As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he says, at last. The men watch him sideways, waiting for him to reassert the dominance he crowed about only moments before. ‘You come back to me tomorrow.’ He removes the match, points it at her. ‘I’ll have a job for you.’

  ‘And Tick?’ She raises her chin. She is hanging onto her pride.

  ‘Depends on how well you do the job,’ he responds. ‘Don’t it?’

  With that, he turns back toward the bar. She has been dismissed. Still, for a moment she stands, the struggle clear on her face. She wants to insist. To obtain promises, a timeline. But she has nothing left to offer, and so she turns too, leaving behind the rude place for the night. Behind her, the door swings shut but does not hang true.

  I slip through, pushing it open with little effort, and find her there, bent over with her hands on her knees. She did well, in there. As much as I did not approve of her actions, could never condone the deal she made, she did it with a show of strength that that greasy man could not ignore. Now she is trembling and breathing hard. I glide through the shadows to join her. To comfort her as she gasps in air.

  Another shadow passes first, and I freeze, waiting to see what form it will take. Gina has snuck out quietly, or as quietly as her type can, her footsteps masked by the loud laughter at the bar.

  ‘Hey,’ she calls softly. Care looks up and then straightens. The woman stands waiting. ‘That was something, what you did in there. For your friend.’

  Care starts with the recognition. The unexpected empathy. Then she shrugs, as if to downplay her sacrifice. ‘It’s business,’ she says. ‘It’s a straight-ahead deal.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ says the woman. She glances back at the building. The light from inside shines on her face, highlighting the lines drawn through its sad bloat. ‘Only, you know what it means, right? That he’ll own you.’

  Care’s head jerks back. She catches herself, but I see it. The woman does, too. She pretends she hasn’t. Looks away, blinking. ‘That’s not—’ She stops. ‘You should get yourself something. Something like this.’ She opens her bag and tilts it forward. I too see the small dagger inside. ‘They can get rough,’ she says.

  ‘I gather.’ Care’s voice is flat.

  ‘They’re not all bad.’ The woman is speaking quickly. ‘Dingo gave me this. After – well, to keep things from getting out of hand again.’

  Care nods, but the woman isn’t done. ‘If you could get my Billy, I could help, you know. If you would get him too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Care eyes the woman. ‘How could you help?’

  ‘You know it’s not him in charge.’ The woman’s words confuse Care, but I regard her with a new respect. She has knowledge that she has not revealed before. ‘Gravitch, I mean,’ she clarifies, as she nods back at the door. ‘He works for the machine.’

  ‘I know the system’s rotten.’ The girl’s voice is bitter. ‘That a lot of people are involved in it. Tick said—’ She stops, shakes her head. ‘I wanted to call the authorities,’ she says now. ‘Wanted to turn them in. Turn them all in.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ It’s the woman’s turn to shake her head, even as she reaches for Care. ‘You can’t. Really.’

  Care steps back and Gina drops her hands, but she continues to lean in, her voice growing soft. ‘Someone tried that. Someone dropped a dime. A con in records, some paper pusher.’ Her voice drops lower still, and Care waits, her face eager. ‘They took him out. Him and his whole family.’

  ‘His whole family?’ Care’s voice has a quaver, an echo I have not heard before.

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ says the woman. ‘Made it look like an accident. Like with a car or truck. He’d been warned, I heard. They told him: “Your wife, your kid. Everyone,” they told him. But …’ She shrugs and stops. Even she must see how Care is staring. How her green eyes have gone wide and glassy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Gina. She thinks she’s scared the girl. Scared her enough, at any rate. She’s wringing her hands, but it is her own tragedy that consumes her. ‘Just, you know, keep your deal. Do for Gravitch, right? Whatever he wants. Only, if it does work – if he does get your friend for you, you’ll think of my Billy, won’t you? He’s just a little tyke, and I haven’t seen him in so long. And I’m sorry. You know, that I didn’t tell you about him – about them.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ The girl reaches out and clasps those wringing hands. For a moment, the two are bonded. Allies in a strange way. Then the woman turns back toward the bar. She pauses a moment at the door. Straightens up and pushes it open. But I am not watching her. I am focused on the girl, who has staggered away from the pool of light. Her steps break into a run, and I dash ahead, only to stop. She has made it only as far as the next alley, where she has collapsed against the wall. The sound of her sobs fills the air.

  TWENTY-THREE

  She stumbles so and moves with such lurching progress that I fear for her as we make our way from the waterfront. The door to the tavern, as flimsy as it is, did not stir as she wiped her face and set out. Still, I listen for the creak of its rotted wood, for the sound of footsteps shod in leather, as we wind our way back toward the heart of the city. Those men inside did not mean her well, despite their apparent acceptance of her offer. Nor can I be sure of the woman’s role in all of this. That she misses her boy and hopes for Care’s assistance, I do not doubt. Even were my ears not more sensitive than a human’s, I would hear the tight, high whine of longing that creeps in when she speaks of him. And yet there is something about her that speaks of deception: the quick, nervous glances back toward the bar, not entirely explained by her fear of the men – or the custom she might lose. A tension that remains, although she would camouflage it, even after the maternal ache has passed. If I could communicate, I would warn the girl, though I know not yet of what. Something in that woman’s words has undone the girl, and I am torn between uncovering the truth and watching over Care.

  My concern may, in fact, be moot. In this state, she might not heed me. And that, I realize as I dart toward a less exposed corner, as I take in the dark, empty windows above us as well as the rumble of the sewer below, underlies my unease. The night has quieted, as much as it ever does, and I do not perceive any threats beyond the usual. Two men, more feral than any curs, pass nearby. I smell their bitterness, unwashed and angry. But they do not come near, intent as they are on the offerings in the tavern, both of the liquid and, I suspect, companionate variety. A scent about them – funky and sharp – tickles at my memory. Too late, I lose it in the panicked hush that follows. The world – my world – goes silent, as above, obscured in the overcast that dims as well the stars, an owl flies. I hear the almost liquid rush of air beneath his wings. The breathless pause – and then the scurry as those who smaller than I, and more frightened, make for shelter. I put this from my mind. I am not foolish enough to believe myself too fearsome to be prey. But this night, in this company, I favor other concerns. The girl has suffered an upset of sorts, and I would see her home.

  That, at least, is where I believe her headed, much as I would expect any injured animal to go to ground. I expect her to barricade herself in the old man’s office. To lick her wounds and rest, regrouping for another day’s attacks. When she does not head across the avenue, into the relative silence of the rundown business district, I am curious. I become concerned as she proceeds instead toward the west – toward the yard where first she met the woman, I think. But, no, with increasing unease I ascertain that her path leads to a more fraught destination. She is heading toward that place she terms the Dunstan. The brick monolith where we were almost trapped, where a body was left to bleed out in a bin like so much trash.

  I do not like this. But short of rushing her, with claw and fang, I have little means of turning her, and even that would do more harm than good, unsettling still further the fragile peace she has seemed to find. Instead, I approach quietly and let her spy me in her path, before I fall back to let my fur brush against her leg. If I cannot turn her,
nor question why she has detoured this way I can, at least, comfort her. As little as that is, I will do.

  I am in luck, or so it seems. She has smiled down at me, her green eyes meeting mine, and gained strength from my presence. I note the tremble in her lips, but also how I calm her. To the point where I wonder if I’ve done more harm than good, easing her qualms about her present path. But whether my appearance has heartened her resolve, or merely cheered her, does not matter. She enters the alley where we were trapped and I see at once that the bin has gone. She does as well, a moment later, although in the dark she searches for it, arms out as she explores first one corner and then another.

  ‘Damn,’ she mutters, the word soft beneath her breath confirms what I have feared. She once again seeks to enter this building To find some answer within to the turmoil that the woman’s words provoked. For my part, I am relieved. The girl is tired, and she is overwrought. Her mental capacity will have been weakened by fatigue, a malaise both physical and of the soul, and I would not have her go in there. I am glad, as well, that the foul bin has been removed. Although it only retained the miasma of death, it had been used for evil. I would not revisit it, if that could be helped. Yet, its absence does seem curious. I would that the girl ponder this also.

  The girl is pressed against the alley wall. She eyes the ledge above her. Runs her hands along the pitted brick, seeking some kind of hold. She will be hard pressed to find it. This edifice is better cared for than many, certainly than the ruins by Ink Square. Despite the stains and wear, the constant drip of water down its side, it was built to resist the casual incursion of such a one as Care, and according to the standards of men, it has been maintained.

  My examination finds what has been overlooked. As I make my own perusal, my nose catches the musk of small burrowing creatures. The damp earthiness of the clay. And then the jab of something pungent. Fleeting but – yes – familiar. I reverse my steps, lowering my head to the earth to trace that caustic scent. Sulfur – the word comes to mind like the blue flare of a flame. A match.

  The bin. A body. A building of importance.

  My ears flatten with rage. My fury at my impotence – at myself – could cause me to scratch and flail would that serve any purpose. No, I have been a fool. Or worse than that – an animal – reactive when prediction was required. I have been a follower in a most dog-like fashion, and I have led the girl I love to this. I need to find the source of that pungent odor. Need to—

  ‘Blackie!’ Care turns. She cannot see me in this light, but she can hear me scratching, furiously, at the earth. Catches the low growl that winds its frequency up to catch her ear. ‘Is that you?’

  I whine – at my own foolishness, but this she cannot know – but this only turns her blindly toward the alley mouth, and so I lash my tail and spit, knowing the motion will catch her dull eyes in this dark place. I wish her to leave me. To let me track and hunt and find.

  ‘What is it?’ I see her turn as she attempts to find me, as her own green eyes peer down toward where I stand. I want to howl at her. To yell out – Cannot you smell the evidence before you? Cannot you place these occurrences in a sequence? – but I cannot. Even to howl might be too much.

  For I have not counted on her heart. The girl does not understand. She cannot smell what I have. Does not see how the removal of the bin may be tied to the corpse in the hovel, how her discovery may have been a trap conceived to lead her to this place. Or, no, to that man Gravitch, to whose foul purpose she has sworn. But she moves quickly, abandoning her quest to scoop me up in her thin arms. And while I am too startled at first to protest, I realize that her great heart may be the saving of us both. For although I have failed to alert her – to locate the evidence I know must be nearby – she acts. She believes that I am the one in danger or in pain, and she would give over her mission to convey me – to convey us both – out of harm’s way.

  What I could not compel through reason, I have done through sympathy. Despite my discomfort – especially at night, I would much prefer to move under my own volition than to be carried – I cease my growling as the girl deposits me in her bag and begins to run. Perhaps because we are leaving that place, with its aroma and its memories, or perhaps because of the way her bag swings, sling-like, as she moves, I find myself once again relaxing into a doze.

  A stray thought surfaces even as I drift. I have been sleeping more, my faculties fatigued more easily with the passing of years. But this is not the sleep of exhaustion. Indeed, my senses remain alert as the city passes by. I hear the rustle of creatures great and small, the nocturnal cycles of life and death playing out even as we pass. I hear the whispers of men, not much louder than the scrabble of small claws, passing over the stone of the city. Murmurings of a score, of a prize beyond counting. I remember another time, another hunt, when I listened to such hushed words, hard on the trail of that bounty. A pretty thing, valuable in its way, had been taken, and I had been engaged to locate it. Or so I had believed at the time.

  I hear such whispers now. The mumblings of men like rats that pick over the city’s leavings and feed on the weak. The old and very young. The swaying lulls me as I listen. I hear the tidbits, dropped like crumbs. I pick up the scent and follow the trail. I see the prey, within my sights. I do not see the trap.

  I wake with a start, kicking against my bonds. I will not be taken. I will not be shot and thrown, once more, into the river to disappear forever. I will not—

  ‘Whoa, boy!’ Green eyes staring down. Familiar, once again, as I wake. As I recall myself as I am now. A look of surprise but not malice. I am on the floor. We are in the office, and the girl has set the bag down, and me with it, the flap open to permit me egress. No matter, I have kicked a hole in it, my claws still as sharp as in my youth. It was this hole that had panicked me, as my hind leg had pushed through and become entangled in the cloth. I pull it back now, retracting my claws, all too aware of the censorious – no, the hurt – expression on the girl’s human, open face.

  I am ashamed. I bathe.

  But as my fur falls back into place, so too do the impressions that made up my dream, that sparked my unnecessary panic. My dream of entrapment was based on memory. I know that now. Know, too, that in my former life I was led by my faith in my own methodology – my own brash conceit – into an ambush, and that I did not escape.

  I am a predator, and at times I have been prey. This is a truth of life, and I harbor no illusions, no undue sentiment. This dream, then, came not simply as memory. Not from the discomfort of an enclosed space, or the stiffness of an old injury. No, in my waking life, I feel my years, and at times I fear that my perceptions may be becoming muted. My capacity for reason, however, remains sharp. And what I may miss in the full light of the active hours, I piece together in the feline dream state.

  It may have been the memory of that horrid stench that set me off, the unclean gases of a body settling into its death. No doubt it was aggravated by the rashness of the girl attempting entry at that deadly place. Whichever served as the trigger, I know now they are connected. I am left with the certainty that the body in the hovel was intended to be found – the first clue in a trail intended to be followed. That it had been moved, I was already sure, although I do not know if the girl had time or illumination enough to discern this, nor what exactly that movement means. She is smart, this child, and remembers her lessons well. However, her senses are not as acute as mine, and she has not my experience with the hunt – or beyond.

  Nor does she have my ritual of bathing, which serves a purpose beyond the proper placement of my fur. When my coat is smooth, it better protects me from the elements – repelling water and retaining warmth. As well, the act of grooming has a meditative quality, the repetitive movement of tongue and paw serving to organize my observations as well as my thick coat.

  As I finish, I step away from the discarded bag, the encircling canvas now a heap upon the floor. I am aware now of what has been eating at my thoughts, and my challenge now wil
l be to convey it. First, I realize, I must get the girl’s attention.

  A quiver as I judge the distance, and then I leap, landing neatly on the desk. The girl jerks back with a gasp. I have startled her, and I realize that she has been engaged in her own deliberative haze. For her, it involves these papers, which lay between her outstretched arms and which I now sniff. These are the documents she carried from the hovel, that place of death. The smell of the corpse is on them, as well as the faint dust of insects that have passed and died as well, their carapaces dried and crumbled by the simple expedience of time.

  But there is more than decay here. More than death. Scent holds memory, the essences given off at times of heightened emotion or stress: the still sharp sweat of her hands from when we fled and, before that, from her surprise upon her finding these papers, hidden beneath the flooring. But these were recent additions, and fleeting ones at that. No, these pages were witness to more than the girl’s excitement, to more than death and dirt. I catch something biting. A scent that cries out. Pain. Violence was committed near – no, on – these pages, marking them with the struggle. Blood and sweat were left here, although their traces are older and are fading now. The exultation of mastery and of a kind of rage. Surrender, also, though both these opposites stink of fear. And, yes, that male effusion – the chemical smell of spunk. Those pages relate a tale in more than words.

  There is another, more recent story to be read here as well. The tale of this girl’s time with these papers. Her reaction to them, with what that may suggest. She cannot know what I do, the pain these sheets have witnessed. No, she responds instead to what she has heard. My nose moves over the slight concavity, a warping. A tang of salt. The leather fits neatly over it and I know: the girl has sorrowed over these papers. This is the mark of a tear.

  I am not sentimental, but neither am I made of stone. Closing my eyes to the room, to the foulness of these papers, I lean against her forearm, pressing my fur against her bare skin. She responds as I had hoped she would, raising her arm to stroke my back. Her gesture is clumsy; she ruffles the coat I have taken some trouble to smooth into place. But I allow her to continue, gratified in the cognizance that if I cannot always impart knowledge I may, at least, give comfort.