by Clea Simon
I sniff the piece. Metal holds little scent – the warmth of Care’s pocket, the musk of her muddy hand. And, yes, the tang of the smoke, which had permeated the building. I – and I realize how it pains me to acknowledge this – am unsure how to proceed. Unsure of the importance of this piece. I close my eyes, breathing it in.
Measure. The word comes into my mind as if from a dream. I have overheard it, maybe. It matters. And just as swiftly, I am convinced that Care is on the right track. This piece is a step toward something – something that may not want to be found. My whiskers bristle, tingling with anticipation. We are on a hunt. I am not a pack animal, but this girl has saved me. I have senses that she lacks, and if I can be of service to her, I will.
I do not know how much of this she understands, this strange girl. With one hand she reaches out, and I brace. She sees this. She has known violence, too, and draws back. Wordlessly, she rises and – with a glance at me – crosses the scrub of the train yard and heads down a deserted street.
There’s much one can learn, walking in silence with another. This girl, for example: she could be a cat. Like me, she hangs to the side, moving from one area of shelter to the next, all the while surveying the road around her for danger or for prey. Some of this has been learned, I can see. The way she holds one hand out – palm flat – as if to signal me before crossing a thoroughfare. Someone did that for her. The old man, perhaps, and when we make the next turn I see why.
‘Oi, you!’ A large man stands up, tall as AD but broader. He’s been leaning on the corner of a storefront, its brick stained almost black by wear and smoke, and now stands astride, blocking the alley that runs back from the street. He has raised his hand as well as his voice and gestures to us. ‘You, come here.’
I don’t like him. The volume as well as his size bode ill if he so chooses, but she approaches and so I circle round, watching him and keeping the open road in sight.
‘I’m looking for Fat Peter.’ She speaks up loudly, her chin raised, but she’s not using her own voice. She’s softened the consonants to mimic him. ‘He around?’
‘What’s it look like?’ The big face is clean but sweaty as it nods toward the storefront with its dusty glass. She turns, and so do I. I suspect she’s noticing the jumble of items piled within. Some metal, some less solid. Strands of sparkle laid out on faded cloth. An odd conglomeration of wood and wire that makes me think guitar. She probably doesn’t notice the movements of rodents in the corner or the thin layer of dust that has dulled even the brightest gleam.
‘He’s not open?’ Maybe she has. I sense her hesitation. This wasn’t what she expected.
‘Got something to sell, have you?’ He senses it too and leans forward, reaching for her. ‘Maybe you’re the delivery, huh?’
She twists away even as he grabs for her arm. He just laughs as she jumps back, stopping to glare. ‘Get over yourself, girl.’ He wipes his hand on his coat. ‘You’re too skinny for my taste, anyway. But if you were looking for a buyer for anything else, I’d move on. Fat Peter hasn’t been trading with the likes of you for a while now. He’s got better sources, better product coming in than your dockside scat, and you rats are as likely to steal from him as bring him custom. I bet you bite, too.’
His leer is cruel, and I circle closer. If he bends toward her, his broad white face will feel my claws.
‘I’ve got a message for him.’ She’s standing her ground, chin up, those green eyes defiant. ‘Something he wants.’
‘I doubt it, but suit yourself.’ He nods, and I realize then that he has been standing guard over the alley, the real entrance to the business within. Trying not to touch him, she squeezes by the big man to enter the narrow passage beyond. He’s still laughing when I zip past him, following the girl. ‘You the rat catcher, now?’ he calls after us. She doesn’t respond.
‘You’re here. Good.’ Down the alley and she stops, turning to address me. I pause, waiting. ‘Don’t let him catch you.’ She glances back at the ruffian. ‘He’s nasty.’
I blink up at her, grateful that she has seen what I have too. Perhaps she knows how I ended up in that culvert. I cannot find a way to ask, however, and she has moved on. There’s a door in the alley – painted wood set in the brick. She jiggles the handle as I sniff at the corner, where the paint has worn away. The wood is rotten and damp.
‘Hello?’ Either the door has given way or she has found a way to jimmy it – I think this girl knows some tricks. ‘Mr Peter?’
Her voice falls flat in the dark and she steps inside. ‘Hello?’
I hesitate. The scent of dust and mouse droppings that billowed out when first she opened the door has been replaced by a stronger aroma. Heavy and sweet and—
‘Anyone there?’
I want to bolt. To run fast and low for the river. To find a cranny in the rocks and squeeze in there, glaring at the world until it goes away. I hear the growl rising in my throat and raise it a notch. Surely this girl must notice. Surely she must smell what I do. Discern what I have already deduced.
‘Mr Peter? I—’ She reaches in and finds a switch. The flat blue-white fluorescents highlight the lazy swirl of dust our entrance has disturbed.
A quick intake of breath. A stumble, as Care steps backward, toward the door. She doesn’t scream, this girl. She’s come up hard and learned well. She doesn’t panic or draw attention to herself – even when she finds a body, lying dead upon the floor.
FIVE
This girl is not a cat. Her actions may be better dis-ciplined than what most humans would display. They are not seamless, however – nor are they silent. Now that we have identified the source of the odor, I step forward to examine it, but she has lost her balance. Although she tries to remain silent, she steps back – into a low table. Like the rest of the room, it is covered with clutter, and her weight, slight as it is, sends the items piled there crashing to the floor.
I wince. The noise is startling, especially considering the size of the objects. Three cylinders – round, with bobble tops – have hit the worn wood floor. They are of various sizes, and the thuds with which they land make them seem bigger than they are. I have only had a moment to examine the odd angle of the man’s neck and the blow to the head that undoubtedly bent it so – but I am curious about these objects.
‘Oi, what’s that?’ The door swings open. The alley guard stands silhouetted in its light. ‘You – girl!’
He steps into the space, dwarfing it further, and Care cringes. In the moment this has taken to happen, I have surveyed the scene. There is much more here I would like to inspect: the dead man’s hands, their fingers curled and white. The scuffmarks on his shoes, which bear traces of dried mud. And those cylinders, which Care’s backward scuffle have just sent rolling again.
I am just sniffing the largest of the three – its cold metal surface holds very little scent beyond the dust and oil of the room – when I am interrupted. Care has grabbed me, hoisting me about the middle, and clutches me close. She is retreating, sidling along the wall of shelves and doesn’t understand that she is endangering us both by restraining me.
There is no time to be gentle. I twist in her grasp, hissing and spitting. She holds tight until I kick free. I feel my claws rip through her too-thin jacket, but there is nothing for it now. That kick has given me the leverage I need to launch myself on the attack. Ears back, jaws wide, I fly at the alley guard’s face, enjoying for that brief moment the look of horror that I see. This is not my usual process. I would rather explore and understand, keeping myself to the shadows. This is, I assume, a function of my feline nature. Still, this man is a bully. Violence comes off him like a stench, and I take pleasure in my role.
Even as I land, my body mass nothing compared to his, I am in control. With fang and claw, I assault the soft parts of his face until one large hand takes hold of my tail and throws me to the ground.
I hit hard, twisting just in time to land on my feet and jump before his boot comes down.
�
�Blackie!’ I can’t risk a glance. This big man is furious, his pink face bleeding, and I brace myself for another leap. I have succeeded in my primary objective. I have diverted him, making him turn. There is a clear path between the girl and the door, but I will have to be quick to avoid taking his wrath on myself. He glares, and I wait, panting. As the faint stiffness in my hindquarters reminds me, I am no longer young, and the last few days have taken their toll.
‘Unh!’ A loud thud, and with a grunt, the big man stumbles forward. Behind him stands the girl, a black leather-bound volume in her hands.
‘Run!’ She doesn’t try to pick me up again but watches as I veer toward the open door, following me as I clear the alley and turn down a street of broken cobblestones. I am running without thought but not without purpose. The scent of leather, of horses long gone, beckons, and a phrase – Farrier Lane – comes to me as I race, her steps behind me. I hold the pace, panting, desperate to recall another scent. A landmark.
There it is – a heady whiff of tar. Another turn and we are back to the scrubby brush of the no man’s land. She hesitates only briefly as I dash across the tracks. Of course, her dull hearing cannot reassure her that no train is drawing near. But she lets me set our course as I lead her down the verge and into an area of broken stones and trash. I do not believe she has injured the man from the alley, nor would that blow have hindered him for long. But I neither hear nor smell any pursuer, and so at last I slow, my breath coming hard, and collapse behind the shell of a car, a rusted carcass arcing over a patch of dry ground. She slumps down beside me in this man-made cave, still clutching the leather-bound volume, and places one warm hand on my heaving side.
Immediately she pulls it back, catching herself with alarm. But I am no longer the hissing, spitting demon of the pawn shop. I turn to her, something like a purr starting up deep inside me despite my still-labored breathing. I acted to save this girl, and did so. But she has once more rescued me.
I think back to how she attacked. Choosing a weapon, a moment, and making her one shot count. What’s more, she did so without giving warning, without betraying herself, despite what must have been considerable emotion at the time. I look at this girl, her pink hair now falling across that pale and dirty face, and I think again that somebody has trained her well.
‘You would have liked him, Blackie.’
I blink. Our thoughts have run on parallel tracks, like those we jumped a few minutes before. That is all.
‘And he would’ve liked you.’ She releases the book, that unlikely weapon, and wipes her face with the back of her hand, tears making trails through the grime. The other hand still rests on my back, and under its warmth I feel myself drifting toward sleep.
‘The way you went for that creep – I felt like you were protecting me. Silly, huh? But I’m glad you did it.’
She sniffs, and I relax. She is talking to herself as much as to me. To her former mentor, the one who died. Wiping her face one more time, she reaches into a pocket, and I perk up. It has been hours since that chicken, and I have not had the opportunity to hunt. When she draws out a dirty rag and blows her nose, I slump back beside her, hoarding the warmth of our bodies against this hard, cold cave. As soon as I have rested, I can remedy my lack. Here in this urban wilderness, there is prey to be had. Not the songbirds. Their spring calls may taunt me, but even as my eyes close, I can tell they are out of reach in my current condition. I need something I can stalk.
And I need rest. I am tired. I cannot remember ever being so tired. ‘I wonder what happened to Fat Peter?’ Her sniffling has slowed, curiosity replacing the shock. Her voice grows softer, too, as fear gives way to fatigue, and she shoves the rag back into her jeans.
I begin to drift, dreaming of meat and cream. Of eating my fill and sinking back. Sinking …
The balance is off …
‘Or should I say who?’
With a start, I come awake. Haunted by an image: the three figures, dark against the sky. The world is not my friend, nor this girl’s, apparently. I have been lucky. I cannot count on such luck twice.
The girl isn’t sleeping. I see her eyes are open and staring into space. Still, my memories have banished drowsiness, and I prepare myself for the hunt. To run again, if need be. We are small creatures in this world, this girl and I. There is much that I would share with her, if I could.
‘I mean, if he was giving short count, it could have been anyone. But …’ Her voice trails off where I cannot follow. Reliving the scene we have just survived, perhaps. Remembering the old man, or thinking, as I am, of food. No matter. One of us must act. I must hunt.
I had to have been a young cat once, but I cannot remember those days, now. My breathing has regulated but I still feel where I was grabbed. My hind legs are sore. I begin to wash, as if the rasp of my tongue could reach the aching joints beneath the fur.
The girl shifts as I do, reaching into her pocket once again for that rag. But as she blows her nose, I see that the movement has dislodged the rest of her pocket’s contents. Two coins spin and flatten on the ground. As she reaches for them, close-bitten fingernails scraping them off the dirt with difficulty, a heavier object falls free. The oddly shaped weight that Tick had handed over, the smaller cousin of the cylinders in Fat Peter’s shop.
I remember how they hit the floor when Care backed into the table. How their heft had made a solid thud and yet how they had moved, following a circumscribed path from her feet across the boards. I had no time to examine them, to make more than the most cursory observation of that room or its too-still occupant. All I had was that motion. The movement and the sense of weight. This one isn’t moving now, though, and so I paw at it, making it roll on the uneven ground.
‘Look at you, Blackie. Just like a kitten.’ I pause, annoyed. This girl is missing something. Not seeing the importance of the heavy cylinder. Then I smack it, once again, rolling it into her leg.
‘You want to play?’ She picks it up and I lose hope. If she tosses it for me, I will simply leave. Go find some grubs or a day-blind vole to ease my hunger. But as she does, I see her focusing. Her brows go up and she turns the piece over in her hand, drawing it close to examine the engraving on its flat bottom.
‘M,’ she reads. ‘I think it’s an “M,” it’s in a circle with some kind of design.’ She squints and tilts it toward the light. ‘Yeah, M. Must be the manufacturer, or maybe it means “metric.” One milligram?’ she reads, hefting it in her open palm. ‘Funny, it feels heavier to me.’ She bites her lip while she’s thinking, so preoccupied that I can stare right at her. ‘Where did Tick …’ Her voice trails off and I lose hope. If all she can connect this to is that sad boy, I will take off. She has saved me, twice, but I have done all I can. Perhaps our paths will cross again.
‘This came from Fat Peter’s,’ she says at last, a strange energy invigorating her voice. ‘It’s one of Fat Peter’s weights, the ones he uses when he buys. You don’t think …’ She’s looking right at me now, but I don’t flinch. She’s on the right track, I am sure of it, and I blink slowly so she will know that I approve.
‘I was supposed to go there, you know. My teacher – the old man I worked for – wanted me to follow Fat Peter. That’s what Tick’s message meant. We were tracking some street artists – real pros, he thought – who had knocked over a store downtown. They’d taken a fancy necklace – a showpiece, the old man called it. It was probably broken into loose stones. Emeralds, he said. Those are easier to move, and Fat Peter, well …’
She pauses. I am beginning to lose interest. The piece in her hand means something. It is real. Solid. But she is talking about people who are gone, and I am hungry. I turn away. There are people out there I do not trust. Men who have hurt me and would hurt her too. Do I dare leave her?
‘Blackie, I had a thought.’ I think of fish. Of something squirming in the mud of the culvert. ‘That message … maybe it wasn’t shorting someone that got Fat Peter killed, after all. Maybe it was someone who came by loo
king for work, someone Fat Peter would have seen as easy. A mark.’ She bites her lip. Looks at the weight though I do not think she sees it. ‘Could Tick have done it?’ She isn’t asking me. ‘Could Tick have killed Fat Peter?’
SIX
Size does not equal lethality. I am not boastful, but I have no doubt that I am a better hunter and a neater killer than this girl who now sits beside me, her green eyes wide. Likewise, although I doubt that pale child we left at the abandoned building could have taken down the adult male we found at the pawn shop, I cannot completely discount the possibility. Not when I see how Care hefts the piece in her hand – how solid it is. How heavy and cold.
What I do know is that neither of us is thinking clearly right now, and that I have the means to remedy this.
I rise, stretching, and consider my options. Although I had previously noted the signs of prey in the vicinity, I also consider scavenging. This girl must eat as well, and I doubt she has taken anything since the scraps she shared with me. Unlike her, I have the freedom of moving relatively unseen. I could, for example, head back across the tracks. Human habitations offer the best chance of edible scraps, and I can move among them with barely a notice. The brute in the alley would be an exception. He is not someone I would choose to encounter, but he is not seeking me.
I picture Fat Peter’s shop, the jumble of objects that I had hoped to examine. Unless you consider the prematurely bloated corpse, I cannot picture anything edible there, nor do I remember any scents other than dust and sweat and a faint metallic tang. And yet, the memory intrigues me and I conjure it in my mind. There was the work surface – a table of some sort – that Care had bumped into. The walls had been lined with shelves. Even the display window had been obscured by shelves, and I had sensed no bolt holes in the old floorboards. Still, the man had clearly liked to eat. And why else would his workplace interest me?
