Figgis 12: Not so very weird...

Not So Very Weird

Figgis stood outside his house. It was well aflame. In fact, there wasn't much left of it at all, and even as he watched, the roof fell in.

"I am so sorry," Theresa said.

Figgis slumped to the floor. There was nothing he could do about his house. He couldn't even rush up to the firefighters and claim it as his, for the sympathy vote if nothing else. He suspected if he tried, he'd find himself locked in the back of the fire engine for his own safety. Either that or in a cage destined for the local dog pound. Where he would probably be adopted by some obese middle-aged lady and renamed babykins. The way his life was going recently, this didn't look at all far-fetched.

"What are you going to do?" Theresa asked.

Figgis tried to shrug. It made him look like he was being attacked by a particularly savage flea between his shoulder-blades. Did dogs have shoulders? He wasn't even sure. He mentally ran through his list of canine body gestures. Tail-wagging was too happy, growling too belligerant and howling just seemed a little dramatic, even for this situation. He settled on throwing himself to the floor and whining.

"Looks like it's your house or bust," Bel advised.

Theresa nodded. After a few more minutes watching Figgis's life smouldering, they walked off down the street.

"So," Bel tried again, "your parents, why are they weird?"

"Oh, you'll see," Theresa said. "Would you mind turning invisible again?"

Bel obliged.

Theresa's parents lived in a very normal house in the middle of the street. The lawn was neat and tidy (though Figgis did notice the presence of Gnomes, which he felt really did indicate some form of social abnormality), the front door was quite ordinary and the windows were all adorned with clean and rather pretty net curtains. A house you could walk past a hundred times and not remark on it. Given it's location, Figgis probably had.

Theresa didn't knock, but opened the door and walked straight in. The hallway was also neat; a large mirror ran down one side, a shelf ran beneath it covered in small ornaments. As she turned to close the door, she knocked several of these off. They clattered on the tiled floor.

"Theresa? Is that you?" A woman's voice.

Figgis wasn't sure what he had expected. Theresa had described them as weird. Her mother looked very normal.  Late forties, blonde hair going a little grey, slim. Nothing weird at all.

"You're back," her mum said, then paused, "and you've brought a dog."

"His name is Figgis," Theresa said. "He's very good with cats, I checked."

Figgis wasn't sure what she meant by that but dismissed it, obviously they owned a cat, no big deal. He watched with a smile as mother and daughter embraced. It seemed that Theresa was more welcome back at home than she'd imagined.

They embraced so long that Figgis actually turned away in embarrassment. He turned his gaze to the ornaments on the shelf. Each one a small, porcelain kitten. Then he noticed the door at the end of the hall. It had a cat flap in it. Unusual for an interior door.

As he watched, a cat came through it. A small grey tabby. Swiftly followed by a ginger tom. Okay, so they owed two cats. That was okay, he wasn't a fan exactly, but he could cope with two.

"Why have you got a dog?" her mother asked, "and where have you been?"

"I, um, stayed with friends. I had to bring the dog, he's been made homeless. I promise he'll be no bother, I'll keep him in my room, he's fine with cats." Theresa begged. "Is Dad in?"

"In the lounge."

Figgis followed them into the living room. Then stopped.

It looked more like a cattery than a house. Two black cats adorned the window sill. A brown tabby and two kittens snoozed in front of the fire. Three more laid on the back of the sofa. One was preening itself on the coffee table. There was a cat sat beside a large television, another on the top. The armchair held another three. The other armchair was occupied by a small man reading a newspaper; he had one cat on his lap and another on his shoulder.

"Bloody hell," Bel whispered, "it's the house of the mad cat lady. I'm really really glad I don't have a sense of smell any more."

Figgis did, and to be honest, the smell could have been worse. They must all be very clean cats.

"So" Bel whispered, very quietly into his ear, "let the pussy jokes begin,"