The story behind the story:

I wrote He Was Just Lonely while overlanding on my way to the coast. I love old, empty towns and this story was inspired by one of them. Indeed, I hope it embodies exactly the aura these old towns tend to give off. Partly taken from one of my own real-life experiences, partly made up, He Was Just Lonely is semi-autobiographical in a way, though still fictional. Enjoy!

The cat had chosen the house. Or rather, the cat had chosen the people living in the house. It had turned up one day, hungry and wishing for ownership. The house loved it. The house loved its roving blackness and felt it wanted a feline to occupy its windowsills and charm its front steps. The cat chose the house, the people, and the town. There was a rusty brown dog in the town too. I saw it one day, lying in the gutter in the street. I wondered if it was dead. Apparently not because later on, it was sitting under the pub veranda, nudged up against the wall across from the outdoor eating tables. The tables were empty apart from one, where two men sat laughing over a beer. The dog looked at me, tired, languid, and lost – wishing to die. There was great wisdom in its eyes. It knew something I didn’t. Some animal instinct drove that look, some knowing removed from humanity. I dreamed about those eyes that night; those deep, lonely eyes. I think the dog was ownerless. The cat, on the other hand, was not and never would be. That was how I found out about the cat. I was walking past the house and it came slinking out, running its arching back past my legs, rubbing its head up and down, curling its tail around my knees.

“G’day,” I said and bent down to ruffle its head.

“He loves people, he does.”

The lady over the fence was smiling at me and squinting into the sun.

“His name’s Orczy,” she said.

Interesting name, I thought.

She told me he’d just turned up one day and wouldn’t go away.

“We didn’t want him, so we didn’t feed him, but then he began to die. He was looking sick, so we had to feed him. Now he’s here to stay.”

It was the first time I’d heard of a cat who loved people. I could tell this one was very affectionate and self-important. All cats were self-important. Orczy dropped onto the ground at my feet and began rolling from side to side flashing his white chest at me. I gave him a slight kick and he sat up, confused, then jumped up onto the low stone fence and winked his eyes at me. Damn thing, I thought. Never liked cats much. I said goodbye to the lady and went home. I was here for a story. I went everywhere to catch stories. Old, empty towns like this always held a story somewhere if you knew where to look. Generally full of old people and eccentrics, they were itching to tell their stories to anyone willing to listen, anyone hungry for words, as I was. The pubs were the best places to go. A newcomer always sparked curiosity and detachment, but if you stayed long enough on a Friday night, tongues would loosen and stories would start seeping like liquid gold from in-between the cracks of a fragile and temperamental reserve. And this town was big enough that people ignored me. The dog was there that night, staring into nothing but looking at everything. Knowing things. I shivered because an animal that appears to know more than it should is unsettling. And this dog was unsettling like nothing I’d ever seen. I sat back and eyed it carefully. It dropped its head against the concrete and closed its eyes, dropping off into an indifferent sleep. I ate my meal and listened to the murmur of conversation and laughter.

“Did you hear about the Gibbons’?”

“Yeah – they’ll lose their house. Can’t afford the mortgage. Bit off more than they could chew, I reckon.”

“The cat’ll be homeless for once!”

“Ha! The bloody cat will choose someone else – that’s what cats do, temperamental creatures.”   

“What about the old stories, Brett?”

“Don’t tell me you believe that crap, do you Lon? You know the people in this town cook up all sorts…”

“Sounded pretty believable to me.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Lon.”

Brett shook his head and Lon shrugged, unconvinced.

“Reckon I’ll head outta town tomorrow,” Brett was saying. “Need anything in the city? I’ll be leaving fairly early.”

“Nah, thanks mate.”

I stayed longer. The place was getting rowdier, chairs were beginning to lean back on two legs, the laughter was gruff and there was an air of merriment about the room.  

“Ted Gibbons is gonna have a fit when he hears about it! He didn’t know when that cat came around, they’d get into all this trouble. That cat’s a ghost – it’s someone back from the past.”

“Shut-up Ed – or the ‘One back from the Past’ will sure as hell come after you.”

This shut Ed up and the room laughed at him.

“The Gibbons’ have been asking for it though – all through winter I was worried it’d come to this.”

“That darn cat brings bad luck. I warned em’ but some people just don’t like to hear good sense.”

“There’s one helluva difference between superstition and sense, Ed.’     

“Nah, reckon that cat’s after something. Why do you reckon he chose the Gibbons’? They live in Marianne’s old place.”

There was silence at this. I had a sudden yearning to know who Marianne was, but I didn’t dare ask because I sensed a good story coming out.

“Marianne’s got no reason to come back lookin’. She had her fill of good stuff in this life.”

Ed was swaying a little now and speaking carefully.

“Nah, I reckon she’s looking for that tall fella who charmed us all and ran off with half a dozen promises of good investments and enterprises. I lost a bit to him, the old bastard.”

“They found him though. Read it in the paper – police broke down the door of his city apartment. He’d shot himself through the head.”

“Just as well – he was a nasty piece of work. Marianne was keen on him though.”

“Yeah, he looked lost, but he was just lonely. Never spoke to him much. Gave me the creeps.”

And at that, much as I’d tried to be still and oblivious, all eyes seemed to spot me slouching in my dark corner over my table. There was no more talk that night of lonely men and left-behind women. It was late before I left the pub. The crickets were singing a night song to the stars. I looked around for the dog, but the dog was gone.