The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

Is it my time, now? he asks.

Yes, I say, reluctant. It’s your time.

I’m Ted’s kitten, but I have my other nature. I can let that side take control, for a while. Maybe we all have a wild and secret self somewhere. Mine is called Night-time.

He gets up in one fluid movement. He’s black, like me, but without the white stripe down his chest. It’s hard to tell, because he’s part of me, but I think he’s larger, too. The size of a bobcat, maybe. It makes sense. He’s a memory of what we once were. He’s a killer.

Now I tell him, Hunt.

A pink tongue strokes Night-time’s sharp white teeth. He comes out of the dark with his graceful stride.

I come to, retching. I’m in the bathroom, for some reason. The door is open and I can see the skylight over the hall. It’s still pitch black outside, not yet pink in the east.

There’s a pile of bloody bones before me on the tiles. They’re picked clean. I’m full of night meat. I wonder what kind of animal it was. Maybe that mouse who’s always singing in the kitchen walls. Or it could be a squirrel. There’s a nest in the attic. Sometimes I hear them chittering, and running across the beams. I think they’re squirrels, but they could be ghosts. I don’t go into the attic. There are no windows there and I only like rooms with windows. Nighttime doesn’t care about things like that.

Thinking about the ghosts upsets me and makes me feel weird. The mess before me doesn’t look like mouse remains any more. It looks like the bones of a small human hand.

Something crawls across the ceiling above. It sounds way too heavy to be a squirrel. I race downstairs as fast as I can and I put myself into my nice warm crate.

Ted doesn’t know about Night-time – I mean, he can’t tell the difference between us. I obviously can’t explain it to him, there’s a language barrier. And what would I say? Night-time is part of me; we are two natures that share a body. I guess it’s a cat thing.

The night stretches ahead, and I am still hungry.

Is it my time, again?

It is your time.

Night-time comes forth once more, and his stride is full of joy.

Ted

The blonde woman said yes. I’m surprised. You’d think she’d be more careful. But people are trusting, I guess. We wrote each other all night. It’s so good to meet someone who loves the ocean as much as I do, she writes. I might not have been completely honest about that but I’ll explain when we meet.

But when and where do we meet? What do I wear? Will she actually show up? The questions come and suddenly everything is terrible. I look down at my clothes. My shirt is really old. It’s from the auto shop where I used to work. The burgundy colour has faded almost to pink, the cotton is soft and thin as paper in places. And of course, it has my name across the pocket. This is handy in case I forget, ha, ha. But I don’t think a woman would like it. My jeans are grey with age except where they are spattered with dark splashes of something, ketchup, I guess. There are holes in both knees but it doesn’t look cool. Everything is so faded. I want to be colourful, like my nice bright orange rug.

The woman is making me feel terrible, with her blue eyes and blonde hair. How can she put me through this? Why did she pick me to talk to, to meet? I can already imagine her expression when she sees me. She’ll probably just turn around and leave.

Mommy and Daddy watch from inside their silver frame. It’s heavy sterling silver. I’ve been putting this off but I think it’s time. I take the photograph of Mommy and Daddy out carefully. I give it a kiss and then I roll it up and tuck it safely into the depths of the music box. The little ballerina lies broken and dead in her musical coffin.

I learned how to pawn things after Mommy went. Silver spoons; Daddy’s pocket watch, which he got from his daddy. They are all gone, now. There are bare patches, empty places all over the house. The picture frame is the last thing.

The shop is dark on the warm dusty street. The man there gives me the money for the frame. It is much less than I need. But it will have to do. I like places where people don’t ask questions. The bills feel good in my hand. I try not to think of Mommy’s fading face, staring into the dark of the music box.

I walk west until I see a store with clothes in the window, and I go in. There is a lot of stuff here. Rods, flies, bait boxes, rubber boots, guns, bullets, flashlights, portable stoves, tents, water purifiers, yellow pants, green pants, red pants, blue shirts, check shirts, T-shirts, reflective jackets, big shoes, little shoes, brown boots, black boots … I have only taken a quick look. My heart is going too fast. There’s too much. I can’t choose.

The man behind the counter wears a brown check shirt with brown jeans and a green coat thing but without sleeves. He has a beard like me, maybe even looks a little like me, so that’s what gives me the idea.

‘Can I buy those clothes?’ I point.

‘What?’

I am a patient person so I repeat myself.

He says, ‘The ones I’m wearing? It’s your lucky day, we have all this in stock. I guess I wear them well, huh?’

I don’t like his clothes particularly. But so long as I don’t have to go on a date with my name on my shirt like a kindergartener, fine.

‘I’ll take the ones you’re wearing,’ I say. ‘If you just go take them off.’

His neck goes thick