As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘Blackie!’ The scrap is pulled away, and I mew in dismay, a foolish, little sound. Another indignity of this form, but she ignores it. Instead, she examines her finding, holding it close in the fading light. In her other hand, she has the contract her new client signed. Although it is nearly overwhelmed by the stench of the alley, on the paper I recognize the stink of the man, the strange mix of chemicals and perfume. As I watch her face turns from one to the other and back again, and I wait. Clearly, she has seen something, and, unlike me, she does not trust her senses.

  ‘It’s a label,’ she says at last, biting at her lip. ‘T.G. Fashions.’ She is talking to me, and although I suspect I am simply a mirror – a reason for her to voice and then to weigh her conclusions – I blink slowly to encourage her. ‘That’s Gravitch’s business,’ she says, conviction growing in her voice. ‘This could be a coincidence, but my old mentor? The old man? He would say that wasn’t likely.’

  I am silent, barred from responding as I would see fit. Although I would like to make myself understood, would choose to warn this girl, I cannot. Even had I the language, I am not sure what I would say. She has drawn a reasonable conclusion, and I cannot fault her logic. She has learned well, this girl, and at the feet of a master, assimilating the skills of observation and deduction. Seeking out the bits of detritus and unattended scraps of refuse and debris that may reveal a greater whole. It is good work for the careful, and she has become adept.

  That this master, her mentor, is gone is nothing either of us can help. That his reasoning, if not his very soul, has moved on is more than I can communicate, at least in this form. I am as dumb as any beast, and worse, for I have now my feline sensitivity. The trace left there – old blood, spilled cruelly – is more than I would have once been able to discern. Now, it can only add to my frustration. Add in a nagging worry that the girl has been distracted, has not considered all the options, and I am disquieted. The girl is following a trail, and she is doing it with skill and spirit. Only she has not considered the possibility that this trail has been set, rather than laid by chance. That it may lead to more than answers. And I, in this feral feline form, am unable to help her, despite what gifts I now possess.

  There is no point in regret. Its sorry pull is only a remnant of what I have left behind, and so I dismiss it with a flick of my tail. What matters now is this girl. Her hunt and my role in it are all I need focus on. And so when she starts off again, her worn sneakers nearly silent on the asphalt, I follow. We have gone some paces when she stops and turns toward me. I have been staying close. My inability to read even that paper which she consults has stymied me, and although my nose tells me we are near the docks, I do not know this street nor what path she will take. I am aware that the two men we left behind are not alone in their appetites or in their inclination toward violence. Aware as well that other dangers wait, and while my bulk may be small, I have little doubt that I can hear and scent what she cannot, and I can raise an alarm.

  ‘You’re still here.’ She states the obvious. I blink to reassure her, but it seems to have the opposite effect. ‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head. I see sadness there and something more. Could she be worried about me? ‘It’s not safe for you down here.’

  She is remembering how she found me. How she pulled a half-drowned cat from a storm drain and shared her food and the warmth of her body until he revived. That is what she knows of me, of my past. To this, I have no doubt, she attributes the allegiance I now show. That I had another life – a previous bond – she cannot suspect. How could she, when I have only recently discovered it myself?

  I have no response. I know that to her my eyes appear cold, but I continue to stare into hers. Surely, something of what I would will her to understand must get through. Surely, some scrap of memory or resemblance …

  But no. The girl sighs and shakes her head again and then she looks back – toward the city. Toward the office where we two have lived these past few weeks. She steps toward me.

  And I bolt. I would not have her grab me, even if she thinks it is for my own safekeeping. I would not have her abandon her trail to ferry me to safety. I skid to a halt only yards away and yet, to her inferior senses, out of sight. Thus, the die is cast, and as she turns and continues on, I remain beyond her limited vision, following her easily as she slowly makes her way down this dark street. I may no longer be her mentor – the old man whose methods she would make her own – but I am a cat.

  It is not long before we reach our destination. I cannot read maps or signs – but I can make out the features of the girl as she looks down at the scrap again and up at a rundown warehouse, one of a series of squat buildings on this dank and ill-lit street. Like its neighbors, it has no signage, and all but one of its windows have been blackened by paint or dirt, but there are markings on the door and a rumbling within, a vibration I sense as much as hear. It seems to growl, almost, as if some fiendish beast were stirring inside, as if the building itself lived. It is a sign of life – of industry even – I suspect, but it disquiets me. There is something ominous about that deep and throbbing sound, that ceaseless reverberation, particularly at an hour when the offices in more frequented areas have been shuttered and stand dark.

  The vibrations change as we move from the rutted road to an unexpected smoothness, hard and cool. Flagstone, my claws tell me as they extend by reflex, gripping all the harder for the lack of purchase. A remnant of another age, and barely here at that. Only an attenuated strip of the wide, flat stones remains, bridging the gap between the road and the low brick building hard on it. Whatever commanding edifice was once heralded by such monumental paving is long gone. The low structure that now sits here, squatting like a toad, is undistinguished. Blind, except for that one window. Faceless, except for that metal door, distinguished only by three small markings of a kind I can no longer read.

  It is the markings she looks at, checking them against the sheet in her hand. Once she has confirmed her hunch, she steps back off the stone apron, and retreats to the building next door. Unlike its neighbor, it stands quiet, empty at least at this hour of industry or trade. A rusted fire escape hangs from its side, but its platform – one story up – is long gone. Still, I see the girl appraising it, and wonder as well at its utility as a means of observation if not egress.

  The faint sigh of metal – the squeak of a door nearby – and a slight elevation in the machine noise draws her away. Skirting the cool stone, she crosses the front of the rumbling building with a stealth I admire, and peers down the alley at its other side. Unlike its neighbor, there are no safety features here, nor signs that there ever were. However, this alley seems more traveled, illustrated as it is by a covering of graffiti. At its far end, a streetlight’s yellow glow highlights these scrawls – symbols even I can tell serve as cries of frustration, impotent and angry. There are other signs as well, which I, if not the girl, may read.

  I smell the air. Another tom has been here. It is spring, despite the chill, and he is young and on the prowl. My fur begins to rise as I take in his rank, assertive scent not unlike the bite of bleach, and I must recall myself to who I am – to what my purpose now must be.

  Was this my territory, at one point? A place that I – this feline form – knew before my transformation? A shift in the air brings me the aroma of a female as well. A queen whose early litter was endangered by that reckless male. She chased him off – the air holds traces of their spit and blood – and for a scant moment, my heart races as well. Could that female, those kittens, have been mine? I came aware as an adult male. Aged even, but this body must have lived before … It is no use. My understanding of time has become an animal’s, all fades back from the present, and yet …

  ‘Gina!’ It’s the girl. She calls out softly as a figure stumbles from a door into the alley. Like its partner, at the building’s front, it is grey metal. Windowless. Unlike its mate, it has opened, expelling the woman from earlier, now the worse for wear. Her face is smudged, the paint has run,
and even the girl must see how she favors one leg, one side, as she steps away.

  ‘It’s me,’ Care tries again, her voice a little louder, ‘Care.’

  The woman pauses. She must hear the girl, and for a moment I believe she will turn. But then that moment passes, and she hurries away toward the other end of the alley. Limping, she turns the corner and is gone.

  Care is standing at the alley’s mouth. Oblivious, I fear, to the creak and shimmy of the door as it begins to open once again. To me, the movement is plain to see, and I crouch down, ready to do all in my power to alert her – and to lead off those who might emerge. But the light within highlights the movement, and as it spills out, she steps aside. She is not hidden, there is no time for that as two men lumber laughing from the portal, toward the building’s rear. I hear the intake of her breath as she presses against the wall. Stillness, as well as shadow may serve her yet.

  ‘Goddamn Dingo,’ says one, and I see Care start at the name. ‘He was going soft, he was.’

  The speaker looks up – the movement has caught his eye – but then he turns away. Night blind from the illumination within they continue on their way. This close even she must smell him, as well as see his ill-featured face. He is one of the brutes we encountered in the alley, smaller than his colleague, though neither would I have Care confront.

  ‘He never liked it rough. Not like you, George.’ The bigger man slaps his friend in play.

  ‘Ah, you just don’t want to have to clean up again,’ the smaller man responds.

  ‘Not my job,’ his colleague laughs. ‘Let’s get some beers.’

  ‘You don’t want to—’ The other man’s question is lost as his voice drops and a hand gesture finishes his thought.

  ‘No, no,’ his colleague replies. ‘He’s home safe, all right. He’s sulking.’ It seems a non sequitur, but I have been distracted by my concern. The girl is moving. She is keeping to the shadow, but still this is rash. She crosses the alley that the men have left. She would follow them, I believe. Only, as she steps into the street, the sound of an engine urges her back against the wall. A car, its engine rough and noisy, has turned the corner. In the sulfurous light, it is yellow, the long stain on its side darkened almost to black. It pauses for a moment, and then it drives away.

  EIGHT

  I cannot tell her that I am uneasy. The girl is set on her mission, and the brief reappearance of her earlier acquaintance has heightened her mood in ways I cannot decipher.

  ‘Brutes,’ she mutters, her voice a rumbling growl beneath her breath. I too have seen the woman, and I understand her response. Mating spurs rivalries, as I have so recently noted. And the violence can spread to the offspring, especially when resources are limited. These men, however, seem to be the kind who take pleasure in the pain of the other, who see the act of mating as a form of subjugation. What I do not understand is why the girl has allied herself with the blowsy woman. She is weak, the blonde, and as such, poses a danger.

  I take comfort in one fact: Care does not go after her. Instead, once the men stride off, she follows as far as the streetlight, though I am pleased to observe how she surveys both the corner and the buildings opposite before she approaches. Stepping into the yellow light, she pulls the paper from her bag again, holding it close as she reads. Of course, the reference to her quarry – the ‘home’ mentioned might well be the known locations she had asked her client about. Except …

  The fixture buzzes like a trapped fly, and I long to snap it down. I am watching this girl, this Care, go about her hunt. Witnessing her use of the procedures she has learned both from her mentor and, more recently, through her own experience of crime and of the streets. And yet I am not easy, and it is not only that high-pitch whine above, or the building’s rumbling drone, that sets my ears back against my skull. I am a cat, and as such, I am practical. We live in the real world, we beasts, and have no time nor use for the fancies that preoccupy humans. I do not believe in hunches or magic, or even spirits, although my own continued existence remains a mystery to me. However, I am aware that my senses are acute and that my instincts may be picking up on factors that I have not yet consciously acknowledged. The memory of movement, a shadow that reacts, comes to mind. No, I am not easy.

  The girl leaves me no time to consider, however. As I pause to ponder, one paw raised to smooth my harried fur, she takes off, ducking from the sickly light back to the shadows as she makes her way up the avenue. To one of her own, she would be difficult to trace. Her movements are stealthy, and she is small for her kind. For me, to follow is but child’s play. Kitten’s play, perhaps, not that I recall a feline youth. An image of a day-blind vole surfaces, one that stumbled and darted, too dimwitted and confused to recognize its peril or seek cover. It should be a pleasurable recollection – that creature was a fat find on a particularly cold morning – but it isn’t. The memory of vulnerability sits poorly on me. I am a hunter. It is how I live. But others are hunters, too, and I would not have Care become their prey.

  I follow in her wake, with double precaution in mind. I am alert to the city. Down here, by the water’s side, it is never truly quiet. Hunters of many types make their way both before and behind us. If I were not watching Care, I would join them. The taste of that vole is fresh again in my memory. But I ignore it to keep myself engaged, alert to signs of passage by others on the prowl. At the same time, I remove myself from the range of her sight and hearing. I would not have her distracted as she makes her way across this wilderness. Nor do I want her attempting to remove me again, through affection or concern. Better she should suspect me gone – on the hunt or to the makeshift home that we both share. She will not worry overmuch, I do not believe, if I disappear until the morning, until some other place.

  Still, I cannot avoid a frisson of fear. The girl has turned into an unlit street, but the moon has made its passage while I slept and her shadow stretches long before her in the cold. She stays close to the buildings here, crouching as she runs to shrink her profile. Still, her shadow precedes her, clocking her progress on the broken pavement. It is a route I know, a passage to the wharfs. And while here the pavement reaches to the cracked concrete that once served as a walk, we are not far from where even this rutted surface will falter and fall short. Where the gutter that runs alongside will widen to catch the outflow and effluvia of a working city. A roaring torrent after a storm, funneled into a corrugated pipe that leads to the harbor, that drain was where my old life ended, where the girl I follow found me. Where she saved me.

  My hide ripples involuntarily, as if some unseen flea has irked me. For sure, it is no accident that draws her – draws us – to this area, but my discomfort may stem from nothing more than memory. The harbor has long been the home of commerce, both open and illicit. The low brick buildings here do not draw the same attention as the larger warehouses by the train tracks and the water, but they remain standing, more or less, and there are good reasons why a business such as Gravitch’s would be located here. His workers, perforce, dwell nearby.

  Besides, I have seen no trace of that shadow, the one that eluded me before. I have not forgotten it. I forget little, one remnant of my earlier training that has survived. But I do not worry overmuch about that which is not present, and tonight holds troubles of its own. That drainage ditch will not be one.

  Before we reach it, the girl pauses. Has turned from the wider avenue into a lane that leads her to an open space. We have passed beyond the commerce district, as paltry as it may be. Whatever stood here once was gone, leaving an open lot, now washed in moonlight that plays up the sole heap of rubble rising in its center.

  Not mere rubble, I see. It is a shack of sorts, assembled from that refuse and the findings of the piers. Warped wood, worn by water or by age, makes for patchwork walls. Rusted tin rests at an awkward angle as a roof. The torn grating of a fence propped alongside seems to serve as support. There is no cover. No plants grow here. Nothing that would be green, even were it not bleached by that fuls
ome moon.

  She waits and I hear my own breathing settle along with hers, till we are in quiet synchrony. The moon moves overhead, sending shadows out to meet the little shack, but still no sign of life appears. No life beyond what I would expect, that is. I hear the scrambling of rodents in the dark. An opossum who has made her way in search of grubs or something sweeter. I watch the girl. Such as these are not to her interest, but if she chooses to wait …

  She does not. I am thinking of the hunt, of the iron tang of fresh blood in my mouth, as she steps forward, moving quickly through the elongated shadow. She has made it almost to the end before I recover, those thoughts of eating and the kill distracting me from her fast and silent progress. But I am made for moving unnoticed through the dark and so I follow, darting ahead even as she pauses to glance back at the street. I reach the hovel before she does, my advance over the last lit lap only a flicker, a dark shade low to the ground.

  The shelter, such as it is, is open: darkness has concealed the unlocked door, which hangs broken from a hinge. I sidle by it. I do not need such obvious portals, and the makeshift wall sports several less obvious means of entrée. I size up one set further toward the back. The marks of teeth around the edges reveal how it was enlarged, but they are weathered and old. The rat who made these has found other egress, or is gone, but even as I rub against it, marking it as my own, I hesitate.

  I had intended to pass ahead, to scope out this place before the girl, but now I pause. There is more than darkness within. An odor, as thick and powerful as a wall, stops me in my tracks. I would not go into this ruin. I would not have her enter either.

  I am too late. Too late and powerless in my concern. Care makes her move, pushing the door before her. I hear the sigh and creak of it before I realize she has passed within. I catch the sharp intake of her breath before I can will myself to move, to follow via my own entrance into the dark and fetid hut.