Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘I don’t understand. Who would do such a grotesque thing to a harmless animal?’ She stood hugging her arms in a passable imitation of pet bereavement, watching as Kallie took the shovel and cleared a space in what once had been a flower-bed.

Kallie wanted to believe that Heather had been fond of the cat. Her schoolfriend had produced a credible monologue on the subject, explaining how she had rescued it from a feral existence living off scraps in Camden Parkway, how it had taken her months to gain the feline’s trust, and how she had taken it with her to the useless PR job she had managed to hold for nearly a year, nestled inside her cardigan, where it could feel the beating of her heart. But the story rang false. As far as Kallie knew, Heather had never worn anything as homely as a cardigan.

As she finished digging the hole it started to rain, a light-leeching mizzle that darkened the surrounding terrace walls and bowed the branches of neighbours’ trees. By the time she had filled the grave, they were both soaked. She could hardly have left the cat in a bin-liner until the weather improved, and could not imagine Heather with a shovel in her manicured hands. Heather loved the idea of organizing others, but hadn’t a practical bone in her body. She explained that the last time she had lost her mobile, her entire life had come to a standstill.

Kallie had just pulled the last of the bindweed from the area surrounding the little grave when she saw the creature lying beside the drain. It was jointed and cream-coloured, and looked like a large deformed lobster. ‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’ She jumped back, nearly tripping in the tangle of weed.

Heather leaned over for a look, then gave a squeal of horror. ‘It’s covered in blood. What is it?’

‘Wait, I saw some gardening gloves.’ Kallie returned with them and reached down, lifting the thing by its segmented tail. ‘I think it’s some kind of crayfish, but it looks too big.’ They stared uneasily at the creature, half expecting it to come back to life.

‘It’s typical that George should be away when there’s a problem,’ Heather angrily announced. ‘He’s never around when he’s needed. I have to do everything by myself, and now this.’

‘Heather, there’s nothing for you to do.’ Kallie tried to be gentle with her, because that was how you had to be with women like Heather. ‘Look at the size of its claws, they’re enormous. You think it had some kind of territorial battle with the cat?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Heather. ‘But what on earth was it doing here in the first place?’

‘You’re right, it is a crayfish,’ Giles Kershaw agreed. Kallie had made use of the number on the card that Longbright had left, and had been told to bring in her find.

Kershaw turned over the carcass and matched it to the images on his screen. ‘I don’t normally deal with non-humans, so bear with me. It looks like there are over a hundred species on my database, but this-’ he scrolled down, searching, ‘is probably a Turkish crayfish. They’re extremely aggressive. They live in the canals around London. Hm.’

Kallie peered over his shoulder, trying to read.

‘They’ve been forcing out the weaker British crayfish, usurping their breeding grounds. I imagine the pale pigmentation is due to lack of sunlight, toxins and a lack of nutrients in the water. It’s bigger than it should be. Unusual for one to take on a cat, I’d imagine. Perhaps it had been driven from its home.’

‘It was a very small cat, and she probably attacked first,’ Kallie explained. ‘There could have been more than one, couldn’t there? How did it get into the garden?’

‘Oh, they can cross land when they have to. Domestic turtles will do the same. They’ll foul ponds until they’re uninhabitable, then move on until they find a fresh garden with water-but I’d say you have a canal near your house. Quite a few of the tributaries to the Regent’s Canal are connected to domestic drainage systems via old sewer pipes.’

‘You’re telling me this came up out of the drain?’

‘That’s the most likely explanation.’

Kallie recalled the drain’s dislodged plastic lid. First spiders, now invertebrates, she thought. What next?

‘Glad you brought it in,’ said Kershaw breezily. ‘I can’t imagine it has any connection with the old lady’s death, but this is just the sort of oddity old Bryant and May like to stick in their investigations. They’ll probably work out that Mrs Singh was nibbled to death by lobsters. I’ll show them this as soon as they’re back. If you find any more, don’t be tempted to smother them with mayonnaise-they’re highly poisonous.’

What an odd man, she thought as she walked back from the station, puzzled by the little police department above the entrance to Mornington Crescent Tube. But then they had all seemed odd: the female police sergeant who looked like an old-time movie star, various startled and excitable juniors with slept-on hair and slept-in clothes, the spectacular disorder of the place, the back-room experiments and half-laid floors. Could the PCU really be a legitimately sanctioned branch of the law?

By the time she reached the underlit alley connecting Alma Street to Balaklava Street, she realized how comfortable and familiar her new neighbourhood was starting to appear. She was used to gangs of rowdy kids setting off alarm bells and encouraging her to cross the road, but here was nothing to be nervous of-except that the unbroken arrangement of house-backs made it impossible not to feel as if one was being scrutinized.

As she emerged from the alley, she glimpsed a man-no more than a ragged dark shape-passing on the opposite pavement, as if he had been startled into flight. She stopped for a moment to take stock: a row of terraced houses with flaking white paint, worn front steps and defunct chimney pots like orange milk churns; black spear railings; hydrangeas and bay hedges and windowsills with green plastic tubs of dead chrysanthemums; the back of the Catholic primary school; saffron lamps shining through the branches of mangy plane trees. She saw him again, standing like a statue in the recessed doorway of the end house, watching as she passed, and couldn’t bring herself to continue without stopping.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Do you need help?’ As she spoke, he stepped forward, dropping down the steps toward her, and she glimpsed brown eyes above a filthy white beard. Then he was gone, hobbling with fast, truncated steps toward the alleyway, and she remembered Heather’s words: ‘We even have our own tramp, a proper old rambly one with a limp and a beard, not a Lithuanian with a sleeping bag.’ The idea didn’t bother her, but she wondered what went through his mind as he stood in the doorway watching the street.

‘I suppose I should feel relieved.’ Paul opened a bottle of Beck’s and sank back on the sofa to drink it. ‘At least I know where I stand.’ He had been given two months’ pay and notice to quit. The company in which he had been promised such a wonderful career was heading for liquidation.

Kallie had wanted to raise the subject of paying for the house to be rewired, but knew it was time to hold off. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked softly.

‘What I don’t understand is this, right-they hired me to look for innovative music, and the moment things get tight they fall back on old material, repackaged compilations, safe stuff they can hawk around to advertising agencies. The superclubs are dead, the bands are crap and the industry is heading down the toilet. Everyone’s downloading, who needs to buy CDs? If we’re going to stay here, I’ll have to make a complete career change.’

‘What do you mean, if we stay here?’ she asked. ‘I’ve put every penny I have into this house. We made the decision jointly-where else can we go?’