The Red Slayer
10 - A Noble Cause

I come back the next morning, setting out chairs and tables before the cast arrives, hoping yesterday’s feelings were a mere fluke. The studio door swings open and Kaarlo is the first cast member to come in, a duffle bag freely swinging around his shoulders. He spots me and strolls right over. The growling is back.

‘Hi, how’re you doing?’ he says.

I put on my best poker face, smile politely and reply, ‘I’m fine. You?’

He smiles back, adorable dimples dent his cheeks. It’s all I can to keep my face stiff. ‘I’m good. I got you this by the way.’ He offers me a bottle of fresh orange juice. As his hand nears mine, I catch the pine needle-scented aftershave he’s wearing.

Gently, I take it from him. ‘Thanks.’

‘Seemed only fair since you didn’t get coffee yesterday.’

‘But that’s not your fault. You didn’t know I’d be here.’

Kaarlo shrugs. ‘I hate seeing people left out. I’d have got you coffee this morning if I knew your preference.’

‘Ah, you see, I’m a mocha person with either almond or oat milk. Though anything with a shot of caramel suits me.’

Kaarlo grins just as Hugh walks through the door and says hi. Kaarlo unzips his jacket, revealing a Ziggy Stardust t-shirt underneath. Unfortunately, it being white stands out against a layer of stray black hairs covering it.

‘You’re covered in cat hair,’ says Hugh, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear. ‘Want me to find a lint roller?’

Kaarlo looks down at his shirt and grimaces. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll wear my gym shirt.’

He drops his bag, zips it open and whips his shirt off right there in front of me. I’m gawking at his chiselled, tawny pecs against my will. Though he’s kneeling, I’m certain he has a six pack. Not only is he fit, he has a giant bird tattooed across his chest, shaded feathered wings spread all the way to his shoulders.

‘What is that?’ I ask.

Kaarlo looks up at me. ‘An osprey. My spirit animal.’

‘My spirit animal’s an otter,’ says Hugh, leaning casually on the centre table with his hands in his pockets. He shoots me a curved eyebrow, aware of my ogling. ‘What’s yours?’

‘I don’t really believe in spirit animals.’

‘You don’t have to. It’s just the animal you identify with most. You could be an ocelot.’

I shake my head. ‘Peruvian jaguar. Beautiful but vicious.’

‘Good choice,’ says Kaarlo, pulling a purple t-shirt over his head and covering the osprey with a roaring panther.

All of a sudden, it’s much easier to both speak to Kaarlo and be in the same room as him. He sits next to me when he’s not “on”, asks to borrow pens which he returns unbitten, and brings me almond caramel mochas on Wednesday and Thursday morning. My strange feelings are still there, especially when I catch a glimpse of his dark brown eyes. I try making sense of them when he’s acting, but my only solution is asking Dr. Clarke next time I see her. Until then, I might as well enjoy the ride.

Thursday is the best day I’ve spent with him so far. Even though I know nothing about ice hockey, he makes the playoffs between the Nottingham Panthers and the Fife Flyers sound like an epic battle from a fantasy movie. During lunch, when I have last night’s leftover Cajun chicken, I tell Kaarlo the recipe, writing it down on a piece of scrap paper for him.

When he says, ‘You’re handwriting is marvellous,’ I’m in danger of swooning.

I’m briefly excused after lunch so a teacher from Olivier’s can assess my progress so far. Luckily, it doesn’t take long as Catrin has nothing but good things to say about me.

We return to the studio to see chairs upturned, plates on the floor, fake bank notes tossed in the air and scattered on the floor like confetti. The cast of Oxford boys, Hugh and Kaarlo included, are jumping and dancing on the furniture like hyperactive monkeys.

Am I Thomas Jefferson? Because what did I miss?

If I hadn’t read the script, I’d say they’ve had too much sugar. I hope they have this level of dedication during the run. But, dedicated or not, guess who has to clean this up when we’re done for the day? Once the cast are dismissed, I start gathering up the notes. Kaarlo and Hugh hang back and help me.

‘It’s not fair to leave you with all the mess,’ says the former.

‘You don’t have to,’ I say.

‘It’s okay,’ says Hugh. ‘Seminar’s not for another half-hour.’

‘What do you study?’

‘History, part-time, at King’s.’

‘What about you?’ I ask Kaarlo.

‘Politics and history,’ he explains. ‘Same place.’

‘Which year?’

‘Second,’ says Kaarlo.

‘First, but I had a gap year,’ says Hugh, who stuffs a few fake twenties into his pocket. ‘They’re useful for nights out,’ he explains. ‘In case you get mugged.’

He and Kaarlo leave once the notes are in order. I don’t mind putting away everything else. Catrin dismisses me once I’m done and I leave through the stage door as usual, zipping up my navy vest to stop the wind blowing through me. After the warmth of the theatre, outside is so chilly. The faintest drizzle scatters on the pavement but I don’t pull up my hood. Instead, I don the fingerless gloves from Dante and jump behind the gate by the stage door to climb on the theatre roof.

It’s been a great day. Why not finish it off with some parkour? The world feels unnaturally silent this afternoon. One can usually hear the traffic and bustle of the city from a few floors up, but diverted traffic has rerouted many cars that’d usually pass down Drury Lane.

The rare silence cracks as I look into Siddon’s Close behind the theatre. Most people wouldn’t hear it, it’s so faint. But with my senses open, I know it’s there.

Mew…mew…

I climb over a wall or two and slide down a drainpipe until I’m on the ground again. The sound is clearer now. It’s coming from underneath a giant dustbin.

I lie on my front and peek underneath. A pair of blue eyes stare back e, followed by more mews. I offer my hand for a tiny pink nose to sniff. It comes forward and I gently gather a silver tabby kitten up in my hands.

‘You poor thing,’ I say, crossing my legs and sitting there on the ground, checking for injuries. ‘What are you doing out here alone?’

Holding her (I think it’s a her) in one hand, I search under the bin for more kittens or a mother, even peek inside it just to be sure. Nothing. And kittens don’t simply wander off. The realisation gives my heart a cruel twist.

‘Abandoned?’ I whisper. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’

I tuck her into the inside pocket of my vest where she starts purring, rubbing her head against my warm, dry jumper.

I begin to call Dad, but it goes straight to voicemail. I sigh and try calling Elisa instead.

‘What is it?’ she says once she picks up.

‘Oh, I uh—just needed some advice.’

She sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Iorwen, I’m in the middle of a lecture. Can it wait?’

I frown. ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Then hang up before she can.

Okay, my go-to responsible adults are out of commission, my friends are at school several boroughs away and my girlfriend is on the other side of the river. I clap my hands together, as if praying, and think hard.

‘Oi, you!’ someone shouts. I get to my feet. Five men are walking towards me, ranging from fat to lanky, bald to bearded. With them is a chubby rottweiler on a chain. I look around, but there’s no one else here. ‘Yeah, you!’ the bearded one says.

‘Wha’?’ I say, trying to sound Cockney. Something tells me my posh accent won’t help me here.

‘That’s ours,’ he says, pointing to the kitten, whose head is sticking out of my vest.

I place a hand on it protectively. ‘Wha’ were it doin’ under the bin?’

‘We found it first,’ says the bald, beer-gutted one. ‘We just left to fetch Reesey.’ And he pats the head of the snarling rottweiler.

It’s not hard to put together what they have in mind. It’s bad enough the poor thing has been abandoned. But to be used as a chew toy for a mad dog? I almost retch. ‘That’s sick!’ my accent drops. ‘You’re sick!’

‘What are you going to do about it, ginge?’ says a squinting teen with an awful buzzcut.

My mouth twitches, but I supress my grin. ‘How much do you want?’ I say, reaching into the back pocket of my trousers. ‘Twenty each? Why not go for a few pints instead of murder an innocent animal?’

They look at each other as they mull it over. I take out five £20 notes for clarity. A lanky guy in a hoodie comes forward and takes the money. As soon as its out of my hand, I run at the gate to my right, using momentum to climb over.

My feet touch the pavement on the other side. A moment later, one of them screams, ‘It’s fake!’

I run across the road, not looking back despite the barks of the rottweiler getting louder. There’s a fire escape at the end of the street, taking me back to the rooftops. Even if they follow me up, they won’t be agile enough to walk along the roof of the Waldorf Hilton.

The question now is where I go from here. This kitten is my responsibility, I don’t want to trust her to a stranger. But with no one I trust nearby, I look around at the surrounding buildings, seeing the dome, towers and Grecian columns of King’s College.

The kitten starts mewing again. I scratch her ears and she goes back to purring. I climb down the side of Novello Theatre and head to the river. The problem, London rush hours last from 4PM to 8PM, meaning pedestrians fill the streets in a mass exodus. I’ve said ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ more times reaching the Strand than I have in my whole life. Their aimless dawdling drives me back onto the rooftops where I need only walk along until I reach King’s.

I scan the courtyards from above, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kaarlo. But the rain’s coming down proper now and no one can be seen. I should get down too before it gets too slippery to keep my balance.

There’s a drainpipe close by, but it creaks under my weight when I start shimmying down. No matter, there’s a second storey windowsill I can balance on. I can drop down to the first floor, then the ground floor and finally touch down on a spot of green turf.

My head is clear until someone shouts, ‘What are you doing up there?’

I jump. My foot slips off the windowsill and there’s nothing to grab onto. Time slows way down as I fall. All I can think to do is wrap my arms around the kitten and expose the right side of my body to the ground before the blackness comes.

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