Nif’s phone rang at 3:42am, just as she waved goodbye to her police escort home and opened the apartment door. Sapha’s silky dress lay in a puddle by the entrance and the cat shifter’s heels were kicked off in the hallway. It was strange to get home after Sapha. Usually Nif’s housemate would wake her when she came home, caterwauling to be let in as she refused to shift into human form to unlock the door. Sapha was never her best after a late night and too much sugar, but Nif couldn’t help but mourn all the beautiful dresses abandoned by the cat shifter in past escapades.
Nif glanced at her phone, her mind hazy, the device still buzzing in her hand, and for a moment she couldn’t actually remember how to answer it. Clinton was calling and a tiny pulse of anxiety wiped away her exhaustion. Had someone else been hurt?
“Clinton?” she answered, hushed in the darkness of the hallway.
“Jennifer. Thank god.” The older man’s voice was rough, catching around something in his throat. “Are you home?”
“Yes. The police just dropped me off. Where are you? Have you heard from the others?”
A dark shadow slinked out of the living room and curled around her ankles, purring loudly. Nif sank down onto her haunches and sighed into Sapha’s fur, the phone pressed hard enough to hurt her ear.
“Josephine and Philippa don’t know yet. They texted they arrived home safe hours ago, but Thea said she’d have one of her officers fly by to check there’s been no disturbances.” He paused, and swallowed, the sound loud enough for the mouthpiece to pick up. “I should’ve checked. I should’ve made sure.” Clinton trailed off, the silence so heavy Nif could feel it pressing in on her, deeper and thicker than the shadows lurking in the corners of the hallway.
“Thea said no one should be alone at night,” Clinton said in a rush. “I’m cancelling our meetings until further notice. Someone may have found out about us through those posters. I tried to find them all, but it may’ve been too late.”
“Clinton, it isn’t your fault.” Nif bundled up her own sorrow, horror and fear and shoved them down deep. She hadn’t known Morris nearly as long as the others, but she couldn’t imagine the group without him. “Is your wife with you? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“She’s running home now.”
“Good. Go make yourself some tea and wait for her. We took all the right precautions.” Nif took a steadying breath. “If I’d remembered my scarf sooner, maybe I would’ve heard Morris cry out, but we can’t think that way. You did everything you could. It’s that monster’s fault.”
Why had they cut out his eyes? Forced them down his throat leaving his lips a painted red? When Morris was attacked had he still been smiling? Buzzing from his perfect evening as he waited for the buyer? His art displayed for the first time. Someone wanting to buy everything. A dream of quitting his job and painting full time within his grasp. Her imagination painted a picture and grief tightened around her throat until she couldn’t swallow.
Morris with a bounce to his step, spinning his worn hat around his index finger as he headed outside to wait for the buyer. He wasn’t a small man. He would’ve fought, but he was gentle at heart and the surprise would’ve left him confused and momentarily stunned.
“Are you okay, Jennifer? They said you were the one who found him. Is that true?” Clinton sounded a hundred years old, his voice the rasping sound of wind through a soot-blocked chimney.
“I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for a while,” Nif admitted.
“Geez, Jennifer. Here I am spilling my guilt like sour milk and you were there. Did he...what did they do to him?”
Nif exhaled sharply, digging her fingers into Sapha’s fur, but before she could even begin to put it into words— bloody lips, a dropped hat, shoes that’ll never be worn again— Clinton hurriedly cut her off.
“No. Don’t. I can’t…and you shouldn’t have to relive it again.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about it,” Nif whispered.
Sapha mewled her sympathy and nudged her soft head against Nif’s chin. Nif lost her balance and rolled backwards, ending with her spine pressed against the hallway wall and her trembling legs splayed out in front of her. Sapha curled in her lap and purred hard.
“Promise you’ll stay with someone at all times,” Clinton begged. “I’ll start a group text. It’s important we stay in touch. We need to support each other even more now.”
“Yes. I promise. Just…what about Morris? Is someone taking care…” Nif didn’t even know if he had a family. She didn’t think he had a partner or any children. What about his parents?
“Morris didn’t have any family, but he’ll be looked after properly. God, there’s a funeral to organise and I’ve no idea who’s his next of kin.”
“Tea, Clinton. Go have some and I’m sure Thea will talk you through what will happen next.” Nif should get some tea, too. Something to warm herself with, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
“She’ll know,” he murmured. Nif worried he was going into shock. She was pretty sure she was already there. Her hands were cold and clammy, and she had to keep reminding herself to breathe deeply, not the shallow sharp breaths she found herself making whenever she thought of Morris’s face.
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“I’ve not met your wife yet. What’s she like?” Nif stayed on the phone with Clinton for over half an hour, listening to stories about an incredibly strong woman in a voice clogged with tears, until she heard a door open on the other end of the line and soft words to Clinton. It helped centre Nif too.
There was a jostle as the phone exchanged hands.
“Jennifer?”
Nif felt like she knew this woman already.
“Thea. I’m worried about Clinton. Will he be okay?”
“I’ll take it from here, dear. Are you okay? Clint mentioned you’d only joined the support group recently, but connections between people can occur in a heartbeat, and what you’ve seen tonight would traumatise anybody. Have you got someone to talk to?”
“I’ll be okay. My housemate is with me. Maybe I’ll try and sleep.” The mere thought of sleep made her heart race. “Can you let me know what they decide about Morris?”
“Of course, dear. Sleep well.”
Nif stared at the phone in her hand for so long the shape of the familiar object began to feel strange until Sapha pricked her claws through the fabric of Nif’s skirt. She barely felt the prickling pain, but took the cue and followed Sapha’s lean form into the living room. She wasn’t surprised to see the TV on, sound off. A black and white film.
Nif had never experienced death before. Or at least, not closely and never like this. With Sapha curled up, a puddle of fur on her lap, Nif was reminded that she was still alive, she was still breathing and she shouldn’t feel guilty for either of those things.
There was no pressure to talk, but Nif found herself doing it anyway. The early morning light was smudging the far wall when Nif realised her throat was hoarse and she’d not slept at all. Maybe she should call in sick.
Sapha slipped out into the kitchen, clad in stripes, and returned, dressed in her robe and carrying a hot cup of peppermint tea.
“Drink up. We’re having a home day. I’ll call your work for you. That boss of yours likes you, he’ll understand and when you’re ready, we can talk about what happens next.”
“What does happen next?”
“Drink first. I’ve ordered some bagels.”
“It’s not even six yet,” Nif pointed out.
“And for some people who are nocturnal, it’s the end of their day. I know a possum chef who makes the most divine baked goods for the night lurkers.”
Sapha opened the living room window in time for the night owl delivery guy to wing inside, his little cap tied on with elastic and sitting jauntily on his head. He dropped a paper bag onto the coffee table, and Sapha rolled up a note and inserted it in the tip pouch attached to one leg. She waved him off and opened the bag.
The bagels were hot. Slathered in cream cheese and just what Nif needed to feel human again. She took a bite and sighed heavily.
“Thanks for this,” she said.
“After last night I’m expecting a call from your parents and I want to be able to tell them you’ve at least eaten.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t called already. Morris’s death should surely be on the news by now.” Her throat tightened as Morris’s shy, pleased face when she kissed his cheek popped into her head. Who could do something so horrible to another human being? To Morris whose imagination was boundless?
“Give me your phone. I’ll text your boss.”
Nif had to dig around in the couch cushions to find it, but eventually handed it over. “You’ve missed a few calls already.”
Her mum twice, one call from Oliver and a handful of texts from Moira. The group chat was active, too.
“I don’t…” Nif said, giving her phone back to Sapha, helpless at what to do next.
“Let’s call your parents first before they knock on our door. I’ll message the others now to say you’re okay and text your boss after seven.”
What would she do without rational, practical Sapha?
The rest of the day was a strange hazy blur.
“I’m not a child,” Nif grumbled as Sapha smothered her in blankets.
“Good, because there’s no way I could be a mother. Trust me, watching films on the couch all day is just what you need to reset.” Sapha was taking a strange delight in making Nif do what she did every day. How Sapha wasn’t bored out of her mind, Nif had no idea.
The night owl delivery guy was replaced with a golden furred monkey wearing the pink and purple vest of the day delivery service. She rapped her tiny knuckles on the window, her fingers clinging to the brick work and managing to balance a backpack full of food with an ease that spoke of years on the job.
They gorged themselves on dumplings, spring rolls and curry puffs, drank gallons of tea, and by mid afternoon, Nif felt less wobbly and more settled in her own skin.
Her phone pinged regularly and she finally flicked through the messages.
Clinton was keeping a running update regarding the investigation as best he could. Josephine was organising Morris’s funeral. It would be on the following Wednesday because it would take a while longer for his body to be released. Nif made a note to ask for that day off.
When Sapha put her to bed that night, Morris’s death was less of a gaping wound and more of a dull ache. One she tried her best to distract herself from. Her guilt hummed along in the background as she showered and dressed for bed. For feeling grief in the first place when the others must have been hurting more. For the relief that it wasn’t her or even Moira, as if their lives were ranked differently in her head. For being alive when Morris’s life had been violently cut short. It could’ve been her lying in the back alley just as easily. Or Oliver.
The following week was oddly uneventful. Leon surprised her by picking her up for work on Monday -- a reoccuring event that eventuated into breakfast together -- and Oliver drove her home each evening, which also ended up more often than not sharing dinner. Being with others during the waking hours helped. Leon was a blessing to both Nif and Oliver. If it was left up to them, they’d just cry the workday away.
Morris’s funeral was a blur of heartache and misery despite the sky being a sharp blue only possible in late Autumn. There were a handful of colleagues there and a few friends from Morris’s uni days, but Nif didn’t talk to any of them. Instead, the support group huddled to one side, overly conscious of the police presence in the form of hovering hawks and lurking hounds. Morris’s coffin had been plain, Josephine saying he’d not have wanted a fuss, but amongst the flowers draped across the wood were oil paints and brushes. It was a sweet touch, one that seemed to confuse the rest of the guests, which made Nif cry even harder. Who else had caught a glimpse of the real Morris? Surely it hadn’t just been them?
Nif didn’t say no to Sapha when the cat-shifter handed her sleeping pills, but she still had nightmares. The dreams were shapeless horrors that left her heart pounding and her sheets cold from sweat, and if she spent the early hours of most mornings watching black and white films with Sapha, then so be it. She couldn’t be alone.