she'd done was inevitable.
And I think, to hell with Jill. Jill doesn't matter a bit. Not one bit. Jill is zero.
It was Zoey I was here for. Zoey all along. That awful moment.
I was here for my cat.
That last touch of comfort inside the cage. The nuzzle and purr. Reminding us both of all those nights she'd comforted me and I her. The fragile brush of souls.
That was what it was about.
That was what we needed.
The last and the best of me's gone now.
And I begin to fade.
Puss-Cat
Reggie Oliver
Reggie Oliver has been a professional playwright, actor, and theatre director since 1975. His biography of Stella Gibbons, Out of the Woodshed, was published by Bloomsbury in 1998. Besides plays and his novel Virtue in Danger, his publications include four volumes of stories: The Dreams of Cardinal Vittorini, The Complete Symphonies of Adolf Hitler, Masques of Satan, and Madder Mysteries. An omnibus edition of his stories entitled Dramas from the Depths is forthcoming from Centipede Press. His stories have been published in Strange Tales, Shades of Darkness, Exotic Gothic, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, The Black Book of Horror, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Horror.
Oliver says: "As with all of my stories, there are elements of autobiography and personal experience woven into the fabric of 'Puss-Cat,' though I am definitely not Godfrey in the story. He is older and much drunker than I am. On the other hand I am an actor, have worked on tour and in the West End, and did once understudy a famous theatrical knight who used to . . . But that would be giving the plot away.
"As for the cats, when I married my wife who is also an actress, I enthusiastically adopted her love of these wonderful animals. I am particularly interested in the way they are as attached to places as they are to people, perhaps more so. Every self-respecting theatre has its cat who is as vital to its well-being as the stage doorman or the box office manager. The theatre cat's sense of proprietorship is quite remarkable. I remember one at a seaside repertory theatre I worked in who used to regularly saunter casually on stage during a performance, usually through the unglazed frame of a French Window; then, just as insouciantly, he would exit through the fireplace. A warm round of applause from the audience always greeted this feat. You will meet several theatre cats in this story, and one who is not quite a theatre cat."
So, you want to know about Sir Roderick Bentley, do you? Well, you've come to the right department, as they say. Thank you, I'll have a large Bell's Whisky, if I may. Plenty of soda. Ice? Good God, no! Yes, Roddy and I went back a long way, to the Old Vic days just after the war. No. No resentment. Roddy was always destined for great things, me for the supporting roles.
"Godders," Roddy said to me once. He always called me "Godders" for some reason, but I prefer to be called Godfrey, if you don't mind. That's my name. "Godders, you're a good actor. Devilish good, and you'll always be in work. I'll tell you why. You're good but you haven't enough personality to worry a leading man." I'll never forget that. Of course, I suppose I knew he was right, but that doesn't mean to say it wasn't an almighty sock in the jaw.
Well, when Roddy formed his own company, Navigator Productions, he asked me to be in it. Played some good parts—not leads or anything, of course—but I did understudy him quite a bit. In fact I understudied him in his last two productions, and thereby hangs a tale, as they say.
Want to know a funny thing about Roddy? He couldn't stand cats. No, I know on it's own that's not particularly strange, but it is odd when you consider that in spite of that he always used to call his girlfriends "puss-cat."
You don't know about the girlfriends? Oh, perhaps I shouldn't have said, but you were bound to find out in the end, weren't you? But you won't mention, will you, in this biography of yours that it was I who told you? I'd hate it to get back to Lady Margery that I said such a thing. I rather doubt that she knows, you see. Or perhaps she does and won't admit it. Women are queer cattle. Ah, the drinks! Well, here's to your book, eh?
Let me make