Hotel Ambrose

Chapter 1.1

I was behind the shed that day, where there was a water meter and creeping plants growing everywhere and rocks with bugs underneath – all this amazing stuff – when along came Dirty Joe with a wheelbarrow with a dead cat inside. There was a spade next to the cat. I knew the cat was dead because it was in the wheelbarrow – I mean, why would a cat ride in a wheelbarrow, and even if it did, why would it keep so still and everything as well? I was only eight, but I wasn't stupid.

"Dead cat," I said to Dirty Joe.

He stopped and put the wheelbarrow down and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Whatcha doing?" he said.

"Nothing. That's a dead cat."

"Just sleeping."

"What's the steam shovel for then?" I said, meaning the spade. When I was eight I called everything a steam shovel. Pretty retarded.

"You and your steam shovels," Dirty Joe said, wiping his brow. Even though it was summer and the sun was on his brow and he was sweating, when he wiped his brow no dirt came off it. I thought this was strange, and a little unfair: after all, there's nothing better than wiping dirt off your brow and seeing it on the back of your hand and then wiping it on your jeans and knowing you've got a good clean brow.

"Can I help to bury your cat?" I said.

"Isn't my cat," Dirty Joe scratched the back of one hand with the fingers of the other. "Found it. Out at night, I s'pose, wandering the streets. Car hit it, I s'pose."

I went in for a closer look. It was a nice sort of cat I thought, but I wasn't good on cats. It was orangey, and it had a big old stripy tail. There was some blood around its mouth. My first thought was that maybe it had bitten its tongue – I'd bitten my tongue the night before so tongue-biting was at the front of my mind. Except for the blood it seemed a fine sort of cat to me. I touched its mouth, but Dirty Joe grabbed my hand away and said, "Don't do that."

"It won't bite me now. Can I help to bury your cat? I can use a steam shovel alright. Do you have a coffin for him? I can make a cross even – all you need's two bits of -"

"Jesus," Dirty Joe said. He was looking around nervously. He had big brown dirty hands with black nails and creases all run deep with grease and shit, but at the same time his eyes were rabbitty and looking about everywhere, like he was two people: the rabbit and Dirty Joe.

"Where you gonna bury your cat?" I said.

"Not my cat."

"Whose is he?"

"Dunno."

"Is he a he?"

"Dunno."

I checked if the cat was a he. I found its willie. It seemed strange to me that a cat should have a willie, though it was a strange willie after all.

"Whattaya doing?" Dirty Joe said.

"Looking for the willie. I found it. Can I use the steam shovel? We can bury the cat over there." I pointed.

Dirty Joe took a last look around, then he crouched down and his voice dropped. "Look, you can help me, but not a word of this to the Whistlers."

The Whistlers were the women that ran the Crapper Home. They were called Whistlers because they had whistles hanging around their necks. I wondered what the Whistlers would do to Dirty Joe if they found out, and I imagined Dirty Joe's eyes darting around everywhere as the Whistlers came to take him away.

I helped him bury the cat. He even let me use the steam shovel. He didn't say anything, just watched me using that steam shovel any way I could. When I got tired I gave it back to him and he finished off the hole. Then he put the cat in.