As he'd anticipated, a throbbing headache woke Rob Hamilton. He nudged the contented weight of the cat from his chest, popped two Nurofen from the packet next to the bed, swigged them down with a generous draught of water, and went back to sleep. At eleven, he woke again and fetched the newspaper from the doorstep. He flitted through, mechanically turning and scanning the pages, lingering on the business then sports sections. He put the magazine to one side, another perfect fit for the litter tray perfectly. What would be the absolute minimum of domestic chores he could get away with? He searched out a yellow rubbish bag and bustled around his apartment throwing in pizza boxes, newspapers and bottles. Then he remembered his commitment to recycling and threw the bag in the laundry for sorting later. There he saw the pile of ironing on the dryer. Cigarette in mouth, mug of coffee to hand, swaying slightly to the too loud golden oldies, Rob pressed the cuffs, collars and fronts of his shirts. He learned long ago that's all you need to iron if you don't take off your jacket.
Rob fancied doing a Sunday kind of thing. What he'd really like to do is take two small children and a wife, maybe someone formidably intelligent like his friend Melissa, lawyer to the oppressed – only sexually attractive – to visit his parents in, say, Plimmerton. He told Oggi if he were a dog he'd take him for walk in Central Park. The cat purred at the sound of his name but slinked away to curl on a sunny windowsill and sleep.
Rob cleaned and replenished the rank litter tray, and booked a pet minder for his trip to Exmouth, where he must find grounds to terminate Owen Huntly. He made more coffee and took a cup to the cat's perch to look across the city bowl. Rob buried his hand in the thick fur and fat of the supine cat, whose claws and teeth lightly grip him in practice of slaughter. A dog, a wife, a cause – there was certainly something missing. Rob decided it would be good for his soul to take in some culture.