THE CAT BURGLAR

Another day battling depression. I thought I'd try writing another short story - just to see if that helps. It's more an exercise for me, but here it is anyway. It's called The Cat Burglar.


The Cat Burglar

He sneaks in like a thief. Silent, like silk he skims across the window-sill and slings a foot first, and then a leg into the dark empty room.

His silhouette is caught by the moon, gilt with silver as he slides in and softly drops to the carpet.

Eyes bright, he pauses, poised on tiptoes while the room swims into focus. The hairs on his neck stand on end, electric with the scent of danger. Somewhere an owl hoots and a cool breeze swoops in through the open window. He is motionless, still, as the wind ripples over him.

I watch him. Like a shadow he creeps, the long fingers of shade skimming the walls and angling against the ceiling. He is silent and sleek, a panther of the night, stalking his prey, moving ever closer to the painting. I grip the armrest of the chair I'm sitting in. I feel the beading under my nails and I hear the leather as it gives an almost imperceptible squeak.

He pauses.

I don't breathe. My sweat beads.

He moves. I watch. Closer and closer he comes to the painting, half-lit by the moonlight. With a gentle swift motion, he stretches a hand behind him as if to reach for something.

"Don't move," I say. He freezes.

I cock the revolver and rest an elbow on the leather arm of the chair. The gun faces the intruder. The intruder faces me, one hand still behind his back.

"If you move," I say, "I will kill you." I keep it simple. He says nothing.

"Cut the painting, and hand it to me," I say. "You have no further options."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a standard-issue knife. It catches the light. Slowly, he begins to slice the edges of the canvas. It tears as the knife rips through. Soon, he is rolling the painting.

"Now, into the tube," I say, rolling the perspex cylinder across the carpet. He quietly complies, his cold eyes scanning the gun, staring the chair, at me, for any signs of weakness or distraction. He has been trained. But I am in the shadows.

I stand up. The leather breathes relief as I softly move around the room. I stick to the dark. The four poster bed first, then the chaise longue. Always the gun fixed, always watching him, standing there in the middle of the room. I pick up the tube and back my way towards the window. He looks at me, his eyes visible now in the moonlight.

"Where will you go?" he asks. I hear his voice for the first time. It's not quite what I expected. It's kinder somehow; it reminds me of something. A long time ago, the voice of a father. I say nothing. The wind is cold on my back as I swing myself out and onto the window ledge. I grip the tube and watch the intruder, the gun trained carefully on him as he looks back at me. The ladder meets my foot, cold and hard. He stares at me. 

"You won't get far," he says. I laugh. I'll get far enough.

"Turn around," I say, gesturing with the gun. "Turn around!"

Slowly, he turns on his heels. His radio crackles as the moon picks out the bold white letters on the back of his jacket. The gun shakes.

Suddenly, the night air explodes in blue and white.