The machine motored menacingly. What had begun as a distant hum was gradually growing into a growl. Two grey-green eyes stared unblinkingly. Pauline Philbey felt a weight on her chest: probing, pressing. She found it difficult to breathe. Her whole face was being enveloped.

Is it my turn? Is it the end?

‘Ow! Oh it’s you! For God’s sake Boris!’

The local archivist sat upright in bed, knocking her beloved moggy off the pillow. The cat landed in the middle of Philbey’s evening tea tray, splattering bread, butter, jam, milk, sugar everywhere.   

‘Sorry Boris – I didn’t mean it! Boris?’

Despite Philbey’s entreaties, Boris had scuttled out of the boudoir, down the stairs and out of the kitchen door catflap.

Please subscribe to keep reading.