The Big White Cat

My name is Henry Cucumber. I'm thirty years old. I used to work in a bakery, but for the last two years I've been a motivational speaker, travelling up and down the country giving motivational talks and seminars. I came to this city to give three such talks in one week – on the Monday, the Wednesday, and then the Friday – the first two of which have passed, the last of which very probably won't.

I'm writing this account in the basement of the hotel in which I've been staying. I must confess I'm finding it hard to motivate myself to do so (me of all people!) because of my conviction that it will be discovered not by a neutral third-party, but by the person or persons who hold the keys to the basement. If it's you, Mr Hotel Manager, and I suspect it is, then I hope the sight of my remains puts you off your supper.

* * *

The story of how I wound up in this nightmare of a basement starts on the Tuesday. I'd risen late, having stayed up drinking the night before, and happened to bump into one of the maids in the corridor as she was doing her rounds. She was a pretty Eastern European woman not much older than me, and I scraped up a conversation with her. My motivation was base.

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" I asked.

"I work here," she replied matter-of-factly.

I clocked a wedding ring on her finger. "Hmm."

She was waiting for something substantial.

"What's the craziest thing that's ever happened in this hotel?"

She shrugged. "Nothing crazy happens here."

"Okay."

I was about to retreat into my room, but she added: "The only crazy thing here is the Big White Cat."

"The what?"

"The Big White Cat. In the basement."

I raised an eyebrow.

"But it's just a story. I don't believe it."

I tried to think of something to say in response to this oddity, but she returned to her errands before I had the chance.

The breakfast slot was nearing its end in the dining area. I went straight to the counter, where one of the chefs served me two hash browns, two rashers of bacon, and some quarters of fried tomato. Little else remained besides these items.

"Have you heard anything about a Big White Cat?" I ventured casually.

"Sure," he said, "it lives in the basement here."

"So there is actually a cat?"

"Oh yes."

I realised at this point that he was having me on. He was speaking in an insincerely serious tone, as one might to a small child who'd asked if Father Christmas was real.

"How big is it?" I asked. Though I wasn't enjoying being patronised, I wanted to learn more.

"Big."

"Bigger than a St Bernard?"

He nodded.

"Bigger than an elephant?"

He nodded again.

That was far enough. I carried away my tray.

I didn't think much about the purported Big White Cat for the rest of the day, mainly because of a new game I'd downloaded into my phone, and also because I had the next day's talk to prepare for. It was when I returned to the hotel on the Wednesday that the story resurfaced in my mind. While I was walking along the pavement that led to the main entrance, I happened to glance down the alleyway between the hotel and the adjoining building. A well built, mean-looking man with a cigarette butt in his mouth was on his knees unlocking a hatch. On a whim, I stopped to watch. The thing was covered by an excess of chain, and it took the man nearly a full minute to undo all the padlocks. Once it was open, with the cover leaning almost vertically against the wall, the man turned to a barrel he had beside him. He took the lid off, heaved it round to the yawning cavity in both arms, and tipped the contents in. He had his back to me during the tipping, so I couldn't see what exactly it was that was going down there. I walked on as he was finishing his emptying, fearing that if I lingered too long he might see me.