As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘These were my father’s, Blackie,’ she says, and I turn toward her, fitting my head to her hand.

  ‘You have no way of knowing, I know.’ The sound of her voice, its repetition, lulls me into a reverie. She is dreaming, too, in her way. Reading other than what is on the page – oblivious of what I have found there. Although my eyes are closing, I can glimpse her face. The faraway expression as well as the dreamy tone confirm my suspicion. Her words are more for her own ears than for mine. To me, they mean little. I have no recollection of the sire who formed me. Nor have I a sense of any offspring of my own. ‘He kept these records. Smuggled them out. He was the one who figured out that …’

  Her hand stops, and I tense. Not because of the cessation of the stroke, but at the import of her words. It is as I have feared. The woman’s hints have worked as a lure, whether by accident or intent. They have intrigued the girl, who now seeks to draw a connection between her parents’ demise and the man she has agreed to serve. Even as she remains ignorant of the violence I have read the traces of here, in blood and sweat and semen. It is this shadow that hangs over my sleep, my dreams. This threat. Behind this Gravitch – behind, even, this recent violence – the man I recall only as a silhouette, a dark shape against the light. He would reach out thus. Baiting his trap with misdirection, he would draw in and destroy all who oppose him. I shiver, the memory overcoming me once more of pain and cold, of the irresistible force dragging me down.

  I do not know if the woman is part of the plan or if she has merely in her self-interest and misery helped lay the trap. I do not have proof that what I speculate is, in fact, correct. But I have passed beyond the realm of simple evidence and cogitative deduction and now must trust instinct. The girl believes she is uncovering the source of the pain that wounds her still. It may be so, but she is dangerously close to doing more. To revealing the steel teeth of the trap ready to snap closed. To triggering that trap.

  I curl up on myself, pondering how to communicate any of this to the girl. How best to keep her safe. I watch as more tears drop, and she wipes her face. As she finally gives in, resting her head on her arms to weep unfettered, her thin shoulders heaving with the effort. And as she ultimately quiets, drifting at last toward sleep.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I am not sleeping when the door squeaks open. I have been absorbed in my memories, trying to link my dreams with the situation at hand, the woman of the streets with the men who use her so rudely. I do not need my eyes to be open to be aware of my surroundings, and as the broken portal is pushed back with a sigh, I am fully alert.

  I am also fully aware of who it is who has come sneaking into the office. His steps are as light as any of his kind can be, and he has the sense to move slowly. The moon has set, and the room is dark. Even I would find it difficult to make do with mere sight at this time of night, when only the dim glow of a distant streetlight separates the dull grey shapes within the room.

  Still, I have the advantage and I use it, leaping silently to the floor as he approaches. Careful to stay out of the intruder’s path, I take his measure through scent and sound. He is filthy: dust and strange fibers overlay the odors of his unwashed body. Oil and the dank reek of steam. He is hungry as well; his scent gives him away, revealing as it does the desperate chemical interactions of an organism feeding on itself. That lack has been accentuated by his journey here, I judge. His breathing has slowed since he has entered, but it retains a ragged edge, a weakness from something more than cold. And it has taken its toll in other ways, as well. Despite his caution, he stumbles, catching himself with a soft cry.

  It is enough. Care wakes. She sits up straight, as alert as a cat, and scans the room as best she can, sweeping the darkness with eyes open wide. I too observe, curious as to how the scene before me will unfold.

  The intruder takes another step, and the girl’s head swivels. I can almost feel her listening, the way she takes in the sound of the light and careful tread, the height from which the labored breathing issues. Perhaps even the smell, although I know her senses are not half so keen as mine. Perhaps there is another affinity, one beyond my understanding, for before he can take another step, she speaks.

  ‘Tick?’ Her voice, soft, is freighted with hope.

  ‘Care?’ His response has something of a cry about it, a release from fear. Or, I muse, of despair.

  ‘What are you—?’ She jumps up from her seat and feels her way around the desk to embrace the boy, whose small, fragrant form seems to draw her through the dark. ‘How did you get here?’ She holds him close, and then pushes him away, as if the truth will shine from his face. ‘Did Gravitch – did he let you go already?’

  ‘Already? What, no.’ The boy shakes his head and pulls away slightly. I can see that he looks down at the ground. Something is troubling him, if he would hide his face so from the girl who loves him. ‘Gravitch isn’t letting anyone go. I found an escape hole. A way out they don’t know about.’ His voice grows peevish. ‘I told you that, Care.’

  ‘But I—’ She catches herself and shakes her head, as if in amusement. ‘Never mind, Tick. The only thing that matters is that you’re here.’ She fumbles toward the door. ‘Let me get the candle.’

  ‘Wait, no!’ He reaches for her and lays hold of her arm. She turns, and I can see the half smile of curiosity playing across her face. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘But you’re here now,’ she says. ‘We can’t stay here, but that’s okay. We can find someplace, and I’ve – well, I’ve arranged to free you. Not just from the sweatshop but from Gravitch entirely. I don’t know what their deal with Children’s Services is, but I’ll let them handle the paperwork.’ She’s grinning now. ‘If there is any.’

  He is not, and in the unlit room, I doubt she can see the look of horror growing across his face. ‘You made a deal?’ His voice has sunk back to a hoarse whisper.

  She nods, misreading his shock as humility. ‘Of course, Tick. You’re like a brother to me. You know that.’ The smile broadens. ‘Hey, maybe it even says something about my skills that I’ve got something worth trading, huh?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ If she can’t see his face, surely she can hear it in his voice: a rising tone, like a cry. ‘I can’t – you didn’t, Care. You shouldn’t have. It’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She hears him, I presume, but she mistakes the fear for disbelief. ‘Look, if you want, we can leave the city. In fact, maybe that’s best. I don’t want to work for Gravitch, and, honestly, I don’t trust him. But now that you’re here—’

  ‘I’m not, Care.’ His voice is louder. More frantic. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going back. I told you. Don’t you get it?’

  ‘What? No.’ She reaches for him, but he pulls away and, doing so, trips backward over a torn cushion, the remnants of that sofa. He stumbles to the floor with a yelp, and Care kneels beside him. He is crying now, more from shock than pain, but he lets her wrap her arms around him. He buries his face in her shirtfront as he sobs.

  ‘Oh, Tick,’ she says, stroking his back. She must smell him now. Smell the hunger and the filth. The desperation. ‘What are you doing? What are you thinking, saying something like that?’

  ‘I’ve got to.’ He chokes out the words, as he fights the tears. Fights to regain his control.

  ‘But why?’ She examines his face as he pulls away.

  He shakes her off, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. ‘I have to,’ he says. ‘Don’t ask me more.’ His eyes are clear as he stares up at her. They are close enough that she must see this. She must, at any rate, hear the newly adult conviction in his voice. ‘I only came to see you,’ he says, ‘to warn you. You can’t trust them, Care. Any of them. Something’s gone wrong. All the guys are talking about it, about a count going missing. About how they need to clean things up. And that lady? She’s part of it, Care. I don’t know how exactly. Only – you can’t trust her. She got Dingo killed.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The boy is as good as his word.
It is still dark when he departs, over the girl’s objections. She had given up arguing with him, by then, and had instead tried bribery, speaking of sanctuary somewhere to the south of the city. I do not know the place she spoke of, and from elements in her voice – a certain faraway tone, as well as the lack of specifics – I do not believe she does either, or not very well. She spoke as from memory, much as I would of a dream or of another life.

  I would have thought he’d capitulate then. He has eaten – the girl had laid out the last of her stores, pushing what fruits she had salvaged on the boy – and sits at her feet as she speaks, a drowsy dreaminess coming over him that makes him, for a moment, look younger, like the child he ought to be. As soon as she stops speaking, however, he stands and makes to go. He refuses further food, although his yearning is apparent, just as he rejects Care’s offer of additional clothes, warmer covering to replace the filthy and threadbare rags he has already outgrown.

  ‘They can’t know I was here, Care,’ is all he will say.

  For my part, I am relieved that he leaves. Unlike the girl, I do not trust him. I no longer think that he would betray her voluntarily. I am not such a brute that I do not see the signs of affection between them, the bonds of loyalty and of love. But he is young and weak, and he is easily used. Even if he does not intend the girl harm, he is not a reliable judge of his surroundings. What he has said about ‘a count,’ for example, is not to be trusted. Such rumblings are common among thieves, who prey on their own as readily as on others, and may amount to little more than the kind of internecine squabble we have already witnessed. Of more interest – and threat – is his agency. His ability to come and go as he pleases seems unlikely, and I consider him as one would a lure. Tempting, perhaps, but likely to lead to a trap.

  His departure has left the girl restless. Although it is the time for her to sleep, she roams the office, repeating phrases that the boy has said. Gina got Dingo killed. A count – or was it the count – has gone missing. Papers of some kind are involved.

  She has denied knowledge of any such, and with the boy not much more literate than I, she sounded confident and sure. Now, however, she circles back to the desk, to the documents that lay there. In the dim light of dawn, she holds them close, as if to find meaning beyond the words and numbers printed there.

  I am no help with this kind of toil, and yet I will not leave her, even as my own sleep is disturbed by her murmurings. I could hunt at this hour, when the night-loving creatures begin to retire and their daytime counterparts wake, but I do not. Although the girl is too agitated for my comfort, she readies herself for some action, to enact some plan, and I would be here when she makes her move.

  ‘I don’t …’ She stops and shakes her head. Day has dawned, its flat light revealing the fatigue in her face. ‘Unless …’ She bites her lip and reaches for another page, then stops and looks up. It would appear that she is looking at me, recumbent on the windowsill. Only I know her sight is not acute enough to discern my own cool gaze, the angle of my whiskers signaling my interest and concern. No, she is lost in the light behind me, and perhaps in the illusion it creates of a glow, my guard hairs illuminated by the rising sun. She is seeing something that does not exist in the brightening grey sky or the buildings beyond. From the slight shift in her mouth, a gentling around her eyes, I would believe she sees hope.

  I would also, at this juncture, advise her to rest. The events of the previous day were tiring, and the boy’s brief visit has upset her. But as she begins to gather up her papers once more, I jump from the sill to wait by the door. I cannot ascertain what she intends, but I will aid her, if I can.

  Indeed, I have specific fears. This girl has learned to survive in this city, but she is not of it, and in some deep inner core still reacts to other prompts. The promise she has made to Gravitch, for example, likely holds more weight for her than it would another street waif seeking favor. As she descends the building’s stairs, treading carefully not to wake the alcove sleeper, I see this in her, and, as I dash by her as she pushes open the front door I experience a strange confusion. It is not practical, this side of her, bound up as it is in the past and a code that does not apply to the life she now leads. And yet, it stirs me and I feel the faint tug of memory. This, as well as her intellectual capacity, is why I chose her. It is why, in a large part, I give her my allegiance now.

  But if the girl is planning to make good on her offer to Gravitch, going to offer her skills to find this missing item the boy spoke of, it will not be now. She has turned off the avenue and is heading once more toward the workhouse, toward the sick-sweet smell of putrefaction. But the morning is growing warm with the first real heat of spring, and the night’s puddles are fragrant with fresher lures than one rotten rat. Part of me wishes to go off. She has her routine, waiting and watching. And I am an animal, with hungers of my own.

  Only there is something off about this visit. Surely, the girl no longer seeks information. She has found her friend, conversed with him only hours before. And so I turn away from the fresh, moist scent of a new trail to watch as she slumps back against the alley wall. As she waits for the men to be released, and for the visitor who will join her there.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Gina?’ she calls, questing. The yard is empty; the men not yet released for their daily exercise, if they will be today at all. The rodent corpse nearly ash. But the woman is already there. She starts at the sound of her name. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ says Care. ‘I think I’ve found something. Something about your boy.’

  The girl speaks softly, her voice intended for the woman alone. I, of course, hear every word, but her caution does not ease my mind. The woman is surprised to see her, and this should serve as warning. This woman has made deals of her own, and not only with her body, in order to survive. I watch her blink and color, and I wait for Care to notice this as well. She did not expect the girl to meet her here today, despite her request of the night before. She had expected some other fate to befall the girl and has not the wit to dissemble now.

  ‘My Billy?’ she asks, even as Care nods in confirmation.

  ‘I think so.’ Care pauses. ‘Only, I’m not sure – and I might need your help. You ever go into Gravitch’s factory?’

  ‘The shop?’ The woman seems confused. ‘All the time.’

  ‘Onto the factory floor, I mean.’

  ‘Where the machines are? Nah. It’s not allowed.’ She looks away. Bothered. ‘The office is better. There’s a sofa, and it’s warm.’

  Care lets that pass, but my fur starts to rise as I realize what she’s after. ‘So you don’t ever see the workers?’ A low growl begins in my chest, and I must force myself to stay calm. To listen.

  ‘The workers?’ Gina forces a laugh. ‘You’re kidding, right? They don’t have any coin.’

  Care nods, and presses on. ‘I think – I’m not sure, but have you ever asked if Gravitch has your boy? Has him working there?’

  ‘No,’ Gina shakes off the idea. ‘He’s just a kid, and Gravy wouldn’t. He knows how much I miss him, and he – we spend time together. Besides, Dingo would have …’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘Would have what?’ Care pushes, perhaps too much. ‘Tell me about Dingo, Gina.’

  A nod. This woman is accustomed to direct commands. ‘I told you he was different. Dingo was nice to me, and he – he found something,’ she says. ‘Something that’s been missing for, like, years. Said he could use it. Could help me find my Billy.’

  ‘I think I know what it was.’ Care reaches into her bag. Extracts a single sheet, one of the bunch she took from the hovel. ‘Could it have been this – a page like this?’

  The woman reaches for it. Stares, shrugs.

  ‘It’s a list.’ Care explains. ‘I know it’s not names, but see?’ She points at some markings. ‘This first number – it’s got to be code for a place. A business. And these?’ Her finger moves. ‘I’ve seen these. They’re case numbers. Maybe the numbers of the boys who’ve been take
n. Who’ve been sent away.’

  The woman looks up. The page she holds trembles. ‘You mean – my Billy?’

  Care nods. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Do you think you could get into the factory? Get me onto the floor?’

  ‘Dunno.’ The woman’s voice has gone soft. ‘It’d be – it might be dangerous.’ She is holding the page with both hands now, gently. As if it were her child. ‘Can I keep this?’

  Care hesitates as the woman waits, longing. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘For now. And you’ll let me know?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ she says.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I don’t like this plan. For once, at least, that woman spoke the truth. But Care is so focused on her friend, on Tick, that she doesn’t realize the danger, doesn’t recognize that truth. The woman wants her son, more than anything. That means she will do anything to get him back. Will trade anything, or anyone. It’s bad enough the girl has put herself at the mercy of that man. Gravitch is a brute, a fan of casual cruelty and braggadocio. A creature of an even more brutal master, if I am right. Indeed, it is her honor, her pledge, that makes her more vulnerable still. Those such as Gravitch view such integrity as a weakness, fealty to an oath a sign of simple-mindedness or worse. Those such as Gina see her honor only for what it may fetch in trade.

  It matters not. When I allied myself to this girl it was a better considered deal than the one she has made, and I do not regret it, although it may yet prove my end. And so as she heads down toward the harbor, down to the appointment she has promised to keep, I trot alongside. This time, I make sure she sees me in the brightening morning light.