Jack Strange - Zomcats!

Soon there was no blood left, but the cat was still hungry, so it opened its mouth wide and bit off a chunk of the flesh between Jones’s thumb and index finger.

It began chewing it enthusiastically.

“Aaargh!”

Jones held up his hand and looked at it.

“What the, what the..?” He gasped.

Before he could think how to end his question, a number of other cats appeared: Goliath, Stump, Oscar, Tiddles, Sally, Becky and Florence.

Jones looked at them as they advanced. They reminded him of a pride of lions. He retreated, the realisation coming to him that they were hunting for food,, and that he was the closest thing to a square meal that they could see.

The next thing he knew was blinding pain. Henderson pounced first and the other cats followed, sinking their claws and teeth into his arms and legs and torso.

Soon all that was left of Barbados Jones was an indistinct bloodstain on the pavement outside number 51, Bleardale Avenue, Birkby, Huddersfield.

Adrian Broadbent had begun his career in the 1970s as an apprentice TV engineer working for Acme TV Repairs and Rentals (Huddersfield) limited. Colour televisions had swept the nation shortly after he’d been taken on, and the new technology had provided him with an ample supply of work.

He’d shown initiative and had risen to a managerial position with Acme by the end of the eighties.

By the end of the nineties he was running the company. The owner who’d set it up was still there, but he had become little more than a figurehead; it was Adrian who pulled all the strings.

Adrian had done equally well in his personal life. He’d been a good-looking young man, and likeable with it, which meant that he’d been a hit with the many women he met through his extensive social network. He seemed to know all the right things to say to put women at ease, and a good proportion of those he met wanted more from Adrian than small talk.

So he sowed his wild oats, as he described it in the terminology of the time, and at the age of thirty-five, after he felt he’d sown enough of them, he at last married an attractive, intelligent woman who was ten years his junior, and settled down to a conventional life in Stonker, a posh suburb of Huddersfield at the top of Stonker Edge.

Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Broadbent had been an instant hit on the newly-built housing estate where they’d bought their expensive home. Adrian could tell a tale, and was something of a man’s man, in spite of his way with the ladies; and his wife Sandra was bubbly and effervescent, with the result that they were constantly being invited to the dinner parties that were all the rage in those times.

On Saturday afternoons, Adrian would meet a group of his mates in a pub called the Slubber’s Arms, and after a couple of pints they’d go to the football ground to watch Huddersfield Town lose, and they’d bemoan the result, and all happily go home to their wives, most of whom had been glad to see the back of them for an hour or two; but not Adrian’s wife. She always missed him when he was out of the house, and she was always pleased to see him when he returned.

The couple lived near to the Stonker Edge golf club, which was cheek-by-jowl with Stonker Edge Farm. Adrian fell in with a group of people who played golf, and they encouraged him to take up the game, which he did. He persuaded Sandra to try it, and the couple began playing golf together on Sunday mornings.

The couple’s happy existence continued, with the dinner parties and golf being briefly put on hold after the birth of their twin girls. Once the twins were old enough to be left at home with a babysitter, the social life of the Broadbents continued as before.

In the 90’s Adrian was able to expand the company and improve his income. He and his wife had bought a house on a large plot, and they had an extension built which gave them two spare bedrooms and a garage big enough to accommodate all five of their cars, plus a home movie theatre. Their movie theatre became a popular feature on the Stonker party scene.

Everyone who met the couple could see that they were happy together, and that they were living the dream.

And they would have been, had Adrian not been harbouring a terrible secret.

It was a secret he dared not share with anyone, particularly his wife, until a certain day dawned.

That was the day that he got to know Paul Formby properly.

Paul Formby was a young apprentice that Adrian had set on at Acme TV Repairs and Rentals (Huddersfield) limited, just as he himself had been set on as an apprentice some twenty-five years previously.

Paul was the opposite of Adrian in many ways: he was a good-looking young man, but shy and reserved, perhaps because he spoke with a lisp. Unlike Adrian, he didn’t play the game of being the man’s man. He went quietly about his work then stole off home at the end of the day, back to the small terraced house where he lived with his mother.

Adrian often worked late, and sometimes his young apprentice did, too, and Adrian found himself enjoying the times they were alone, discussing their interests after everyone else had left. After a particularly late shift one day, Adrian suggested to Paul that they should go for a pint together. He was delighted when Paul agreed, and also a little guilty, as he suspected that, deep down, he had motives that went beyond mere friendship, but he told himself it was just an innocent drink between mates, or employer and employee, and he’d taken other members of his staff out for the odd beer before, so why not Paul? Anyway, they’d enjoyed a drink together and Paul had gone home, and that was all there was to it. Or so he’d told himself.

But something happened during their meeting that he’d feared for many years. He felt himself getting on so well with Paul that he let his secret slip.

Immediately he’d done so, he regretted it.

That one tiny and almost innocent indulgence with Paul could cause his wife a great deal of misery, if it ever got out.

No more meetings after work with Paul, he told himself.

But he couldn’t stick to it, and nor could Paul. And indeed, it soon became apparent that Paul was cut from similar cloth to Adrian.

It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that one day Adrian made an excuse to his wife to get away from her for a few hours: he told her he had to stay out all Saturday afternoon on a job. He never went to any job. Instead, he drove to Paul’s mother’s house, and picked him up. Then he took him to a secret place his wife didn’t know about — his allotment on Cemetery Road, in Birkby, Huddersfield.

Adrian’s allotment was a curious affair. He’d bought it shortly before he’d married his wife, specifically for the purposes of keeping his activities secret from her. As a result, it wasn’t used as an allotment at all. Even though he’d owned it for decades, there were hardly any vegetables growing there. The few that had taken root had done so by accident, having spread onto his plot from the neighbouring allotments.

He’d had a shed built which was a shed like no other. It resembled a house, and it was so big that it took up most of the area that was meant for vegetable-growing activities.

Adrian got out of his car and walked across the soft earth of the allotment to his shed, with Paul following close behind.

Both men felt a thrill of excitement at what was soon to come.

They stopped outside the shed, and Adrian took from his pocket a set of keys and opened the door. They stepped inside and Adrian shut the door behind them, bolted it securely, and locked it with his key for good measure.

“My goodneth,” Paul lisped in his gentle voice, “it’th amathing. I wish I had a plathe like thith.”