. She remembers that she had not heard from her for months and that she had barely noticed because it was easier not to sometimes. She thinks of the week spent cleaning out the bungalow. They couldn't shift the dust from the walls. The neighbour had looked after the cat, it hadn't been so stubborn then. Melissa turns to look at it. It is purring ever so slightly beneath her hand. Finally Melissa wonders why she wanted to stay here tonight. Surrounded by her mother's ghosts.

She falls into an empty sleep and wakens as morning is beginning to peep tentively through the curtains. The cat is sitting by the door waiting to be let out. Melissa moves slowly, opening the door just enough to let it slip through.
She moves into the bedroom and packs her clothes back into the suitcase; she lays her mother's photo on top of her dressing gown. Her mother's large oval eyes stare up at her. She closes the lid and as she moves towards the door she notices a coil of cat shit, still steaming just inside the bathroom. She laughs without smiling and leaves the house to be sorted out by whoever she will hire.

The cat lets her put it in the basket without fuss and they drive off as the sun blushes the sky.