by Clea Simon
Now that the girl has emerged, I experience a faint regret. I should have hunted while I had the opportunity. The nagging fear that kept me beside the makeshift bar has lifted somewhat, and I am aware of my hunger. Of the pain in my belly and my left hind leg. But I have larger concerns than these simple animal needs. I am glad to see the girl emerge unharmed and I make myself known, coming from the darkness to twine around her ankles.
‘Blackie.’ She reaches down for me, and I let her lift me and hold me in her arms. I am tired and in pain, and her embrace speaks of her own trials. ‘I should have known you’d be here,’ she says. ‘That you’d wait for me.’
For a moment I wonder. Is there any chance that this girl understands? That she has comprehended who I am, and why I dog – yes, that is the word – her steps? Can she?
‘Good kitty.’ She nuzzles the thick fur of my ruff, which keeps me from turning in her arms. From looking into those green eyes, not so different from my own. If I could, perhaps I would be able to gauge what she comprehends. If she sees in me her former mentor and her friend, or if she has any understanding of how I came into this form. But I cannot. She holds me tight, and her breath is warm. And I am an animal, and for the moment at least, such questions are kept at bay by the comfort of another. By her scent and the warm pressure of her hands.
Indeed, this time I let myself be lifted into the girl’s canvas bag. I am tired. It is late, and I have learned to trust her, feral creature though I am, and it is pleasant to be carried. To be heading back to a place of safety and of warmth. Once I am safely stowed, she begins the long walk home, using a more measured pace than earlier. And as she walks, she cogitates upon the events of the night, murmuring beneath her breath. The bag rocks at her side as she makes her way, a gentle rhythm, and I slip in and out of sleep, cradled on the papers she has also stowed within. But my hearing is acute and I catch her quiet musings. She has questions still that the woman did not answer. About the boy whose brief appearance saved her. About the body we discovered, and the man who called that hovel home.
Dozing, I believe myself on the hunt and consider the young tom whose path I crossed. His raw, masculine scent haunts me, and my paws twitch as I drift, as if I were readying for a fight. In my dream state I perceive my adversary turning. Growing into a thing most large and dangerous. Caught as I leap, as I judge myself about to land, I twist, desperate to escape, and I do, in that I wake to find myself still hungry. Still aching, but still safe as well, for now, tucked inside canvas thin enough to convey the warmth of the girl beside me.
‘I wonder who he is,’ she is saying. ‘Or was. Someone must miss him, surely. Poor guy, left there like that.’
It’s a fate I know well, as does the girl. She must be remembering another such – the old man, her mentor – left to die alone. The ragged edge of the dream begins to pull me under, but I resist. Adjust my position to stretch my sore leg, aware as I do that my movement may disrupt Care’s train of thought. I would not sleep with these thoughts in mind, and stretch again, this time flexing my hind claws against the papers she has also stowed within. She kept them, despite their stink. But her sense of smell is not as keen as mine. She can tell, she has said, that the man was not newly killed. That the corpse in the hovel had been dead before she took Gravitch’s commission by hours at least, if not by days. But did she have time to discern that it had been moved? The cot beneath it, while dirty, had not been soaked in the natural outflow of death.
I recall the poor room now and wonder at the papers curled beneath me. A nest they’ve made, an added cushion to my aching form. But now I twist to face them, to take their edges in my mouth. The taint of death, yes, much as anything in that room would carry. The old, dried husks of insects, discarded beneath the flooring. But there is more. Blood and sweat, both infused with the sharp bite of pheromones. Of fear, and another scent, familiar as my dream and yet—
It is too much, my movement. The girl has stopped. The bag opens as she peers in. I blink up at her, but she does not meet my gaze. Instead, she reaches past me, grabbing for the papers that have been my bed.
‘Excuse me, Blackie.’ With a disconcerted mew I let them go as she pulls them forth. I would have had more time with them, but I have only my own foolishness to blame. Fatigue or, more likely, age, have robbed me of the opportunity. And as she settled on the curb to read them, I extract myself as well to draw close and rub my head against the gathered pages.
‘It’s numbers, Blackie.’ She reaches for me, one hand gentle on my back. She has misread my interest.
‘One three-digit number and then this list of longer ones. One, two … nine digits, all of them. I don’t know what they mean.’ She looks from one page to the next, and as she does, I seize the opportunity, brushing up against them once again. Death and dirt, for sure. The fragrant sheddings of that centipede. But something sharper as well, something beyond the sour scent of fear. A trace of that young tom? Is it the pungent alkali of spunk that irritates the wet leather of my nose? Not feline, though—
‘Deliveries? Payments?’ She pulls the page from me. Brushes it off, as if the faint spatter on its surface were so much soil, easy to flick away. ‘Payoffs? Is this why he was killed?’
She falls silent as she examines the page and then turns to stare at its reverse, and once again I regret my mute state. She is adept at reading the symbols written there. The obvious signs made by men on paper. But can she sense the remnants of violence there, which are so obvious to me? Is she aware of their age, which pre-dates the demise of the unfortunate in that hovel? I will her to remember those lessons long ago. That she must know better than to assume a connection she cannot prove. That those who live by the harbor kill each other for little reason, or for none. I mew softly in protest, but she does not hear. My mute state, the inequality between us – in terms of perception, in terms of communication – more troubling than any lingering pain.
‘He was left there purposefully, Blackie.’ She talks to me still, although she has no knowledge of how much I comprehend. I find this realization comforting, despite everything, and with the soft burr of her voice, allow it to lull me back into the half-awake dream state I have so recently left. ‘Left for Dingo. Or for me.’ The words have fear behind them, but the voice is calm and thoughtful. ‘The question is, who was he? And maybe more important, why was he killed?’
TWELVE
The dream is of shadows. Three men, tall and cruel. Two are silent as they bend over me. Silent as they recede and fade, as my dying body sinks. I know them now, and even in sleep I can fill in their faces: one piggish and thick, the other a slight, rat-faced man. It is the third who remains unclear to me. He is taller than the others and looms larger in my dream. Almost, I can hear him speak …
‘What?’ Not a man’s voice. A girl’s. Care, startled from sleep beside me. And I, who pride myself on my keen senses, am taken unaware. The sound of pounding: fists. No, boots, making the office door shake. Despite the hour of our arrival back here, in the office. Despite fatigue, the girl has taken precautions. Barred the door. The piece of lumber, salvaged during a midnight stroll, makes a sturdy barricade. It bounces in the metal brackets, souvenirs of the same construction site. But it holds, as do the nails the girl drove in with swift, strong strikes.
‘Police!’ A gruff voice barks. ‘Open up.’
I am up and onto the windowsill before the girl can respond, the night’s stiffness forgotten as I leap. She glances toward me, then back toward the door, half rising from the sofa where we – where I – have slept since our return. She stayed up till dawn, I know from dreamy memory. The candle by her face. Searching for meaning, I gathered from the soft utterances that she made. The lists of numbers have proved as opaque to her as they are to me.
‘Police!’ The word itself a threat, sounded with a volume that would pin my ears flat to my skull even if the tone did not. The girl is not as sensitive as I, but as she stands to face the door, I experience a moment of dismay. Surely, sh
e will not obey such a harsh command. Surely, if the assaultive sound has not alarmed her, she will have noticed the sequence of events. It is no accident that the pummeling woke us. If the door had given way, those on the other side would not have bothered to announce themselves.
My earlier dream comes back to me. The impression of the hunt turning, the quarry looming to attack. If she should continue to stand there, like some fear-blind rabbit. If she should open the door …
‘Come on, girly.’ The voice a brusque command. ‘We know you’re in there.’
Another blow makes the portal vibrate, and I can hear the board begin to crack. I do not know if the men outside are as perceptive, or if they bother to mark the way the door itself has begun to sag, its hinges giving way. The repeated word – that appellation ‘girly’ – has roused Care from her stupor, though, achieving what the violence did not. She runs silently to the desk and grabs up the papers scattered there, shoving them once more into her carryall.
Another blow. The door shudders but it holds, and the thud of boots retreating down the stairs offers the promise of relief. The speaker has not left, however, although his tone now moderates. ‘We just want to talk to you. We have some questions.’ If the words are meant to reassure, they are undercut by those that follow. ‘We need to know about that stiff in the wreckage, girly. About why you killed Paul Dingett.’
At the name, the girl freezes once more, and I hunker down, hindquarters quivering, prepared to jump. I could be out of this room, away from the violence those men intend, with a leap. The ledge below offers me safe passage to the street and beyond. But the girl cannot move as I can. Cannot launch herself to safety, and so I turn back toward the more wonted entry to where footsteps rush the steps once more. I will have one chance to distract them, to claw at exposed flesh and to howl. If, in that moment, she can make her escape, my sacrifice will have been worthwhile.
Another crash, louder this time. The men have returned with some kind of a tool. We hear them count – ‘one, two’ – and we both recoil as their battering ram, makeshift or not, rattles the door, sending splinters flying. I store the tension like a spring, ready to pounce. But the girl moves before I need to. Throwing the bag over one shoulder, she grabs the old overcoat she has slept under in one hand and the chair in the other, pulling them both toward me, toward the window. I sit up in surprise as she pushes the sash up and clambers up beside me on the sill. As I watch, she takes the arms of the overcoat and ties them together, around and under the back of the chair. Then, using the body of the overcoat as a rope, she lowers herself out the window,
The chair rises up as she descends, crashing with a ferocious bang against the window. I freeze at the noise, as it holds and totters – nearly filling the open space. Beyond it, I can see her, hanging there. Her feet are swinging free, too clumsy to find footing on the concrete ledge. She looks up at me, her eyes wide with fright. Behind me, I hear a final thud – a crack and a bellow, as the men break into our sanctuary.
‘Blackie!’ Her voice is a harsh whisper. Imploring. But the chair still sways, like a thing alive, the echo of its crash ringing in my ears.
‘Blackie,’ she calls again, though softer, and her voice brings me back to myself. My better self. For despite my limitations, I am no mere animal. And while I would flee the noise both before me and behind, and the violence it is sure to herald, I answer to a stronger allegiance.
I turn. I hiss. ‘It’s that cat.’ The leader, he now wears some kind of uniform, points me out. His troops understand this as a command. Two step forward and I react, arching my back in my own display.
‘Blackie!’ Her voice is louder now, but it is too late. And then – yes! – I hear a thud, and I turn to see the girl has dropped to the ground below. She pulls herself to her feet and stares up, her face drawn and bloodless, despite her own escape.
She fears for me, I realize, just as the danger that she dreads descends. A hand larger than my head has grabbed my tail, and I look up to see cold death in my assailant’s eyes. But I am lucky. Had he grabbed my ruff, I would have been unable to turn as I do. To twist and lash out, spitting, with all four claws bared for the fight. I am smaller than he, by far, and should be easy prey. But my speed and fury, as much as the thin lines of blood now welling along the back of that hand, cause him to draw back. Make him momentarily loosen his grasp as he cries out in startled dismay.
And in that moment, I am gone. I jump toward that hideous chair and squeeze through the window, scrambling for purchase on the ledge below. Before I have even fully righted myself, I launch myself again to the alley floor below. Toward Care, who is waiting, and together we head for the street, leaving the shouts of the men behind us.
THIRTEEN
‘Gravitch knew.’ The girl is talking to herself, and I flick my ear to listen. ‘He must’ve known that Dingo was dead. He didn’t need me to find that out. So why hire me?’
I can’t fault her logic, but she has been repeating herself. Unable to move her thought process forward, instead she worries this one deduction like a kitten with a wounded vole. ‘He told me where Dingo lived,’ she says. ‘He has all those guys working for him. He could’ve found him. He must have.’
It is as well that we both slept before we were forced to flee. The girl is too wrought up to rest now, and while I pass in and out of a doze, I keep my focus on her. It’s not that I doubt her ability to reason. Unlike so many in this world, she thinks before she acts and takes in factors beyond her simple appetites. Only she has had a shock.
‘He had to have known I’d go—’ She stops, and I open my eyes. From the look of concentration, I can see that she has pieced the parts together. That not only is the man she sought dead, that he was, apparently, the corpse that we found, but that he was laid out like a trophy. Like a mouse or bird, ready for her to find.
She must, I trust, have noticed the other salient fact. Her sense of smell is not as keen as mine. But surely the other signs – the appearance of that wound, the lack of blood and of those who live on blood – must have informed her: that corpse was neither freshly dead nor killed in that place. No, that scene was staged, and our discovery was simply the trigger for the arrival of the authorities, or whoever these enforcers may be. This is what the girl has spent the last hour piecing together. What she has been chewing over, when she could have been resting.
We have, after all, found shelter of a sort. As does any scared animal, the girl ran toward the area she knows – toward the harbor – and I followed. I do not fret about the future. It is not the way of my kind, even less so now that I have met what is deemed the one irrevocable end. But as I made my own way down those rutted streets, darting ahead into shadows to avoid the workaday traffic, I did find myself wondering what I could do for this girl. How I could rein her in when she seemed so intent on seeking out danger, when we had so recently gotten free? Inchoate and vaguely anxious thoughts – remnants of another life, really – that I calmed by watching for the traffic ahead. For the trudge of workers making their rounds. For the rumble of tires on the hard stones.
It was full light by the time we went to ground in the basement of an abandoned building. It was a place I remembered, retaining as I do the memory of scent and taste – of dampness and nights huddled around hoarded food. The boy had found this hideaway. It was he who hid his stores behind the loose bricks. A crust of bread and some cheese too hard and dry to offer much even to my rasping tongue. He and the girl had spent a night here, back before the boy was taken.
I do not know if the girl comes here because of that history. It is long past, and the boy’s presence only a memory, I could tell her. The only life I scent as we descend to the shadowed chamber is of my own kind and of those we hunt. Even that rind is long gone, its waxen edges gnawed by dozens of ceaseless teeth.
She checks the makeshift cupboard anyway, though surely she must know it will be empty. It is, and I see her body sag. She leans against the wall, her head hangs down. I do not think sh
e grabbed the envelope of bank notes in her rush.
‘Tick,’ she says, and I realize it is not food she hungers for. She repeats the boy’s name, and I cannot help myself from bristling, my back arching slightly even as hers slumps. I do not trust the child. He is a slave to hungers, to pressures that she has proved herself immune to – he has shown a taste for the illicit drugs that tore his mother from him. Still, her longing – for such a weak and wayward boy – makes her vulnerable as well. Compels actions that are not sensible for a small creature in this wasteland.
And yet her sorrow acts on me, and I would soften it. With an exhalation that would, I believe, almost approximate a sigh, I stretch to straighten out my back and lean into her, rubbing my cheeks and then my long body against her legs, smoothing down my own fur as I comfort her. Even over my own purr, I hear how ragged her breath has grown. She is on the edge of tears, and so I twine myself about her, to warm and distract, and to remind her that, although the boy is gone, she is not alone.
My maneuver works, and she reaches for me, holding me close as she buries her face in my fur. I am not comfortable being held. I do not like having my freedom restricted, as too often my own survival has depended on the ability to jump and twist and run. But I cannot resist the warmth of the girl, of her breath against my scarred and weary hide. My eyes close, and my front paws begin to work, despite myself, in the gentle kneading motion of a kittenhood I no longer can recall. As she strokes my back, her hand gently smoothing my hackles, her breath calms and my purr deepens. For a little while, we are at peace.
I did not sleep then, not exactly. Although the girl slides at last to the ground, exhausted from our flight and from the long night before, she holds me close, leaning back against the worn brick. I remain in her arms as long as it is possible to do so. She left the coat behind her when she fled. The basement is hidden from sight, but this close to the harbor the ground is permeated with moisture. This adds to the penetrating chill, and I would keep her warm, despite my growing discomfort with this posture. With the restriction of my movement.
