Benny assumes flee position as Jordan approaches. However I’m surprised when, instead of scampering, he allows himself to be picked up. Stretched out over Jordan’s arms – not exactly snuggled to his chest – Benny makes no effort to escape.

‘Come on, puss, let’s try this again.’

‘I’ll bring you down some food in a bit,’ I say. ‘Good luck, you two,’ I add, as they disappear into the basement.

It’s not what I had in mind when I thought about setting things straight with Jordan. But at least we’re talking.

17

‘Oh, my bloody God. That bloody cat. Grace, come quick. Shit.’

Jordan’s hysterical screaming wakes me.

I fly out of bed in my pyjamas and into the front room. I’m met with carnage. Paper shopping bags are shredded all over the floor, my new clothes strewn everywhere. One curtain is hanging by a few hooks. How Jordan and I slept through the apocalypse, I’ll never know. Streaks of what looks – and smells – like diarrhoea cover the cream-coloured sofa from one end to the other.

I check the kitchen and Benny’s litter tray is tipped over the floorboards. ‘Oh my God.’

‘Where the hell is he?’ Jordan thumps about. ‘When I find him… Look at this place!’

‘You can’t find Benny?’

What if he’s got out of the flat? What if he’s been run over?

Faith will never forgive me.

‘Beeenny,’ I call, but there isn’t a peep – or a meow – from anywhere. I dash into the basement, calling him the whole time. I’d overlooked how messy Jordan has made it down here – it’s not far off the shambles upstairs. Piles of old newspapers everywhere. Not-quite-empty Coca-Cola cans dribbling beside his precious X-box. Harry’s office was equally messy, but shabbily so. Down here, it’s filthy.

Right now, all I can focus on is finding Benny.

In the midst of my panic, the old boiler sparks up. I can’t believe it, but I hear the water. Jordan must have got into the shower. Benny is still missing, and when I pop upstairs to check, I hear Jordan whistling in the bloody shower.

I swear, if anything has happened to this cat, Faith will not get to Jordan. I will kill him myself first.

I scoot back into the basement and, for the second time, check that all the windows and the back door to the garden are closed, to reassure myself Benny can’t have escaped. The whole flat stinks of poo. Down here, something else is… fishy.

A pile of empty sachets of Pussy Paws lie on Jordan’s desk, my decorative icing piping bag beside them. It’s smothered with something disgusting. On closer inspection, I discover my piping bag oozes with what appears to be a medley of tuna and whitebait in jelly.