by Clea Simon
‘T.G. Fashions,’ she reads. ‘Harborside,’ and I feel her tense. It is a sensible reaction. Where we are now is cold and paved, but there is an order here. A kind of quiet imposed on these wide streets, these lofty structures. I have been by the harbor and know it to be a very different place. The hunting is better there, in among the empty buildings, the rotten shells of industry and commerce. And while that can have its benefits – I cannot help myself, I lick my chops at the thought of fat water rats, of sea creatures grounded and left to die – it can mean danger. We are not the only ones who hunt, the girl and I, and both age and size mark us as quarry. I should have known that man, the client, came from the water. Like those rats, his type tend to gather there, their activities fostered by the decay and the damp.
Without another word, the girl stands and peers around. She is learning, this girl, and it is with some pride that I see her take the measure of the alley, of the street before us. I hang back as she crosses, walking openly to that big gate, but when her goal is clear, I make my move, dashing across the open space to the cover of one large post. I watch as she grasps the gate and shakes it and let myself feel the flood of relief as it stays shut.
It is not merely the cage aspect of those gates that concerns me. It is the way they clamped shut. The wail of the siren as they opened to release the workers and their keepers. Everything about this place signals danger, sparking in me something more than instinct – some buried memory. I watch and concentrate. My ears go back as I take in the air, trying to read its scents and movements. No, I cannot remember, if memory it was. All I know is this place means something to the girl. Something beyond my ken. I would not have her go inside.
When she returns to the alley, my concern lessens. This is the sensible approach, the one I would make were I seeking prey. But as she examines the alley, following it through to its dead brick end, I feel my hackles rise. It is not simply that this place has no apparent outlet. I am familiar with its type, the remnant of a more civilized era, designed to let air or light into the hulking building that surrounds it. No, as the dust settles, I catch a whiff of something sweet and sickly. A smell of rot, and of death, emanating from the closed end.
I see no corpse, no shreds of fur or flesh. Instead, the passage appears to the eye to be well traveled and clean. Washed, I believe, by more than the rain. There is a sheen on the stone paving as well as a lack of even the usual debris common to such a cul-de-sac. More telling still is the bite of cleaning agents, the bitter burn of bleach. People come here, people who matter, or such initiatives would not be taken, and neither of us is surprised when we find a doorway recessed into the brick.
My ears do prick up as I hear her exhalation of recognition. In that breath, a word, so soft even I barely catch it – could it be ‘father’? Of course, this could mean nothing and I trust more to scent than any thought she may voice. Rot – and the attempt to erase it. Not knowing what creature left such foul traces, what sought to cleanse this passage of them, I cannot tell if the one we seek has come this way. Care, however, acts as if the conclusion has been reached. Another sigh follows as she tries the catch and fails to open it, and then turns to take in the view before her.
The light is fading, and though her eyes are good, both strong and young, she has not my capacity for sensing shapes, for sensing movement in the dimming of the day. For surely she must perceive the bin at the end of the alley, and it is from this the odor emanates. She heads toward it now. Even her limited perception must detect the unmistakable reek of rot within. But to my surprise, she pulls it, its inset wheels rumbling over the stone. She sets it against the wall. Above her, a high-set window leaks a dim but steady light.
She clambers to the top of the bin’s lid and, balancing with caution, stands. I settle on my haunches, readying myself to leap beside her – and then I pause. She does not seek to explore inside the bin, availing herself of the illumination from above. Instead, she would use it as a prop. Standing on it, her pose is precarious, and I sit back to wait. I would not startle her into falling or into making any undue sound. If she succeeds in making entry, it will be short work for me to follow, now that she has provided an intermediary step along the way. If need be, I will return to the gutter. My nose told me that more than insects have used its vulnerability for egress.
As I watch, she reaches for the window, revealing skin as white as a snail’s. My ears tell me there is no one near, but still I am concerned. In the twilight, her belly looks more exposed, more vulnerable than I would like.
No matter. She cannot force the window. She pushes, but each effort causes the bin to roll further from the wall, and after several attempts, she gives up. Only as she would dismount she slips, catching herself on the basin as she tumbles to the ground.
‘Sorry, Blackie.’ I have jumped back as she landed, on her feet and hands, as I would advise. ‘You startled me,’ she says, and stands, brushing one palm against the other. ‘Here.’ She reaches for the bin. Pulls it on those rattling wheels to replace it in its original position, I see. The girl, as I have noted, is well trained. No good will come of revealing our presence here, and it is a moment’s work to obscure our passage.
‘Wait.’ She stops. As she has maneuvered the bin, its lid has come loose in her hand. ‘Rule number one,’ she says. ‘Look everywhere for information, because you never know.’
She pulls the lid off, releasing a wave of the stench so powerful that even she should gag. But, no, her response is one of surprise, not disgust. And as I steel myself, forcing myself not to back away from the foulness, she reaches in, one foot rising as she stretches. I hunker down, gauging my leap. But before I can join her, she stands up, steps back and pulls. It’s not easy, but as she leans her full weight away from it, the bin begins to tip, its edge to scrape the stone beneath. I jump back, alarmed, and just in time she does as well. The bin falls to the stone with a crash that pins my ears flat and freezes me some feet distant.
The girl holds back, too. Though not, I suspect, because of the noise. Her ears lack the sensitivity of mine, a deficit that turns blessing at times like this. No, I realize, as the echoes of the crash begins to recede, she has been watching the door and the head of the alley. Waiting to see if the tumult would serve to raise an alarm or even a curious onlooker. But we are alone, the smaller creatures stilled to silence by the terror of the crash, or fled already to some safer locale. And as I begin to inch toward the toppled form, my body low to the ground – ready to spring or to flee – she, too, crouches low on all fours and I watch in horror as she crawls inside.
No! I do not like this. She cannot see, cannot hear, inside that thing. And if she is so truly oblivious to the stink within, as this foolish action implies, I cannot count on any of her senses alerting her to what may be inside. Although I have no direct memory of being caught, I recall traps – the pain and panic of creatures seeking food or shelter, who crawled within such enclosures, and so shaking off the shiver that would set my fur back on end, I push in beside her.
The scent is overwhelming. The alley has been kept clean and the bin emptied, but no amount of washing could remove its trace. Refuse and rot, foodstuffs of some kind, as well as something other – the biting tang of machine oil, an acrid streak of which stripes the bin that I avoid as I would a snake. And something worse, thick and heavy. Blood, but not fresh. Not from a rat. And not from a clean kill, either. The tang that breaks through the musty sweetness of rot came from the chemicals that course through a body as it attempts escape, the scent of panic. Its headiness masks all else, leaving me as helpless as the girl. I do not like it. Whatever bled here had some consciousness. Something died in fear.
I would back out. Some deaths are not to be fed upon, but the girl is still inside. Scrabbling about beside me, as helpless as a mole, and so I remain. Scent dazed, but less handicapped than she. At least what limited light exists will avail me should danger materialize.
‘What?’ She jerks back from the touch of fur. But m
y coat is softer than a rat’s. Smoother than a possum’s, as if those creatures would risk proximity. And as I squeeze ahead of her, to explore what has aroused her interest, I see it – a scrap that even here reflects the light. Metallic and yet, not. Fabric, I realize as I put my nose up to it.
‘Blackie!’ She has seen it too and reaches for it. I begin to back out, happy to leave it to her and to seek the cleaner air outside of this enclosure. But, finally, the fug has gotten to her, and she begins to cough. My movement, I suspect, has raised whatever foul residue has settled here, and I will have much bathing to do to rid my coat of its putrid essence. I inch backwards, unwilling now to turn, to brush against the sides of our enclosure. The girl’s body heaves as she retches and, for a moment, I am thrown to the side – the noise and smell disorienting me. I feel trapped. I am about to be overcome.
With effort I free myself, my claws connecting with the girl as I kick loose. I hear her cry. Too loud for safety, and yet I am relieved. Grateful to get out of that enclosed and noxious space, I do not pause to check my surroundings. I do not stop to take the air.
‘Oi! What’s that?’ A man’s voice, harsh and cut short by a spike of fear. ‘Who’s there?’
Belatedly, I hear their footsteps, the approach the girl’s coughing had obscured. Smell the sweat that I could not in the bin. They are moving slowly, trying to decipher the murky movement that must be all that they can make out.
‘Yo, Dingo? That you?’ Care’s breath catches at the name. She makes no other sound as they approach. ‘We missed you last night. You with someone?’
I am – we are – lucky that these hunters are even less aware than we. I leap silently to the side, as they come forward, the better to assess the situation even as it unfolds. Care hears their approach, too – or perhaps has felt me move – and crawls backward out of the bin. She is not yet on her feet, however, as they draw near. Two men, large at least by my standards, though one looms over the other. Taller, broader, too. They must have paused near the head of the alley – this bought us time – but now they are striding down its course, arms swinging. As they walk, they separate, each seeming to expand to fill the narrow passage. It’s a technique I know well: they use their limbs as I do my fur, creating volume. Filling space. Only in their case, the threat is real. They are both larger than we two. The smaller one has a knife, its blade catches the dim light from above, a light that also shows his evil features – scarred and sharp. I glance behind us. The wall, brick, is worn here and pitted. I do not see any gaps, such as the one behind the gutter, but there are craters that would offer some small footholds, uneven places where my claws could seek out purchase. But even if I could scale it – a venture I would be ill disposed to try even in my youth – the girl could not.
‘It’s a girl,’ says the bigger man. The one nearest Care. In the space of three syllables, the fear melts from his voice, replaced by something worse. His companion glances at him in surprise, the alteration has been fast and he has not caught up. But then his hawk-like face splits in a grin of confirmation.
‘Well, so it is.’
Care has seen them now. Still crouching, she eyes them both, and I can feel her tense, readying to leap and run. But she cannot move as I can, and the men are large. Their spread arms block the alley, and they begin to call to her.
‘Hey, girly,’ says the first man, the big one, his voice unnaturally high. As if his tone would tame Care. As if she would believe it. ‘Aren’t you cold out here, all alone?’ To his companion, his language is more blunt. ‘I saw her first.’
Care gasps, and the men chuckle. It’s an evil sound, with little of humor in it. But it serves to put them, ever so slightly, off their guard. This is my chance. I am black, and in the dusk I have been invisible to them. Still, they will realize soon that I am a smaller creature than they are. I can only hope that Care is ready, too. That all her training will propel her forward, on to safety as I lunge at the nearest man.
Although he has begun to lean forward – preparing to grab Care and throw her down – I cannot hope to reach his face. Instead, I leap and, spitting, land, all claws distended, on his outstretched arm. What light there is reflects on my eyes, and his stare back in horror. A green-eyed demon, I must appear. He lets loose a wordless cry as his partner turns to look.
‘Yo, George—’
I hiss fiercely, waiting for the movement behind me that tells me Care is on her feet. That she is running. I will her to elude this brute while he stares down at me.
She doesn’t, and I feel his hand clamp down on my back. I cling tight even as he pulls and then lets go, stumbling to his side.
‘Stop that!’ It is Care. She holds the bin lid in her hand, its metal ringing still from the blow she has dealt. ‘Don’t you dare!’
The big man steps backward, the surprise as much as the reality has shaken him. I free myself and hit the pavement, hissing as I land. In a moment, these men will recover. The one she hit was startled more than hurt, I see. He pushes himself up to his feet. His friend is taking in the scene. But as he steps toward Care, she throws the lid, causing him to hesitate. Then she bolts, and I dash after her, following as she turns the corner and then another, slipping into the shadows of the night.
SEVEN
I am winded by the time we stop, ducking for cover behind a wall. Fear has driven the girl to run long and hard, and I feel my age. The wounds of violence and time. In particular, my left hind leg, which twinges with the effort of my exertion. Still, I did not dare risk losing her, and I endeavored to pant and lean to the right, favoring that aching limb, as we ran. In part, that is because I saw her trajectory. From habit, if not intent, she has led us toward the waterfront, dashing as she did down deserted streets, taking the turns more shadowed and empty, the roads increasingly rough. She lived down here, when she first struck out on her own, and it has a familiarity for her. She has also known great loss and violence down among the wharfs, and I would not have her fall prey to such again, even if panic drives her to her former haunts. To places no longer safe.
In part, I fear what is within her. The way she snapped at that woman was not like the girl whom I have come to know. Also, I now realize belatedly, I have missed something I should not have. The girl’s venture into that alley – her attempt on that window – these were not as random as I had previously surmised. Something about the way she moved, the way she immediately went for that window, as opposed to continuing her perambulation, speaks of prior knowledge. I know this girl as well as any now alive, and yet this nearly escaped me. The two are linked – her knowledge and her whiplash withdrawal – both to that building, the Dunstan. Combined, they make her vulnerable, and I would understand what meaning they hold and why she reacts as she does.
I would ask outright, if language still served me as it once did. As I am, I will follow and observe. For this at least, my feline form serves me well. As we rest, I press into her thin side, and she drapes an arm around me in a gesture of affection. Her ribs are heaving from the run, and she is warm. I am content to lend my softness to her comfort. I am content to purr.
I do not intend to nap. It is a characteristic of my kind, abetted, I suspect, by age, which allows me to conserve my energies till needed. An hour, perhaps more, has passed, a respite for us both. In my dreams, I had believed myself observing – three men, their voices too low for me to hear, a replay of some bygone time. That alone should have alerted me: my hearing now is more acute. Still, I am taken aback when the girl begins to speak, recalling me to that dream image. Her voice is soft, as theirs were, too low for her to be addressing another of her kind. No, she is murmuring her thoughts aloud. I would do well to listen.
‘I don’t get it,’ she is saying, as she shakes her head. With one hand, she brushes back her bangs. That absurd pink mop is growing out and falls into her eyes. This is my cue to sit up and to blink. I would appear a willing audience, although she cannot grasp how much I understand.
‘It doesn’t make se
nse, Blackie,’ she says to me. Were it not for that silly name, I might have almost forgotten how she sees me. Who I am to her. ‘The Dunstan was where he worked. Where they sent him. My dad, I mean, after we came to the city.’ She shakes her head. ‘But he did books. Numbers and accounting. I knew there were other men – other prisoners – working in the building, but he never said anything about kids.’
She falls silent, but it is enough. I never knew her parents. Never knew her as other than an urchin – whip-smart but not worldly. Too likely to fall prey to the predators on these streets and too promising to let go. In another life, another form, I tutored her, after a fashion. And then – well, now we are companions again. That past life – a father? A family? – has no resonance for me.
They do explain her reaction, however. The reason she rebuffed that woman, the memory that led her to a particular window. And that horrid bin? No, that was motivated by something less. I regard the scrap of fabric she looks at now, its silvery threads catching the last of the twilight. Then stretch forward to examine it again. It stinks, still, of carrion. But beneath that now I pick up something else – dust and sweat and …
‘Hang on.’ The girl drops the scrap to rummage through her bag, and I step up. Although I am normally fastidious, much more so than the girl, I reach for the disgusting scrap with my mouth. Unlike the girl, I do not eat rotten meats. I do not eat plants, either, as a rule, not that there are many in this grim and concrete world. However, my acute perceptions would inundate a child like her – or any human, really, caught unprepared – and while that makes me careful of my food, it also allows me to read the traces contacts leave.
I mouth the filthy strip of cloth, feeling the loose threads along its side. I close my eyes, willing myself to ignore the sweet foul taste of rot for what is older. Deeper. I get the warm salt of the girl and of others, too. They, too, were tired. Scared?
