Page 15 of Bridge of Clay

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What a time for first feet on the porch.

* * *


There was key, there was door, there was Rory, and not a moment to straighten up. Any words the Murderer might have prepared had vanished from his throat, and there wasn’t much air in there, either. Just the taste of beating heart. He was only able to glimpse him, too, for he was through that hallway like a streak. The great shame was that he couldn’t tell who it was.

Rory or me?

Henry or Clay?

It wasn’t Tommy, surely. Too big.

All he’d sensed was a moving body, and now a roar of delight from the kitchen.

“Achilles! You cheeky bastard!”

The fridge opened and shut, and that’s when Hector looked up. He thumped down onto the carpet and stretched his back legs in that shaky cat-like way. He wandered into the kitchen from the other side. The voice immediately changed.

“What the hell do you want, Hector, you heavy heap of shit? Jump on my bed again tonight and it’s all bloody over for you, I swear it.” The rustle of bread bags, the opening of jars. Then another laugh. “Good old Achilles, ay?” Of course, he didn’t get rid of him. Get Tommy to deal with it, he thought. Or even better, he’d just let me find him later. That’d be pure gold—and that was it.

As fast as he’d come in, there was another glimpse in the hallway, a slam of the front door, and he was gone.

* * *


As you might imagine, it took a while to recover from that.

Many heartbeats, many breaths.

His head sank, his thoughts gave thanks.

The goldfish butted the tank.

The bird wa

tched him, then marched, end to end, like a colonel, and soon the return of the cat; Hector entered the lounge room, and sat, as if in audience. The Murderer was sure he could hear his pulse—the din of it, the friction. He could feel it himself in his wrists.

If nothing else, one thing now was certain.

He had to sit down.

In quick time he got a stronghold on the couch.

The cat licked its lips and pounced.

The Murderer looked back and saw him in full flight—a thick grey chunk of fur and stripes—and he braced himself and took it. For a moment, at least, he wondered; should he pat the cat or not? It didn’t matter to Hector—he was purring the house down, right there on his lap. He even started happy paws, he butchered the Murderer’s thighs. And now came someone else.

He almost couldn’t believe it.

They’re coming.

They’re coming.

The boys are coming, and here I am with the heaviest domesticated cat in history sitting on me. He might as well have been stranded under an anvil, and a purring one at that.

* * *


Tags: Markus Zusak Young Adult