February, 2020. Edinburgh
How do you get rid of a ferret? Ferret, polecat, what’s the merit of a ferret? Especially a ferret that has moved in of its own accord, has no manners, and has taken to rubbing its backside on the treasured purple and gold velvet cushion that Janet had picked up on a Syrian road trip back in the 90s.
Would a ferret make a good wig? Were there even wig makers in Edinburgh? And would they take a live ferret? Maybe they’d insist on it being dead. Like taxidermists. You wouldn’t take a live animal to be stuffed would you? Drowning it would be easier than ringing its neck. She could pop it into a pillow case and do it in the bath. But how long would she have to hold it down for? And where would she put the body? She couldn’t just throw it into the wheelie bins in the street. It would be a health risk for sure. No, she was being daft. She couldn’t kill it. She didn’t have the gumption for that sort of thing. Not any more.
Janet took the half empty tin of cat food from the fridge and emptied the remains of it into an old saucer, gagging on the smell. She put the saucer down on the floor. The ferret shot out from wherever it had been guddling, slid across the wooden floorboards in the hall, looked up at Janet with what might have been a smirk, and settled down to eat.
The ferret wig thing was a bad idea. Its fur was too short. And then there was the smell. No matter how many times she lathered the ferret in the bath she couldn’t get rid of its stink. She was starting to wonder whether the bath made it even worse. And the carry on as she tried to dry it. All the keening and squealing and wriggling and nipping. You’d think she was murdering it. She’d had to explain to the neighbour’s children when they’d tapped on her door, their eyes all pink and teared up, that it was simply the ferret’s bath time and they were welcome to take over the task any time they liked, just say the word. Oh, and here’s an idea, if they’d like to keep the ferret they only had to ask.
Katherine did need a wig, though. Ridiculous to think she could go undercover without one. That was for Netflix, not Edinburgh’s Old Town. Janet had worn a wig herself for a few months after all that furore over Edward. She’d rather enjoyed the subterfuge. The blond bob had suited her. Especially with the sunglasses. She’d turned heads. Even got the odd wolf whistle. She’d walked from the hip instead of the knee. Lengthened her stride. Bought a new handbag that swung from her arm instead of her shoulder. Borrowed some orange corduroy wedges to match. She’d even tried smoking, just a cigarillo or two on Saturday evenings. She’d never inhaled, but she’d perfected the pout and the deft heft of it between her two fingers.
Where do you buy a wig these days? And what about the quality? This wasn’t Janet’s business. It was Katherine’s wig, not hers. But Janet had to know the how. It was her cloud. Her Cyril. Her rescue mission. It had been different in the 70s. Her wig didn’t need to look that good. Hadn’t needed to be fool proof. There’d been no CCTV, no social media, no camera phones, no busybodies wandering around capturing your every move.
This time the wig would have to look natural. More than natural. It would have to have character. Depth. A history. Katherine would no longer be Katherine. She’d be a gangster (or whatever they called themselves). And the wig couldn’t make her look prettier. That wouldn’t be right. Or fair. Not if it was being paid for out of the Contrails budget. The wig was for the return of Cyril. Nothing more and nothing less.
Janet looked down at the ferret. It had finished the cat food and was lying on its back at her feet. She bent down and tickled its belly. It curled up its toes and dooked, clucking like a hen that’s just laid an egg. How could she have thought of killing it? She would ask the neighbour’s kids to name it. Why did she care about the Syrian cushion anyway? The trip had been a disaster. And the woman that had made it was probably dead.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 