First in a new series titled The Adventures of Sharples
Two wheat biscuits lay limply languishing in a bowl of rapidly souring milk. Unbuttered toast stood stone cold still in the toaster. Sharples sniffed at them both, unimpressed he continued to sit staring at the unopened can of tuna flavoured chunks in jelly. He mewed pitifully at the still lifeless body of one of his favoured feeders.
Sharples waited in what he would call a patient fashion. After a few minutes had passed he conceded he was deliberately being ignored so he left through the backdoor that swung in the breeze of an early summer evening.
The doorbell rang! It rang again and again. “Mrs. Clements” a voice shouted through the letter-box. “Mrs. Clements, can you answer the door, dear?” The voiced had that echo of increasing urgency about it. Then silence except for the hurried crunch of gravel as footsteps paced through the side path. Footsteps followed by a piercing scream to a creator.
Sirens and flashing blue lights echoed around the cul-de-sac, dragging the curtain twitchers eagerly out from behind their veils of drapery. A murder in Baisely Close – now that was something to get excited about.
Sharples looked at them all from the porch roof of number twenty-two, his unnerved gaze resting on the blond six foot frame of Nigel Westbridge from number three.
He, Sharples, had seen everything but no-one ever asks a cat.
© JG Farmer 2014