As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘Enough,’ she says, rising. I wait by the door as she gathers up her bag, takes a deep breath, and steps out into the dark world.

  She leaves the building almost as quietly as I, scoping out each corner as she descends. The vagrant below the stairs does not wake as she passes by, and I barely slip through the front door, so slightly does she open it for her own passage.

  It is only as she begins to retrace her own earlier steps, however, that I begin to grow concerned. The girl is desperate for an income, I understand that. She seeks to become self-reliant. To establish herself in a trade or with some form of barter, as unlike me, she cannot procure both food and shelter directly. Nor, we are both aware, can she survive on the small jobs such as the keeper brought to her. In other circumstances, she might have the luxury of time. She may still occupy the old man’s office but she will lose it before her reputation is as solid or as widespread as his once was.

  Perhaps this is for the best. As I follow her through the dark streets, I ponder how her mentor met his end. How he – how I – became entrapped. Yes, that body was aging, and, yes, perhaps its perception had begun to flag, leaving me unaware of warnings of which a younger, brighter version of such a man might have taken note. However, the more I recall from that past life the more I come to believe that it was indeed his – my – earlier success that led to my demise. That my ability to foil some of this grim city’s malefactors brought me to the attention of those who consider this town their own personal property, a mill that grinds its less fortunate inhabitants into grist on which to feed. To the attention of one creature in particular, a man I know only as a dark silhouette. A voice that could chill my blood.

  My profile now is not what it was, a fact for which I am grateful as I dash across pitted pavement into the deeper shadow beyond. I am beneath the notice of most on the street, or worthy at most of pity. I see how a streetwalker looks at me, her eyes sad above that painted smile. She would reach out to me, I believe, but for a slowing auto that offers the promise of income and a brief respite from the cold.

  I circumvent the exchange watchfully, wary of the vehicle, its engine still running. Wary, as well, of the woman’s hungry gaze. Hunger and violence breed on each other, out here, when other consolations are denied. And besides, the girl has moved on. I race to catch up with her, aware all the while of the city waking around us. The spring night is chill, but the last freeze has gone, and the damp has freed the full sensory range of the night. A possum, still nursing, has gone to hunt. She is drawn to the ripe garbage down the alley, and with reason. I can hear, as can she, the rustle of rodents, made careless by surfeit.

  I have no time to do likewise. Care has crossed the street again. Even before I can sense those strange vibrations, I suspect she is heading back to the growling building – the so-called shop – where her friend toils. And sure enough, as we approach I feel them. Sense as well the monster’s fetor. Dust and something more: I work to isolate the elements. Steam and sweat, and the throat-catching bite of burnt plastic and oil.

  I do not like it, and not simply for its mechanical sharpness. There is something of dread about the place. A crushing mindlessness that has already claimed one victim, discarded as casually as a rag. Something cold as stone, despite that continuous growl, and as unresponsive. Something, I realize with a chill that sends a shiver through my fur, that I associate with those men – that shadow. My memory – as I now know it to be, fragmented and incomplete as it is – does not present itself with the full panoply of sensory information. It is a vision and a scrap of sound. It dates from before my hearing was as sharp as it now is. From before scent fleshed out my appreciation of the world, and I regret it. If I could smell that man, that evil, I would feel more sure of myself – and of the girl. I am handicapped in this way, more than by my current form. More even than by my present inability to speak.

  Which is not to say I do not sorely regret my inability to make myself understood as the girl approaches the building once more. If I could call to her, if I could warn her of what I fear … but she has circled the building by means of the next street over and come back, avoiding that strange stone paving entirely to approach the now deserted bay. From where she stands, she must have a clear vision of the door through which that body was removed, but she has stopped. She stands still, and for that I am grateful.

  In fact, as she steps back, out of the sick yellow glow of the streetlight, I find myself quite pleased. This girl is not rash, despite her youth, and she has retained at least some of the lessons I once was able to impart.

  Indeed, I feel a kinship now, as she leans against the soot-begrimed brick of the neighboring building and settles in, as if for a long wait. So have I calmly kept watch on an outlet, a hole, waiting for prey to emerge. In her case, the hunt is fraught. The one she seeks may turn on her, making her the prey. He may also, I realize, recalling light on chrome and the rush of tires, leave this place in a vehicle.

  I cannot give her more than companionship, but I do listen for the approach of an engine or of other men. The deep rumble that emanates from this building hasn’t faltered, hasn’t dimmed, and its low drone could mask other sounds, particularly for one whose senses are less acute. I will myself to remain alert, despite the apparent calm. If need be, I will warn her, by any means at my disposal.

  I am not asleep when the sign comes. I have been mulling over the affairs of the last several days. Trying to place them against what I remember, to separate my vague dreams from remembered events. Still, as is the manner of my kind, I begin to drift – those silhouettes becoming as real to me again as the trash bin behind which we shelter. And when I hear the laughter, the squeal, I start. For a moment, past and present have blurred. Laughter – men – and my fur bristles.

  ‘Shh.’ Care, crouching beside me, puts her hand out as if to signal me to quiet. Her palm brushes the end of my upraised fur, and through it I pick up her warmth and also something more dire. I recall her tears, and it is their salt that I scent on her hand. They have dried now, however, and along with their trace, I sense a resolution – a determination signaled as much by her current calm as by the dried sweat that marks a decision wrestled with and made. When I glance up at her face, hidden by darkness to eyes less acute than mine, I see the set of her mouth. She is watching, waiting, still. Readying like the hunter I would have her be.

  The men step into the alley, and the door clamps shut behind them, but they do not proceed toward us, toward the streetlight or the avenue beyond. Instead, they set out toward the unused front of the building. Care curses quietly beneath her breath, and I am confirmed in my suspicion. She does not seek to enter the building, upon their departure, nor wait for the emergence of her friend. She is intent on the men – on Gravitch, whose coarse chuckle joins those of his colleagues as they saunter toward the street. If a vehicle awaits them there, she has lost them, and it is a testament to my own concern for her that, for a moment, I wish this to happen.

  It does not, and as they turn down the dark road beyond, she makes her own way through the alley, passing quickly by the closed door. They would be easy to follow, even without our combined skills. They walk three abreast, their voices loud. Leather-shod feet hard against the smooth stone at the building’s front. The other sounds of the night quiet as they pass, as if aware of their capacity for violence. Three men – two taller and Gravitch, the short and stumpy one between them – the alpha predators in this jungle, or almost. I find myself relaxing as I pace the girl. She has the wit to hang back, to not dare the open stone until they have moved on. And even then, she is wary, making use of such cover as the broken buildings and torn pavement provide. As her quarry walks freely down the empty street, she moves from rubble heap to burnt-out car almost as silently as I. But that alone is not the reason for my ease. It is the men, the three. They are dangerous, of that I have no doubt. But as they have walked – moved from the hard stone to the dirty street – I have been able to appraise them. Judge their gait, thei
r sounds and smell. They are not the three from my nightmare. The monsters of memory, of whom the central character – the leader – still looms large.

  When they approach the ramshackle building where Care met with the woman, my concern heightens. Now is the time to double back. As they push that warped wooden door wide, they are greeted by loud voices and by light. Surely, they will remain for some time, enjoying the spirits and the companionship they will find – or purchase – in this low shebeen.

  But even once the door has swung shut behind them, dulling if not obscuring the raucous tumult within, the girl does not depart. Instead, I realize, she is readying herself to approach, steadying herself with a series of deep breaths and smoothing her wrinkled top in what I recognize as a version of my own grooming.

  And then she walks up to the door.

  I do not panic. It is not in my nature, although I can react almost instantaneously when need be, with claw and tooth – or with swift flight when such a retreat is best. I am, however, alarmed. Not merely at the girl’s approach, but at my own inability to guard her. To warn her. Or, to be honest, to have foreseen this particular development. With growing apprehension, I lower myself nearly to the ground and creep closer. The door hangs badly, light and raucous laughter alike leaking out into the night. The door opens outward, and so I pass it by, seeking once again the rotted place in the boards where I may make my entrance unannounced.

  The room is as I remembered. A rough board serves as a bar, although tonight more patrons cluster around its few low seats. The barkeep is busy, filling their glasses with a brown whiskey that smells more like the effluvia of the streets than of anything potable, and keeps his head down. The boisterous laughter has not yet reached out to include Gina, who slouches in the corner, her back curled against the draft. She is not drinking, I notice, although I suspect her abstinence springs from poverty rather than desire. Her empty flask lies on the bar beside her, its top unscrewed and open.

  ‘Care.’ She sits up as the girl pushes through the door. She has remembered her name and appears pleased to see her, despite the grilling she received when last they met. ‘Come here.’ She pats the stool next to hers, a barrel put to use as seating when its contents emptied, and it occurs to me that she is not fond of the girl so much as she remembers her generosity. The proffer of a drink without the usual payback is recalled as a strange beneficence by this sad, used woman. The disappointment that drags her face down when Care shakes her head and turns away shows the intensity of her thirst, her need.

  ‘Whoa, who have we here?’ A gruff voice, tempered with humor. From my vantage point, near the wall, I cannot see the speaker. I do not need to. It is Gravitch, warmed by drink and in the company of his fellows. Any trace of nervousness has been dispelled by the surroundings or the strong drink he has already managed to down. I see his hand, pounding his empty on the board for the barkeep’s attention.

  ‘It’s Care. Carrie Wright,’ the girl says, as the murky brown liquid fills the glass. ‘I’ve come to see you, Mr Gravitch. If you have a moment.’

  The room does not quiet. It is too loud, its inhabitants too eager for the release of drink, for that. But a kind of hush falls as the men at the bar turn at this unusually formal address.

  ‘If I have …’ He leans back, tipping his seat as he regards her. ‘Learned some manners, have you?’ The glass is raised out of my sight, only to return a moment later, empty once more. ‘Learned to respect your betters, I see.’ The rasp in the voice has softened slightly, but not enough to indicate befuddlement or weakness. I do not know what the girl is playing at, and I make my way closer. I am confused, and I am concerned.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She speaks, but her voice is so soft, he doesn’t hear. He doesn’t need to, as he recognizes the subservient tone. I have circumnavigated the room, coming up from behind the bar to a position near the drinkers. I can see her face. The effect of the deep breathing has worn off, and her pulse is visible in her neck. Despite the chill, the draft that whistles through its unsound walls, the place is close. Ripe with the odors of unwashed men and their foul refreshment, but through even this I sense her warmth. She is scared and sweating, despite the cold. Still, she holds herself firm.

  He sees it too, and turns toward one of his colleagues, making a lewd comment audible throughout the room. She resists the urge to wince, a slight tightening around her mouth the only giveaway that she is afraid. That she would rather run, and I watch her in both fear and awe. Like the drinkers, I wait, knowing that she has not lain down her final card.

  ‘I’m here about my services,’ she says. Her words sound rehearsed, and she quickly amends them. ‘My services at detection,’ she says. ‘I know how to find things, to find people. To locate that which has been lost.’

  A pause as the words sink in. ‘You know I found Dingo for you. I did as you asked.’

  ‘Wasn’t too pretty when you did, was he?’ He looks across at Gina, who turns away. ‘Our Dingo was quite the dog when it came to women. Maybe that’s what got him offed. You think?’

  Murmurs of assent, but Care only nods, her suspicion confirmed.

  ‘You were well paid, too, girl.’ Gravitch leans back, his chair scraping on the floor. ‘Or is that it? You want the rest of your money now?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice is growing stronger. She is reaching the crux of the matter. I creep forward, toward Gravitch’s chair. The man is rank, with more than filth. There is blood on him. Blood that has dried and rotted in the crevices of his skin, despite the harsh cleansing agents he subjected himself to. Despite the perfume. I cannot help the low growl that forms deep in my chest. The lashing of my tail. This man has been involved with pain and violence. With the death of the poor slob who was removed to the truck, and with others, older, as well. I recall the corpse we found, bloated and foul. I look up at Care, her face so calm and pale, willing her to truly see. To discern the brutality beyond Gravitch’s rough humor. To perceive the warning I would give. The truth.

  I crouch, readying for a leap. If she does not leave, I will launch myself at this man. I will claw and bite. I will not win this battle. He and his colleagues will dispose of my body with less thought than they did Big Al’s. But if I can buy her time to escape, I will consider my choice wise. My hindquarters twitch. I prepare myself for the spring, blocking thoughts of the blows and pain to come. I am ready—

  ‘That’s not why I came.’ Care is speaking again, inciting me to wait. As much as I want to protect her, I understand the importance of letting her speak her piece. Also, I am curious.

  ‘I’m not here for the remainder of my fee,’ she is saying. ‘In fact,’ she pauses, but does not lick her lips, as is her wont. She is waiting, too, I realize. Gathering her audience’s attention. ‘I am willing to forego any monies owed. I am here to make an offer, one that I believe will be worth your while.’

  A low hum goes up at that, and another crude joke falls flat. Gravitch isn’t listening to his cohort now. He’s staring at the girl, doing his best to read her. When he fails, he sits back up, relieving me, for a moment, of the worst of his stench. I do not need to see his face to know that he is both puzzled and intrigued.

  ‘You got something to offer me?’ He tilts his head. He does not cogitate easily, this man. I wait for him to pull out a match, moving slowly closer. ‘Something worth more than your scrawny little—’

  ‘I do,’ she says, her answer short and sharp. ‘I’m here to make my offer. I want you to release one of your workers.’ She stumbles a bit on that last word, but I do not believe Gravitch notices. ‘I want you to give me Tick,’ she says.

  I stop short, taken aback by the realization: the girl knows. She is aware that Gravitch is not on the level, that he is, in fact, complicit in the dealings that keep her friend virtually enslaved and, more dangerous still, in the death and successive frame-up attempt at the hovel. But does she sense the shadow behind him? The mastermind who runs Gravitch? The tall, dark man? Surely, she must see that this round
, greasy figure is too nervous for one in a dominant role. That with his tics and insecurities, he is incapable of leading. Incapable of anything but brute enforcement. Surely, she can tell that he lacks the intelligence, the pure drive, to have created such an intricate web of corruption.

  But she is still speaking. Addressing him in a tone of deference. ‘In return, I am offering you my services in detection,’ she says, her voice both low and clear. ‘I’m offering you my allegiance.’

  The loud guffaw sounds like a thunderclap, assaulting my ears and making me jump back. It serves to cover my movement, at least, and from here – behind Gravitch – I can see Care. She is still standing, holding her face impassive as the men hoot and call. Only I, who know her, notice the slight tremble of her lip. Only I, who love her, feel how her heart must sink.

  ‘Your allegiance, you say?’ Gravitch looks around at his colleagues, making sure that they have witnessed his triumph. He adjusts on his seat, releasing his odor again, rank but stale. He is not excited by the girl per se. Rather, he is relieved; his fear has dissipated, dispelled by her concession. By her surrender. ‘So I can use you?’ He is preening.

  ‘My skills.’ She seeks to set boundaries, only it is too late. I sink to the floor in despair. That she loves the boy, I understand. That she will barter away her autonomy, her independence, I do not. ‘If you let Tick go.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says, the match dangling from his lips, ‘I got no control over that. The kid’s in the system.’

  She blinks, saying nothing, but in the split second before her face becomes an impassive mask once more, I see a reaction. He has acknowledged the boy. He knows of whom she speaks. I feel hope flutter in my breast. Perhaps she does understand what this man is, what a small part of the organization he is. Her silence, now, is a force. The onus is on him to respond or not. Only a few seconds pass, but they are enough.