Chapter One

Fret lay back in bed, twisted the sheets in his hands and leisurely worried himself sick.

He wasn’t concerned about being late; Fret always set two alarm clocks, one a shiny red analogue
specimen retrospectively reminiscent and the second, a plain black digital clock with glowing red
digits which rhythmically blinked the time at him during sleepless nights. The second was set fifteen
minutes after the first, in case of electrical or battery life failure leaving Fret to do what Fret did best;
he fretted.

Except this morning, Fret was concerned with only one thing: the post. Every Monday in the town of
Icarus, there were two postal deliveries; the first at the crack of dawn and the second mid-
afternoon. Fret was patiently waiting for the daybreak, folding and unfolding his sheets into
unidentifiable shapes and jiggling his legs. His excitement had made him twitchy.

A shaft of meagre light penetrated the curtains and signalled the dawn. Fret leapt nimbly out of his
bed, his grace belying his awkward form and across to the only window in the room, large porthole.
His blue and white striped pyjamas (clearly too large for him), were folded up to his wrists and
ankles. His pyjama top, stretched to breaking point over his left shoulder, was buttoned at an
awkward angle. He drew back the curtains and raised his heels from the floor to gaze upon the day,
its weather and the town that existed beneath it.

It was overcast as it often was in the town of Icarus. Thick bulbous clouds huddled together,
summoning a storm of epic proportions. Thunder’s soundtrack grumbled across the sky and as usual
lightning would stage a stunning light show.

Fret’s bedroom was on the third floor of what he called his cottage which looked rickety enough but
had weathered harsher storms than Noah’s Ark. His window had one of the best views in town.
Icarus was laid out before him in charming higgledy-piggledy fashion which gave it a quaint English
village appeal. Fret took a moment to take in this charming sight before spying Mr Wendell Sykes the
postman a short distance from Fret’s cottage. Fret happily clapped his hands, tucked his feet into
slippers and hurried from the room.

Fret slid down the ladder, wound his way down the small spiral staircase, tip-toed down the dark
hallway pausing to admire his new pinstriped wallpaper, continuing past two closed bedroom doors
and bounded down the main staircase. Today he was only mildly concerned with waking his
housemates but he needn’t have bothered; they were both sprawled on the couch in the downstairs
living room sound asleep, the TV muted but still on.
At the front door, Fret made a prudent pit stop and grabbed the nearest umbrella from the tin
bucket marked in a steady hand with ‘Umbrellas’ and stepped out of the house, careful not to lock
himself out.

By this time, Mr Sykes was almost at his front gate, sifting through large wads of mail. Fret’s heart
skipped a beat.

“Morning Mr Fret!”

“Good morning Mr Sykes, how’d you sleep?”

Wendell Sykes was the town’s only postman and had been even before Fret was a tiny babe. Except
for that brief period last year when the whole town volunteered and was rostered to take over his
postal duties, Mr Sykes had never missed a day of work. Fret’s late father called him a ‘work horse’
which with his saddle-bags of letters strapped to his thin frame, trotting from one side of the street
to another and then to his favourite watering hole at day’s end, Fret could see why.

Mr Sykes ignored the question and jumped straight into his usual conversation, remembering his
favourite things. “This morning I remembered my favourite shape is a parallelogram!”

“That’s wonderful Mr Sykes.”

Mr Sykes had issues with his memory on account of the cryogenics, the reason for his brief sojourn
from his work last year.

Mr Sykes nodded. “Also, I’m allergic to bananas.”

Fret put out a hand. “Oh my, are you all right?”

Since he defrosted, sometimes Mr Sykes did himself harm, forgetting life-threatening things like
allergies and which end of a steak knife he should hold.

“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

Mr Sykes had decided ‘to hell with science’. He was going to prove to the scientific community that a
human being could be cryogenically frozen and reanimated without removing the head. He was
right, for the most part. Unfortunately it would seem a human body could withstand the freezing
and the thawing out but the side effects of revivification leant support to removing the head. When
Mr Sykes had been revived, his motor functions were as perfect as could be in a sixty-seven year old
veteran of two wars however his memory was patchy at best and he alternated between
remembering things he used to know or stating things he did remember as if he didn’t and now did.
Talking with Mr Sykes always turned Fret around.

“But the bananas...?”

Mr Sykes vigorously shook his head. “Eh? Bananas? Oh I can’t have them.”

“Because you’re allergic.”

“That’s right! How did you know?”

The thunder rumbled warningly. “Mr Sykes...”

“Did I tell you I remembered my favourite shape?”

Fret nodded. “Yes, a parallelogram.”

Mr Sykes looked at Fret with astonishment. “Now I do declare, that is mighty good luck! My
favourite shape is a parallelogram!”

Fret was a patient man. “Mr Sykes did you or did you not eat a banana?”

“What are you talkin’ about son? I can’t have bananas. I’m allergic.”

Fret just smiled and let it go. “Any mail for us Mr Sykes?” Fret’s smile faltered. “Mr Sykes?”

Mr Sykes was gazing vacantly over Fret’s right shoulder at the front door. Fret rarely saw him in
anything else but his postman’s uniform. No matter what the weather, Mr Sykes would proudly suit
up in his navy blue shorts and jacket, red tie and white shirt, tug his socks up to his knees and
carefully fold them over, hoist his mail bag over his shoulder and pull his postman’s cap low over his
head, wings of white hair tufting from each side. Over the course of the day, his hair would win the
war and the cap would ride as high on his head without falling, white clumps of hair sprouting from
all angles. It was the only cap Catticus coveted.

“Mr Sykes?”

Fret didn’t want to be rude but today was a very special mail day, he just wanted his letter. He
waved a hand in front of Mr Sykes’ gaze and getting no response wondered if he was still breathing.
Fret had read somewhere that hard-working people sometimes died on their feet. Fret took a step
closer. Mr Sykes did not respond. His milky blue eyes never blinked, just stared and stared. His mail
bag, heavy with mail and parcels, was slung over his shoulder, giving him a temporary hunch Fret,
when he was at his lowest point, sometimes coveted; at least when the job was done, the bag would
come off and his shoulders would return to their normal state. His spindly legs looked hardly able to
support a marshmallow let alone the letter-loving town’s mail. Fret noticed how white they were,
sticking out of his shorts.

Fret started to worry. “Mr Sykes!”

Mr Sykes snorted unexpectedly and his cloudy eyes cleared as if the sun came out. The sound
startled Fret and he clutched his chest, thinking of the future probably around morning tea time
when his heart would calm down and he could be grateful Mr Sykes didn’t die on his feet in front of
his house delivering his good news.

“I slept fine Mr Fret. And you?”

Another memory side effect, sometimes whole conversations never took place.

Fret smiled. “Just fine Mr Sykes, so any mail for us?” Fret couldn’t keep the pleading tone from his
voice.

Mr Sykes continued sifting through the letters. “Eh? Oh not today Mr Fret, not today. I got mail for
almost everyone else though...”

Fret’s ears heard whooshing and his stomach plummeted with disappointment. Before he could
wallow there for very long though, he brightened. There was still this afternoon’s mail! Interrupting
Mr Sykes’ rant about the proper placement of stamps, Fret wished him a good day and went inside
to get ready for work.
 
Fret javelined the umbrella into its bucket and let the front door swing shut. He wandered back
upstairs to his bedroom swinging his arms and calculating the hours until the next postal delivery.

Without a clear reason, he made his way to the window again. It really was a marvellous view and
one he’d not tired of yet. The clouds had thickened and bloated. A fleeting thought flashed across his
mind in sync with the lightning; he’d have to get the deliveries inside before the storm broke. His
eyes refocussed until the scene before him was blurred and his reflection came into sharpish relief.

Fret’s enormous amber eyes, framed with long dark lashes and the whitest of whites stared out of a
semi-circular shaped head and creamy-skinned canvas with smallish features somewhat dwarfed
further by his eyes. He was slight, only five feet tall and weighed next to No’thing (his cousin from
No’where) about one hundred pounds less.

As for looks, people evaded direct physical compliments and called him ‘nice’ and ‘sweet’ which
were not the same as charming and handsome. Only Babette meant ‘nice’ and ‘sweet’ in a different
way and at least she was honest and didn’t try to save his feelings.

Oh how I wish I were charming and handsome!

What people did agree on was the beauty of his eyes. It occurred to him, as it always did about his
eyes, how out of place their beauty was against such deformity. He wasn’t alone in this belief. For
Fret was a hunchback, not simply a man with a hunched back, he was a bone fide hunchback
descended from the great Quasimodo himself.

As Fret stood at the window, his frame slightly lop-sided favouring the right (Fret was left-humped)
his hump began to itch and within moments, as his hump predicted, the rain began to fall. Fret
watched it dive from the sky into pools of its previously fallen brethren. Wet death, Fret shuddered.
His hump continued to irritate. He reached up with his slightly longer right arm and played that old
favourite, chase the itch with a scratch.

Fret turned from the window. He bit his lip and began his routine. He stripped off his pyjama
bottoms, folded them and set them on the only chair in the bedroom. Despite his delicacy, he
managed to put a hump-shaped rip in his pyjama top. It went the way of its predecessors directly
into the rag pile. Fret always bought clothes in bulk.

Since it was his house, he was favoured with the only bedroom with an ensuite. Fret wouldn’t go as
far as saying his bedroom was the master suite; it was smallish and ill-conceived in shape but it had a
marvellous view, a large fireplace with a decorative mantle and a huge bathroom which was almost
as large as his bedroom, with a claw-footed tub. Fret was fond of bubble baths.

In the shower, Fret ran around to get wet and succeeded in sending a soapy sheer of water from his
sloped hump straight into his eyes. He used a two-step foot stool to wipe away the condensation
from the mirror over the sink. He vigorously cleaned and flossed his teeth. He carefully combed his
black hair and after some serious debate, parted it on the right.

Back in his bedroom, the wardrobe doors were flung open, its contents on display. Fret paced the
room, towel wrapped around his narrow waist, weighing up the pros and cons of certain outfit
combinations and wondering if he would see Babette today. He wrung his hands, rapidly blinked his
eyes and came to an abrupt stop in front of the wardrobe. Today I will wear black, Fret decided with
a sharp nod of his head.

Dressed and ready for the day’s events, Fret traipsed downstairs. When he was halfway down the
staircase he heard the too-loud TV and the furious whispers of his housemates arguing, some feet
stomping and then a door banging shut. Fret rolled his eyes and instead of turning left into the
dining room and through to the kitchen, turned right and into the living room.

There, sitting on the sofa, was his cat and housemate, Catticus, playing with some kind of new
fangled video game console.

“Good morning Catticus. Did you sleep well?”

Catticus yawned and waved the games’ controller around in the air. “I dreamt Sonic the Hedgehog
was trying to eat me. He wanted to deep-fry my ears and he talked like this,” Catticus did his best
impersonation of Darth Vader suffering from bronchitis and said, “I want to deep-fry your EARS!”

Fret raised his eyebrows in alarm and involuntarily shivered. Any time Catticus did that voice his eyes
narrowed and flashed green. Fret often wondered if his eBay-loving cat was possessed by something
much eviller than just capitalism but considered it rude to ask. So Fret just nodded feigning interest.
He had no idea who this Sonic the Hedgehog was but then he rarely met the friends Catticus spoke
of.

“What have you got there?” Fret fervently hoped he wouldn’t see a poorly abbreviated version of its
name on his next credit card statement. Catticus’ eBay obsession was only made evident to Fret
when the increased number of pages of each month’s Visa bill tipped him off to something fishy.

“It’s an iCarton!”
“What’s an iCarton?”

Catticus squished his whiskers to one side. “It’s kind of like an Xbox but it’s heaps cheaper. Heaps.”
Catticus lowered his head and peeped up at Fret with his green eyes glowing a gentle evergreen.
Fret found this adorable now and ever since the first time he’d seen Catticus as a tiny kitten five
years ago.

“How ‘heaps’ are we talking?”

Catticus breezily disregarded this question in favour of his sales pitch to keep the contraption. “So
it’s made in Chinese Taipei which is great because you know how much I love the Chinese Taipei
people.” Fret did not. “It’s true I was dubious about the name but I ask you, who needs to give
Microsoft any more money? You have to see what this can do! It’s just as good as an Xbox and its
heaps cheaper.” Catticus shot Fret a sly look and went for the kill. “My hand/eye coordination has
improved already which is a fantastic accomplishment for a cat my age.”

Catticus was not playing fair. He knew Fret constantly worried about Catticus’ age and associated
health and couldn’t abide anything happening to him. Beside all the eBay-related entries on Fret’s
Visa statements, were as many entries from trips to the best cat vet in the state. Catticus was careful
not to use this ploy often; Fret might love him beyond belief but he wasn’t stupid. So every now and
then, Catticus gently tugged Fret’s highly-strung heart strings enough to ensure he didn’t have to
return every single purchase. Catticus despised store credit.

In seeing he’d hit his mark, Catticus continued. “See? There’s a competitive grass skiing game...and
some game where you impersonate the leading Glockenspiel musicians of the day...oh, oh and a
whole game where you’re a bus driver and you get to design your own uniform and you have to stop
and pick up passengers and make sure you charge them correctly and issue tickets and make routine
inspections and enforce the ‘no open drinks’ policy and then wash your bus at the end of your shift!”
Catticus sounded almost out of breath. “That one’s a-mazing.”

Fret resigned himself to expecting another extra page in his next Visa statement and went into the
kitchen. Catticus followed.

As Fret sat at the kitchen table and made a light meal of Beetle Berry juice and Sluggos cereal, while
Catticus recounted him with tales of his virtual exploits. Catticus animated was really quite delightful
and Fret got caught up in his cyber adventures.

Then Fret remembered. “Where’s Tim?”

Catticus was unimpressed at being interrupted during his harrowing tale of triumph over turning
circles to talk about Tim Fictitious, their other housemate and Fret’s best friend.

“Upstairs.” His tone was nondescript.

Fret swallowed the last of his cereal. “Did I hear you and Tim arguing before?”

“I couldn’t say what you heard before.”

Fret cocked his head and looked into Catticus’ eyes. Catticus stared back unperturbed. Catticus was
an unnaturally large Abyssinian cat; autumn coloured with black-rimmed eyes, their ears were large
and as expressive as a face. Catticus’ ears were twitching, the right ear slightly more so than the left.
Fret mentally shook his head. Catticus was being evasive, they had been arguing again.

“Catticus...”

Catticus held up a paw. “Fret, before you take his side again, let me just say this: Tim is not very good
at the bus game.” Catticus nodded matter-of-factly.

Fret had no idea what Catticus meant, he didn’t take sides! And if he did, well he was very careful to
roster taking each side an equal number of times; it was only fair. Catticus innocently flicked his tail.
Fret realised if he got into this now with either of them, he’d be late for work.

He neatly stacked his rinsed bowl and glass beside the sink. “I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Right, right, you should go.” Catticus examined his claws.

Fret moved to the front door to put on his shoes. He tightly fastened the Velcro on his sneakers
(laces were too much for him, he couldn’t quite bend down that far, his hump giving him great
difficulty at that angle) and selected the same umbrella as before. He slung his satchel over his right
shoulder and opened the front door.

“We will talk about this when I get home.”

Once again, Catticus took no notice and sang out. “Don’t forget my mockingbirds!”

“Of course I won’t forget, Catticus. Have a nice day.” Fret called and gently pulled the door closed
behind him.


While Fret had completed his morning routine, the rest of his world had hesitantly come to life. At
his front gate, Fret surveyed the town square which was really a circle.
As always, his attention was monopolised by the generous memorial to their Glorious Dead in the
centre of town, made a little harder to see each year as the trees grew tall and the branches
embraced it. The memorial was an obelisk of white marble topped with gold, suggestive of what the
ancient Egyptian pyramids might have looked like before the thousands of years of thievery,
desecration and the passage of time. The engraving was simple and etched in gold. The monument
was encircled with a decorative chain link fence no one kidded themselves also doubled as security;
no one expected to see it vandalised, not in this town.

In the distance to his left, he could see Mr Sykes chatting with Miss Penelope Perkins, one of the
town’s two florists. Fret didn’t have much need for flowers and besides, Miss Perkins and her
business partner and best friend Prudence Peabody gave him the creeps. He wondered if Mr Sykes
was telling Miss Peabody about the parallelograms and bananas. Fret really hoped he remembered
about the bananas, Dr Fantastic didn’t need any more patients.

Fret lived on Sunset Circle which also doubled as the town’s only roundabout; at its centre was the
memorial and surrounding it the hustle and bustle of town life with an uneven mix of residential
properties and commercial establishments. It was the second most exclusive street in Icarus, the first
was Hyperion Street and at its heart the exotic labyrinth of the equally exotic Madame Rubenesca
Hart.

Fret carefully closed the gate behind him and glanced up at his room. It may have been odd to add
an attic to a house that previously had no need for one but then it was mostly constructed for its
guest’s want of a view.

When Fret’s great-great grandfather, Vex had reached the over-ripe age of one hundred and
seventy-two (through entirely unnatural means) he had most reluctantly agreed to surrender his
treasured independence and travel from Paris to move in with his eldest son, Irk (Fret’s paternal
great grandparents) who was recently new to the tiny village of Icarus.

With nowhere to house him and Vex crabbily complaining about leaving behind his magnificent
view, they had no choice but to build another storey. Money wasn’t an issue, Vex had a very
substantial share portfolio he was perfectly content to dip into (which indicated to his family this
portfolio was just the tip of the solid gold iceberg) on the condition he alone designed his new home.
Consent was given and then regretted.

Once completed, the third floor clung to the side of the cottage like a towering beret, the porthole
window turning a quaint home into a Cyclops of bricks and mortar. Irk’s wife, Lamenta had very
sensitive tastes and despaired over her mismatched house and its makeshift belltower, anxiously
awaiting the day it would collapse and crush its occupant to death.

Fret stared and his bedroom window stared back and reminded him that his gutters needed
clearing.

His next door neighbour on the right side, Gordon Glass would be asleep for hours. He had a very
active social life. Fret trotted past his and the rest of the cottages, the path a very gentle curve to the
left until he came to one of the two main arterial roads into Icarus. Traffic was plentiful in Icarus,
both pedestrian and vehicular. Bicycles rode past, their shiny spokes dulled somewhat without the
sun. Dr Fantastic’s cherry red Vesper was parked outside her practice; hers was the only scooter in
town. Fret waved as Bill Posters, Attorney at Law, tooted his horn in greeting as he growled by in his
cherished Type 73 Bugatti.

The town had no traffic lights, it seemed to operate on the basic understanding that cars, if operated
inappropriately, could cause enormous amounts of damage and death and so drivers should be
hyper-alert at all times necessitating a top speed of two miles per hour within the town’s limits. The
Icarus road death toll remained at zero as it had always done (except for one year where it was
minus two; no one knew why or liked to ask but Fret got funny looks from the townsfolk for a great
deal of time after that event). Nevertheless Fret carefully looked each way several times before
crossing the street and reached the other side unscathed and still very much alive.

Fret worked at the town’s largest general store. There was another general store but it was situated
a good deal out of town. To get to work, Fret had to traverse the breadth of the town square using
the main road which was the roundabout, encompassing the memorial with the arterial roads like a
line through it. It wasn’t easy getting lost in Icarus.

Fret had worked at the Plum Brothers’ General Store and Haberdashery for six years next week. He’d
gotten the job on his nineteenth birthday and what was supposed to be a temporary summer job
had become his only source of income tax. Not that Fret disliked working at the store, in fact he
loved it. Opening and closing the store, signing for and unpacking the deliveries, ordering and
stocking the shelves, counting the money and balancing the books; he enjoyed it all but the part he
prized most of all was interacting with the customers. Fret was a people person. On top of all this, he
was also super-efficient and hyper-organised; the store had never run so well or been so profitable.
A fact the Plum Brothers exploited with full immunity; Fret preferred to work alone.

Despite his passion for customer service and the joys of working autonomously in the best run store
in Icarus, Fret had bigger fish to fry. Just ahead of him, behind the town square and beyond the
clumps of woods on the only hill in Icarus, stood the Icarus Inn. As if it knew it was being admired
and wanted to show itself in the best light, the thin shaft of sun broke through the clouds and lit up
its grounds. There, in all its glory was Fret’s bigger fish.

Fret heaved a contented sigh and then hurried to meet his delivery.


The bell clanged, signalling a customer and Fret hurried from the storeroom to serve them but
slowed when he saw who it was.

“Decided to wear black today? What a shock.”

Fret smiled at the sarcasm in his best friend’s voice. “Good morning Tim.” Fret’s tone politely implied
that the niceties shouldn’t be ignored. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a log.” Tim Fictitious took up his place on his favourite stool behind the counter. Tim most
reminded Fret of a medieval page boy with his straight mousy brown hair that hung to his shoulders
but then curled inwards against his neck. It hadn’t escaped Catticus’ notice either and was a constant
source of amusement for him. Mind you, Tim did have it coming at times. It wasn’t just the hair;
Tim’s personality could be highly unenlightened on occasion.

Tim folded and unfolded himself to get comfortable, all lanky limbs and swinging hair. He didn’t
work at the general store with Fret he just spent almost every waking hour there. What he did for
money was anyone’s guess, Tim was famously closed-mouthed about where he got his share of the
rent from and Fret never asked.

Fret returned to unpacking and stocking the shelves. “I’m surprised. Didn’t you fall asleep on the
couch?”

“Mmm-hmm...”

Tim had helped himself to today’s edition of the town’s only newspaper, The Icarus City Press from
the stand outside. The fact Icarus was neither a city nor had much of a press ironically didn’t matter,
within a couple of weeks the name would be changed again. Publisher, Editor-in-Chief, staff reporter
and photographer all agreed to change the name, so it was changed. That they were the same
person probably helped their argument.

Tim flicked to the Obituaries page. “You’ll never guess what happened to me this morning!”
In Fret’s experience, this was true. He would never guess. With his back to Tim, Fret carefully stacked
tins of tomatoes and sardines side by side. Fret didn’t know why but the sardines always sold better
next to the tinned tomatoes.

The store’s bell rang again and Fret greeted Justin Case, the town’s own private eye. As a child Justin
was obsessed with detective novels and true crime stories. After graduating from high school, Justin
got his private investigator’s license and set up shop above the post office. Armed with a shield, a
gun and fifteen thousand business cards with the inscription “I’m on the Case”, Justin went out into
the world to solve crimes, protect society and cover himself in investigative glory. It was yet to
happen. If it wasn’t for a sizeable trust fund left to him by his late great-grandmother, Justin would
have starved long ago. Tim thought he was a total dick and said so often. Whenever Catticus heard
this, he never failed to erupt into giggles at the coincidence.

“You know old man Sykes? He looked right through me today! As if I didn’t exist! Can you believe
that? What the hell is wrong with people?”

Fret gently reminded Tim the ‘H’ word was not necessary and sympathised. This was a touchy
subject made more sensitive by Tim constantly changing his mind about the rules. That they changed
frequently with Tim’s mood also hadn’t escaped Fret’s attention.

“Well perhaps he didn’t see you...?” Fret let his voice trail off. He needed time to figure out which
way the moody wind was blowing.

“Didn’t see me? I don’t think so. I was standing right in front of him, from,” Tim got up and walked
away until there was two metres between them, “here to there away from him. He looked RIGHT
through me!”

So it was blowing crazy today. Oh dear, thought Fret, what to do? This was a common occurrence
and Fret should probably have had a handle on it by now but the problem was Tim and
his...affliction; Fret never knew from one day to another how Tim would react to being visible.

Fret stalled for an answer by serving Justin Case. Every Monday Justin purchased fourteen frozen
turkey drumsticks. Fret packaged the purchase in the cooler bags the Plum Brothers’ had printed
with their store’s logo while frantically hoping an answer for Tim would come to him.

Tim continued his rant. “So there I am at the mailbox – “

Fret interrupted. “Our mailbox?”

“Of course our mailbox! Where else would I get my mail from?”
“Well it’s just that Mr Sykes had already been to our mailbox this morning. I saw him and said hi.
There was no mail.”

Tim had filtered out most of this rambling and then tilted his head a little to the left, giving Fret the
dead eye which Fret who’d finished stacking had turned in time to see. “Did he say hello to you?”

Fret smiled brightly. “Oh yes! He chatted and I listened, you know how he is.”

Tim frowned. “So he saw you?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, that confirms my suspicions.”

“What suspicions are they?”

Tim looked surprised. “That he’s got it in for me, of course.”

“How is that possible? Why would dear old Mr Sykes have it in for you?”

“I don’t know! Maybe he’s jealous? Maybe he sees me as a threat? Maybe – “

Fret giggled. “Well whatever he sees, it’s not you is it?”

Tim gave Fret a look that froze him to the spot. His tone was equally icy. “No, thank you Fret. Didn’t
it occur to you that might be a sore point?”

Fret shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry Tim, but I don’t see the problem.”

“The whole idea about being your imaginary friend is that I’m invisible.” Fret was following him so
far. “They should show a little respect. I’ve lived in this town a long time; you’d think the townsfolk
would recognise that and acknowledge me!”

Now Fret was lost in Contradiction Land, not in unfamiliar territory. Tim Fictitious was a paradox
when it came to his existence. “I understand Tim but let’s not have it ruin your day. After all, Mr
Sykes is old and suffering from weird memory lapses and blackouts, it is possible – “

“Possible schmossible.”

Fret gave him a sad smile Tim did not see and something reminded him. Heart thumping, Fret asked.
“Did we get mail?”

Tim nodded. “Some letters for me, a package for Catticus from guess who and you got – well I’ll be!”
“Yes? Yes?” Fret leant across the counter towards Tim.

Tim held up the newspaper. “Did you know old Mrs Forsythe finally kicked the bucket?”

“TIM!”

Shocked, Tim looked up from his paper and his face almost made it to a scowl before he checked
Fret’s expression. His almost-scowl slunk off and his face relaxed.

“Um, you just got your Visa bill, its thickness courtesy of Catticus no doubt. Nothing else Fret. I
promise you.”

Fret was instantly relieved. There was still this afternoon’s post.

“You know I would have told you...when I remembered. It’s not all about me, jeez.”

Tim’s acerbic tone didn’t fool Fret. Fret gave a wide smile. “I wouldn’t dream of insinuating that.”

Tim searched Fret’s face for sincerity and must have been convinced he found it for he said, “All right
then.” He skilfully turned the pages of the broadsheet. “Your mother called by the way.”

Fret hid behind his hunch. His mouth was a little dry. “What did she want?” he croaked.

“Something about your birthday,” Tim wasn’t watching Fret. He was engrossed in the rest of the
death notices which took up three whole pages; it wasn’t the amount of deaths but the elaborate
nature of the announcement. All fancy lettering and floral borders, taking up half a page and
notifying everyone they’ve ever known of their passing. It’s pathetic, Tim thought.

“And you waited until now to tell me?”

Fret slid the ladder over, locked it in position and nimbly climbed it. Most hunchbacks were gifted
climbers, bell towers and all that. Fret was an expert indoor rock climber and instructed at the local
gym during the winter months. He retrieved the boxes of oatmeal and descended.

“Hello? I think people not being able to see me might have taken precedence!”

Fret simply nodded. It was true. No need to be snotty over it. It didn’t matter when Tim told him, it
wouldn’t change anything. He would have to talk to his mother at one point. He was not looking
forward to it.

“By the way, what are we doing for your birthday this year?”
Fret expertly slit open the boxes with his trusty Stanley knife given to him by the Plum Brothers as a
five year anniversary gift. They were tickled purple Fret had continued working here when they were
sure he was made for better things. The knife was engraved with some sage advice personally
penned by the eldest Plum Brother, Halbert. It said: Don’t Cut Poeple. Unfortunately they realised
their spelling mistake too late. Fret cherished it.

He stocked the shelf with oatmeal, his mind on this afternoon’s post and on Tim’s question and the
predicament he was in. “I don’t know Tim.”

“Well you better think quick, I might have plans.”

Fret wasn’t bothered by this. Tim would be there, front and centre just like every year. Tim just liked
to talk tough.

“Why are you so keen on the mail anyway?” Tim asked.

It upset Fret that Tim had to ask. “My application?”

Tim wasn’t paying attention to the answer. “Mmm...”

Annoyed, Fret decided to have some fun at Tim’s expense. He started talking, careful to keep his
tone nonchalant. “Well it came the other day and I was successful. So I’m waiting for my induction
pack and then I’m off in two weeks. I’ve left the house to Catticus. Not sure about your lease, you
might need to find somewhere else to live.”

“Mmm...” Fret heard the newspaper rustle. “Eh?”

And then Tim’s brain caught up with his ears. “You WHAT?!” Fret hid a smile. “YOU LEFT THE HOUSE
TO THAT MANGY ELEPHANT-EARED FREAK OF A CAT! WHAT ABOUT ME!?”

Tim was purple and breathing hard. When he saw Fret hadn’t bothered to react in any way, he
calmed down and his face went back to normal. “Well played, sir.”

“Thank you.” Fret finished with the stock, went back behind the counter to polish the glass until it
shone. “Now that I have your attention, I’m waiting to hear back about my course application.”

“Oh, that,” Tim neatly folded the newspaper. “Just don’t worry about it anymore. Forget it.”

Now Fret looked shocked. “Forget my dream?!”

“Oh God, you’re starting to sound like Catticus!”

Fret ignored this intended insult. “Tim, this is what I want to do! Don’t you have a passion for
something,” Tim opened his mouth, “other than the local obituaries?” Tim closed his mouth. “Well I
do.” A bitter tone entered Fret’s voice. “My mother of course, doesn’t understand but then she
never did. She’s no doubt going to remind me of my true calling but I don’t care, I will be an hotelier,
you’ll see.”

Tim chose not to reply.

For the rest of the morning Fret worked quietly, interrupted only by customers braving the
downpour for essentials. Tim stubbornly kept silent, re-reading the newspaper he’d so neatly folded
and murmuring loudly to himself over the same articles as before. The morning past swiftly and it
was mid-afternoon before Fret, tired after the rush of customers and starved, went into the
storeroom for some peace and quiet to enjoy a spot of lunch. He was soon joined by Tim who sat
down and opened his lunchbox. Fret was just about to take a slurp of the Plum Brothers delicious
seagull soup when another customer entered the store.

Tim grimaced at the sound of the bell. “I hate that thing, how can you stand it?”

“I find it quite soothing.” Leaving Tim in the back room, Fret went forth to greet his customer. As she
came into view Fret turned on the charm and switched it to blasé.

“Babette,” Fret lifted his chin slightly and said, “What’s happening.”

Babette raised her eyebrows at him and laughed. “Hi Fret.”

Fret dropped the act; he wouldn’t be able to keep up his unflappability for very long anyway, his
charm was very flappable.

“Hi Babette,” Fret smiled shyly. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

“I know, isn’t this rain glorious?” Babette went to the store’s window display and peeked through
the merchandise to take in the rain. “I love this weather.”

While her eyes were averted it gave Fret time to appraise her. Babette was plump and busty with
sausage fingers, dimpled elbows and comely ankles. Her big brown eyes were twin wells of dark
chocolate and adorning her creamy skin, a delicious cupid bow mouth so delicious that Fret often
dreamed about her devouring him. She was just lovely. Despite being so cuddlesome, Fret had yet to
breach first base so unaware of the signals was he.

Babette was the closest thing to a girlfriend Fret had ever had. She’d moved to Icarus a few years
ago to open her own butchery. She specialised in international fare. Fret had walked by the shop one
day on his way home and was surprised and relieved to find mockingbirds in the window, plucked
and trussed and ready for the roasting pan. They were Catticus’ absolute favourite and since Fret
had just made him return the Gazelle Freestyle Exercise System and was still in the doghouse for
doing so, he realised he had an ingenious way to make the peace between them.

From that moment, Babette and he had become fast friends. They’d spent so much time in the
company of one another Fret felt obligated to make it official and had asked her on a date. That was
eleven months and forty-seven dates ago. Ten months and forty-six days ago, Babette had dropped
the bombshell that had Fret running for the life of his hump.

“So, um, you haven’t been in the shop lately...” Babette was careful not to make eye contact and the
effort made her blush so sexily.

Fret’s mouth dropped open. “Eh? Oh yeah, um, I’ve been busy, very busy in fact. It’s just been...”

“Busy?”

Relieved she bought it, Fret nodded. “Very.”

Babette surveyed the store and its new stock. “I got some new stock today too.” She quickly added.
“But no mockingbirds, I’m sorry Fret.”

Fret rested his chin on his fist. He liked the way she said his name. Her tongue was made of velvet.

“Oh yes?”

Babette always had interestingly rare foodstuffs imported from around the world to dazzle and
confuse the tastebuds of the town’s populace.

Babette nodded. “It’s called Marscarpony, it’s made from the whipped milk of, you guessed it,
ponies! It’s very healthy you know, great for the heart and absolutely scrumptious on toast with
mashed sardines.” She spotted the tinned tomatoes. “Oooh, excellent, I need more of these.” And as
Fret predicted, she selected a few tins of sardines.

Fret rang up the purchase and packaged the goods in the Plum Brothers trademark designer hessian
sacks. “The receipt is in the bag, there you go.”

Fret slid the bag toward her and their fingertips brushed. Fret’s hump tingled with pleasure. He
promised to stop by for some Marscarpony and Babette promised to put some aside for him. They
murmured their goodbyes and she left.

The moment Babette was out the door and around the corner out of sight, Tim started.
“So you got any touch yet?”

“Tim!”

“Oh don’t be such a puritan. She’s your girlfriend.”

“Well I don’t know if you’d call her my girlfriend, I mean she’s a girl and a friend but that
combination always makes me feel uneasy, you know the math of one plus one doesn’t always add
up to...well, one...you know what I mean.”

Tim didn’t care. “Well whatever you call what you freaky kids get up to, how long?”

“Nearly a year.”

Tim stopped. “A year?! Really? That long...wow.”

Fret nodded ruefully. “To be honest, I’m a bit afraid of her.”

Tim recovered. “Of course you are! I would be too if I were less of a man.”

Fret rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean!”

“What? Because she’s a cannibal? Because she’s writing the definitive work on ‘1001 Things To Eat
Before You Die’? Because you just happen to be number three?” Tim chuckled and eyed Fret’s left
shoulder. “Or at least your hump is.”

Sometimes Fret forgot just how dumbfoundingly blunt Tim could be and would be surprised all over
again but at least Fret always knew where he stood with Tim; what he said was true. As much as Fret
liked Babette, she was a registered cannibal and had lusted after the hunch of a Quasimodo
descendant long before she even knew Fret existed. If she had her way, she’d ignore her publisher
and write the authoritative works on ‘1001 Ways to Cook a Hunchback Hunch’. It was really quite
flattering in a fatal kind of way.

“Yes, thank you Tim, yes to all of that. I guess I really am less of a man for who would truly be
concerned about a hump-hungry cannibal who knows where I live?”

“That’s the spirit.” Tim refolded the newspaper, done with the pretence and stood to go. “You
hobble a fine line my friend.”

“I don’t hobble.”

“See you at home.” Tim opened the door to a deluge, the rain was relentless today. “And don’t
forget to call your mother!” he called as the door clanged shut behind him.
Fret mournfully reminded, returned to his lunch and despite having no appetite, ate in silence.


At the end of the very wet Monday, Fret opened the front door to his house. Catticus was sprawled
on the couch wearing a barrister’s wig, watching Law and Order.

“Oh my God!” Fret dropped his umbrella, flicking water everywhere.

Catticus’ head whipped around. “Shhh! Keep your voice down!”

Fret swiftly apologised.

Catticus stretched languidly, wig knowing better than to fall askew. “Did you get my mockingbirds?”

Fret smiled slightly and took off his raincoat. “Sorry Catticus, she was out.”

Catticus sniffed in response and turned his attention to the television once more. Fret bit back a sigh;
he knew he would pay for that slight later.

Fret noticed the barrister’s wig again and breathed deep. He bit his lip. “Catticus, what have you
done now?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Catticus said in a detached tone.

“Do you have any idea how much this will cost?”

“What? Oh you mean my new chapeau de jour? Rather spiffy, don’t you think?”

“Spiffy? Spiffy!”

Catticus huffed. “I rather think you’re raising your voice again Fret. It’s not healthy.”

Fret was instantly repentant. “I’m sorry Catticus, you know I always like to support you in your, in
your,” Fret searched for a fitting description as he caught Catticus’s emerald green eyes narrowing
into slits, “intellectual pursuits.” Catticus seemed quite pleased with this description of his numerous
short-lived hobbies, “but I just don’t know how I’m going to afford this.”

“Afford what? It’s done! Two easy payment methods and one lump sum later and it is paid!”

Fret went whiter than white. He wouldn’t have put it passed Catticus to mortgage the house;
Catticus’ grasp on the value of money was tenuous at best.

“Look, let me make you an espresso and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Fret followed him into the kitchen doing his best impersonation of a zombie and Catticus told him
so. Under Fret’s unblinking gaze the black and white chequered linoleum rippled beneath his feet.
Fret blinked and the rippling stopped.

“Sit down sit down, before you fall down.” Catticus began bustling about at the counter.

Fret mechanically sank into one of the four kitchen table chairs and put his palms down on the cool
Formica. He watched Catticus’ movements for awhile.

“When did we get an espresso machine?”

Catticus smiled. “It came today. That’s what I want to tell you about.”

The smell of freshly ground coffee beans burst into the air, snaking its way into Fret’s nostrils. He
took a big whiff and sighed contentedly.

Catticus nodded and smiled at Fret. “Huh, huh, what did I tell you? Good isn’t it?”

“You haven’t told me anything but yes, it is good. Jamaican if I’m not mistaken?”

“Oh very good Fret, you do have a nose for these things!” Catticus chuckled, brought the tiny cups to
the table and doled out sugar cubes.

“Enough Catticus, tell me.”

“First just take a sip, no really I will tell you, just please take a sip. Careful it’s hot.”

Fret did as he was bid and all at once he was transported to Jamaica, the thick molten liquid infused
his blood stream with a warm island breeze, the ocean curled and broke upon the sand and the
brilliant white-hot sun shone.

“So what do you think?” Catticus was eager for feedback and had pen poised to jot down Fret’s
every word.

Fret had a think and then smiled and looked into the tiny cup, drained of its java goodness. He told
Catticus was he thought, summing up with, “It’s wonderful Catticus, a joy to inhale and a delight to
ingest!”

Catticus mumbled as he wrote. “Oh that’s good...ah-ha...you mind if I use that?”

Catticus appreciated the poetry of the feedback. Fret had learnt to put in extra effort when it came
to commenting on Catticus’ performance. Fret watched as Catticus belaboured over his patented
feedback form; he prized good penmanship and since holding anything in those little paws was
difficult, Fret had gotten used to being patient.

Eventually he asked, “Have you got everything you need?”

Catticus squished his lips together, eyes skimming the page. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Then would you kindly mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Not at all Fret.” Placing his notepad beside him, Catticus abruptly jumped up onto the table, rose up
on his two back legs and put his paws at his middle à la hands on hips. In this stance, he was almost
three feet tall. “I, Catticus Themistocles Nitro Smith the First, am a barrister!”

Catticus had chosen these interestingly different middle names himself. He was greatly thankful to
Fret for the fitting first name he had been christened with, given his insatiable predilection for
mockingbirds but Catticus seriously doubted Fret’s creative abilities to extend past that. So when
Catticus had grown out of his kittenish phase, he had chosen the lofty middle names from his various
obsessions with ancient history and extreme sports took on Fret’s own adopted surname of Smith
and so Catticus Themistocles Nitro Smith was born.

Catticus always declared his hobbies as if he’d already accomplished them and as usual, Fret was
none the wiser. “A barrister?”

“Yes, yes! I saw it the other night on an infomercial and fell in love with the idea!”

Fret inaudibly groaned and wondered if there could be a lock-out placed on that channel. Catticus
was obsessed with infomercials. The house was near-bursting and Fret’s credit card was near-broken
with the results of his short-lived obsessions.

“...so of course I had to go out immediately and get me my chapeau nouveau! Have to have the right
head gear, to get into the right head-space! Ha-ha! Any who, all it takes is two weeks and I can be
fully trained! Can you believe it? Only two weeks! I don’t know what people go on about.” Catticus
fiddled with the end of his tail.

Fret considered this and couldn’t complete the picture on his own. “Two weeks to become a
barrister?”

Catticus ignored him and jumped from the table to the bench, checking his reflection in the ancient
chrome toaster. “I think I look rather dashing.” He turned his head this way and that. “Can you
imagine all the pussy I’m going to get with this?”
Fret knew Catticus wasn’t being deliberately crude. “Explain it to me please Catticus.”

“Oh all right then. You really are quite slow.” He huffed over to the chair and swayed his tail this way
and that. “Here, look at this,” and with a flick of his tail, slid a piece of folded paper in Fret’s
direction.

Become a barista, it said; in two weeks learn cutting-edge techniques with expert advice and
training! From $160! Price includes a Nescafe espresso machine! Buy now!

Fret understood completely. His gaze travelled from the plea to buy, up and over the piece of paper
and onto Catticus’ head where a brand-new barrister’s wig sat with not a curl out of place.

“So you got a coffee machine...”

“I know! What a way to suck you in!” Catticus ran a loving paw over the shiny surface.

“And you’re going to be a lawyer?”

“Yup.”

“Catticus, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Fret cleared his throat and his voice went up an
apologetic notch. “This isn’t what you think it is...”

Catticus rolled his big cat eyes. “Let me stop you right there Fret, before you go on with one of your
boring sermons about how I can’t fulfil my potential in life because I’m a cat.”

“I have never said that!”

“No perhaps not,” Catticus examined his claws, “but I’m sure you think it which is why you get all
preachy. I don’t know what I have to do to convince you, but this is what I want to do with my life.”
Catticus bounded from the chair and paced the floor. “Until now, I’ve been lost, jumping gracefully
from one project to the next, excelling in all but never finding true happiness.”

Fret ignored the melodramatic false modesty. He didn’t know about excelling or happy but it
seemed Catticus enjoyed giving him financially-related ulcers on a monthly basis. That seemed fairly
consistent.

Catticus went on. “Until last night, I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell what I wanted to be. Frankie Childs
changed all that!” Catticus threw his paws out wide.
Fret didn’t feel dislike strongly, he preferred the more inwardly channelled anxiety to be his
strongest emotion but if he disliked anyone, it was the local infomercial king of the airways, Frankie
Childs. That guy prayed on more lost souls than anyone Fret was related to.

“Uh-uh, Frankie Childs, right...so Frankie told you to be a lawyer? And?”

Catticus made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Frankie doesn’t tell, he shows! Oh why am I even
bothering? I know you dislike him.”

Fret didn’t bother to act outraged. The two of them had had similar discussions in the past and
would have the same ones in the future. Fret had made it clear he didn’t like the influence Frankie
held over Catticus (or his bank balance) and Catticus had politely told him to shove it.

“OK, OK so he showed you...please continue.”

Catticus stared at Fret in that off-putting way cats do. You just know they’re either plotting world
domination or imagining how tasty your eyeballs would be with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

“Anyway,” Catticus continued. Fret smiled gratefully, they were still friends. “Frankie showed me and
I went to the website and ordered the program. That,” pointing to the coffee machine, “came today
and I couldn’t resist!”

Catticus was getting more animated as he spoke and Fret stopped smiling; this would not end well. It
was time to put Catticus out of his misery, of which he was totally unaware he was in.

“Catticus, there’s something you should know.”

“Mmm,” Catticus was pawing at his wig which had the audacity to become askew.

“This word here,” Fret pointed at the unfolded piece of paper, “its ba-rista not bar-ris-ter.” Fret tried
to put as much emphasis on the differences of the words hoping that would be enough. Catticus
disappointed was Shakespearean in its proportions.

“Mmm-hmm,” Catticus wasn’t paying attention, probably on purpose. He could be so sensitive about
his...intellectual pursuits.

“Barista, meaning one who makes and serves coffee and barrister, one who practices law. This says
barista. That’s why you got the coffee machine. To make and serve coffee.” Fret silently beseeched
Catticus to spare his eyeballs and refrain from eating them with any kind of beans.

“So baristas make coffee and barristers are lawyers?” Catticus asked. Then he slowly nodded his
head. “I wondered why everyone bitched about the cost.”
Fret visibly relaxed. It would be okay.

Catticus frowned. “So what do baristas wear?”

“Hat-wise? Well nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, maybe a cap with some fancy embroidery, you know of the logo, I‘ve seen them wear those at
Starbucks.” Fret realised too late and wished he could swallow the sentence and digest it quickly so
it could no longer be comprehended.

Catticus mouth was set. “A...cap!” He spat the last word out.

Fret took a deep breath and tried to appear casual. “Very stylishly stitched, of course.”

Catticus raised his invisible eyebrows and got his point across. His mind was made up. Fret rubbed
his amber eyes in frustration.

“But Catticus, you’re so good! It would be a waste not to use such a talent. Remember the island
breeze of Jamaica? Please don’t forget the island breeze of Jamaica!” Fret kept a handle on his angst,
“besides the money, it’s already been paid.”

Catticus swivelled his head, keeping the rest of his body still. It was creepy and Fret moved back a
fraction. “It’s not about the money.”

Fret bowed his head. Oh dear, here it comes.

“It’s about the principle.” Catticus shuddered. “I can’t be seen in a cap!” He passed a paw over his
eyes. “This whole thing has put a bad taste in my mouth for both coffee and the law. Make me some
herbal tea will you? I’m going to go lie down.”

Catticus flounced off toward the living room leaving Fret to put the kettle on and reminisce about
simpler times when his credit card didn’t exist on the brink of its maximum limit and he hadn’t
tasted the island breeze of Jamaica.