by Clea Simon
‘Let him go,’ she says again. I hear her footstep, cheap leather on the cobblestones.
She will not stop, and thus, then, nor can I. I gather up my strength. There is little to brace myself against, upended as I am. But I spread my claws. I ready myself to jump. To claw. To buy what time I may.
A yelp. Short and without words. ‘Peter!’ A gasp, almost. The girl has stopped.
‘You’ve lost it, man.’ A voice, beside my ear, and suddenly the world goes round. I flounder, topsy-turvy, my claws trapped in the fabric a hindrance as I fly. I hit the pavement before I can right myself and leap, with hiss and spit, out into the air.
‘You’re crazy.’ He does not speak to me. Instead, he is eyeing Peter, the bow-legged man, who holds a short knife to the hook boy’s throat.
‘Go,’ says Peter. One word, short. The girl looks down at me, her green eyes meeting mine. And then she turns and runs, and I beside her, away from the dockside and the laughing man.
FIFTEEN
The girl is strong, as am I for my kind and size, but she is young, while I am far older than I may seem. By the time she stops running, throwing herself against a wall, her chest heaving, I am exhausted. Not only am I panting, but my leg is aching. I walk gingerly, barely placing any weight on it as I take the last few steps to join her. She stands doubled over, with her hands spread out on her thighs, but I let her see me, passing beneath her as I rub my head against one warm shin.
‘Blackie, thank God.’ The hand that reaches for me is trembling. ‘When that big guy grabbed you …’ She doesn’t continue, only slides down the wall to a seated position. I move closer, leaning into her warm and fragrant side. She drapes one arm gently around me. For the moment, we are at peace.
I listen to her breathing, as we sit there. I hear it slow and become regular, and I wonder, briefly, if she will sleep. The girl is not a cat, capable of taking her rest where she may, but the times and their usage have had their effect, and she is accustomed to living rough. Still, the child is vulnerable by nature of her size and gender. We have come to rest in an alley, tucked just off the main road. We were not pursued; those men were not built for the long hunt or for stealth. That does not mean we are safe. The girl shifts, her head coming to rest on the arms crossed over her knees. I extend my game leg and begin to groom.
Soon my fur is spotless, nearly pitch black in the shade. The slight variance over my limb, where the hide below has scarred, smooth enough so that it would barely shimmer blue-black in the light. But the sun has already begun its decline, and I see now that the girl has chosen wisely, sheltering in the lee of this building, as its shadow darkens and grows toward night.
She should stay here, I decide, as comforted by that thought as by the rough rasp of my tongue. Rest and consider what steps are best to next take. She is a smart girl and has been well trained, as far as that went. But the intemperance of youth, as well as her early emancipation, has resulted in a rashness that I am ill equipped to counter. Her questioning of the man Peter, for example, was slipshod, and in her haste, she missed an opportunity. Yes, she picked up on his knowledge – that he seemed to be aware that his colleague had been taken as a kind of threat. But she went off on a tangent and did not pursue the most pressing questions. Who took the youth Rafe, and why? And the most crucial of all: what did this have to do with the man’s engagement of her services? It seems quite obvious that he was sent to her. By whom and for what reason are what we both now need to know.
‘I wonder …’ She speaks to herself, I know. Still, I pause from my bath. ‘If he – yeah, he might have an idea.’ She nods, even as she bites her lip. I resume my toilette. This is her process and is not that dissimilar from mine, although I dislike how her teeth have rubbed the corner of her mouth raw. Almost, I wonder, as if she would feed on herself. She needs more than the basic sustenance that she now earns. More than the companionship I, and with decreasing frequency the boy Tick, can provide.
‘It would be good to talk things out,’ she says, as she pushes herself upright. I am not psychic. Despite my strange antecedents, I am no more than what I once was. In many ways, I am less. And yet I believe I was right in my conjecture. The girl requires companionship of another more like her. She may not realize it, but the girl is lonely.
As she begins to walk, I pace myself beside her. She is aware of me. I have seen her glance down, the faint smile of recognition as I look up to meet her gaze. I keep myself in her line of sight, willing myself to disregard the instincts toward stealth and a more furtive path back to the heart of the city. I do not recall ever regretting the lack of a companion in my life. As a cat, I have no such need. Even the biological drives of a younger animal are faint within me now, and such society as some of my kind enjoy would be irksome to me, at best. Mayhap this is a holdover from my prior existence. Although I must have been at times as other men are, I do not believe I was ever one for society. Certainly not of the chummy pack mentality that drove those thugs by the waterfront, and not of any more subtle kind either. I was a loner, I believe, as I still am by nature and by preference. Even family …
That woman, the aged and heavy one who called herself Augusta. I pause for a moment and then continue my casual trot, the thought alone enough to momentarily throw me off my pace. I pore over her words. The claims she made as she hired the girl. The contradictions presented by the keeper, this Quirty.
If she spoke truly, then perhaps she did know me. Perhaps she could shed light on this transformation, or on the enemy who brought me low. The girl turns a corner, and I follow. The day is fading. The shadows grow long, but the timid creatures of dusk and dawn hold back on our passing. My scent, as much as hers, serves as a warning, and neither my ears nor my nose note the presence of any other creature of interest.
She turns again, and I follow. But although some part of me is always alert, I am focused now on the past. On the being – the man – I once was.
Did I – do I – have a sister? I have no recollection of such, but I recall so little of any prior life. Too much is emptiness, a void that I cannot explain. Perhaps therein lies the problem. As the girl ducks down a narrow lane, I pause, and then consider. Whatever I was once, I am now a cat. Not some human prone to sentiment. Ties of blood do not bind beasts like the one I have become. I waste no thought on mates or the progeny that may – no, must – have resulted from this once strong and vital form. Nor, I suspect, did they matter much to my previous incarnation. As a man, I do not believe I was much different. The few memories I have recalled are empty of companions, save of those I valued for their utility. Save, I make the exception, of the girl. The hunt – the tracking – this is what drew me on. What draws me now.
The girl! I have lost her. Lost sight of her, I correct myself. For of course in my current form I can both hear and smell her not far off. A momentary panic, then; a sudden reversion to a less capable form. And yet, I realize with some astonishment, I have not been paying attention to our route or to her now obvious destination. Lost in my ruminations, I had assumed a default. That the girl would retreat to her – our – lair, and there begin again the laborious process of investigation, mulling over what she has heard and seen and learned.
I had not counted on the resilience of youth. No matter the fright she was given, nor the pursuit that left her winded and hot, she would query another still. The pride I feel in her wells up in a rumble within my chest. She will question this source about his contact. About what he knows, and then she will weigh and decide. She did not miss the gaps in her client’s story, and she will persevere.
She is waiting, as I knew she would, around the corner from the building. A recessed door, set down in the pavement. Backed into the shadow, she waits until the shade reaches the portal with no other movement nearby. Only then does she approach the keeper’s office.
She raps gently on the door. ‘Mr Quirty?’ Her voice no more than the rustle of paper blowing in the street.
A creak and it opens. Big eyes bli
nking even in the dim light. A knife, short but sharp, held in a trembling hand.
‘Come in,’ he says, lowering the knife, and she enters. The door closes behind her too quickly even for me, and so I make my way around the basement office to where a window, hung with oiled cloth, admits me with ease. I do not even need to conceal myself, as they greet each other by the doorway, and I am beneath the keeper’s desk before they approach it themselves.
‘You are worried,’ he says, as she sits. He picks up the pencil he has been sharpening, the rhythmic scraping of blade on wood filling the space as he waits for her response.
‘I have questions,’ she says. My tail lashes in anticipation, stirring the shavings around me. Peter. The boy Rafe. That woman. Please, I beseech the air above me, let her be pursuing these and not the fate of her late leader, AD. I hear the intake of her breath, and wait, my own at bay.
‘They wanted my cat, Mr Q,’ she says, the words deliberate and strong. ‘And I want to know why.’
No! It takes all my training, all my discipline, to keep from calling out. That, and the sure knowledge that my protest would only be heard as the yowling of some low beast. Instead, I find myself panting, in my dismay that this girl, for whom I risk so much, should waste her time or any other resource on concern for me. I am a cat, and self-sufficient. She, however, is a female, young and vulnerable. She must not—
But, no. In the pause, as I catch my breath, the scraping continues. The man has begun to speak again, even as more of the light tight coils of wood drift down to me. And in his quiet, measured tone, I hear some semblance of the rationality I would have the girl aspire to.
‘What makes you think they want your cat?’ His question is basic, but no less vital. ‘I mean, specifically, as opposed to any cat?’
She takes a moment before answering. She has learned to gather her thoughts, to weigh impressions against evidence. But I fear that she may still allow emotion to influence her unduly. She is young and she is loyal, and thus, is prone to give affection more influence then is its due.
‘They said they wanted a mouser.’ I hear the deliberation in her voice. She is trying to remember and to be precise. ‘A black cat, in particular, for the boss’s cellar. They said that a black cat would be more effective.’
My ears prick forward at that. For of all the axioms I have heard circulated about felines of my coloring, this one is new to me.
To her, as well. ‘Maybe that’s it.’ She speaks with a little more ease. ‘I mean, I’ve never heard that before. But more than that …’ She drags the chair closer, a move that makes the pencil shavings scatter. ‘I have a feeling.’
A shift, as the man leans forward too, and she waves off his response. ‘No, I know what that sounds like, and I don’t mean it like that. More like, I saw how they were looking at Blackie, as if they’d been searching for him. And I know they were offered a reward – a bounty – for a cat like him. Only, there aren’t many. None that I’ve seen, except him. And, well, it’s funny.’
The keeper makes a small sound. A wordless query, as he waits.
‘This goes against everything the old man taught me. I wonder if I’m picking up something that I just can’t quite put words to. The old man would hate that I’m trusting anything like that – anything that I can’t confirm or explain. But maybe that’s Blackie’s influence.’ She laughs. The release of tension is palpable. ‘Maybe I’m learning to be more like a cat.’
I bristle. I cannot help it. The guard hairs that provide the gloss and apparent uniformity of my coat begin to rise and my spine to arch. It is an involuntary response, and yet I can easily surmise what has brought it about. Anger. Disappointment. And, yes, surprise at her disdain for my methods, for what I taught her. And, I confess, for my current state, in which I have endeavored to comport myself with dignity and reason.
Or maybe, there is something else. For while the girl has chuckled at her own words, she is piecing something together. Conscious, I believe, of the absurdity of her conclusion, the man sitting across from her has not said anything. In fact, his silence is telling. Eloquent, even, and I can hear how Care has stilled her breath, waiting. As, in myself, I recognize the truth of what she has said.
Instinct? I do not like to call it that, conflating as it does the cultivated powers of ratiocination with more basic urges. Rather, a recognition, on some pre-conscious level, of a truth or truths that my senses have been busy compiling. That this man is now silent lends credence to the idea. Reminds me, as well, of that strange unease I had when last we were here – and when that woman, who calls herself Augusta, first climbed the stairs to our shared office and into our life.
‘Mr Q?’ Care is waiting now, though more for confirmation than for a revelation, I believe. ‘What do you know?’
A sigh that would be audible even to ears less acute than mine. He has put down his pencil and his knife both, as he struggles with his answer. With – I realize – his loyalty and priorities.
‘I am a keeper,’ he says at last. ‘My profession is built on trust.’
She nods at his explanation and then begins to speak. The struggle apparent in her voice. ‘I understand,’ she says. ‘But if there is something that would help me – or, no, something that would keep me, or mine, from harm …’ Her request trails off. Enough has been said.
My heart beats at a faster rate than do those of these two. Still, enough time passes for my agitation to subside and, with it, my upended fur. The girl holds herself still, in the mode of a hunter who knows that any movement may alert the prey. I, confident that my presence has not been noted, tilt my ears forward. A change in breathing, even one more subtle than that voluminous sigh, may be as informative as any words.
‘Your questions.’ He pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips. ‘Your supposition, I should say, may have merit.’ The girl, still frozen, does not respond. ‘About your cat, that is. I do not say this lightly.’ He rushes through these words, anxious to get them out. ‘For, as I’ve said, my profession – my life – is built on trust. Only, you are – Care, Ms Wright, you are special to me. And not simply for the services you have done me, in your role as one who seeks. But because I have known those who loved you and have been honored to purvey their missives, from another time.’
The girl is trembling. She remains silent, but I can feel the emotions that wrack her body. The letter from her father, which this man held. And others, perhaps, of which she is not aware. She makes some motion – assent, understanding – and the man begins to speak again.
‘We are not family, you and I, but we have such allegiance that may count as much in these times. And, therefore …’
He breaks down. His breathing labored. It is the girl who leans forward, with words to comfort and beseech.
‘I understand,’ she says. The chair beneath her creaks. She has reached for him – for his hand, perhaps. ‘And I understand as well the value of your word. If there is any way I can assure you of my discretion. Of my need …’
‘That isn’t necessary.’ He speaks more easily. His mind’s made up. ‘I only – please, you must understand – I only ask that you appreciate the gravity.’
‘I do.’ Just like that, a pact is solemnized.
‘A woman – much like the one whom you described – came to me here yesterday.’ He swallows again. Sighs. ‘I believe it was she whom you had inquired about – who had hired the youth and then visited you. But she did not ask about the old man, nor about any brother, missing or gone. She only wanted to know about the cat that follows you about. About how long he has been your companion, and where before he came from.’
SIXTEEN
‘But why? He didn’t belong to the old man, if that’s what she’s thinking.’ I must give the girl credit. Although Quirty’s words must sound odd to her, she rallies quickly and arrives at what should be a logical conclusion. ‘If she thinks he’s going to help her find out what happened to him – help her find something that belonged to him, she’s mistaken.’
I could argue with that, assuming, of course, that I could speak directly to either of the humans who now sit above me. That I can’t encapsulates the situation in a nutshell. It also illuminates a worrisome blind spot in my own logic. When those men down by the waterfront grabbed me, I credited nothing more than the violence of such types. Brutes such as that kill for sport and enjoy inflicting pain, and the hook boys are known for their savagery. To hear that this woman also seeks to learn about me puts their quest in a different light, however, bringing to mind not only that strange dream but also another, earlier encounter.
When the girl found me, I was drowning. She pulled me from the rushing waters of that drain and warmed me with her body, allowing me to revive into this new life. All my memory of that encounter – my salvation – is from a different perspective. From that of my former being, the old man, as I looked up, sight failing, at the evil men above me. They were watching me die. Waiting, I believe, for my final breath. But what happened at that moment of transformation – how my consciousness transmuted from that existence to this current one – I do not know. Nor, I realize now, have I queried deeply into how my feline form came to be struggling in that flood. An oversight, to be sure, and one that I must address. The men by the docks, they were sent to capture me. The one who ordered them— But the girl is speaking again.
‘There’s something going on down there. Down by the docks.’ Her foot jiggles, restive, and I would press against it to calm her, only I would not interrupt her thoughts. Instead, I put my paw out to still one of those shavings, flattening it like a moth. ‘Those men, AD, that woman.’
‘AD?’ The man across from her leans forward, the question tightening in his voice. Care, however, does not respond, so intent is she on her train of thought.
‘That man Peter,’ she says, biting down on the name. ‘He helped me – helped us. But he knows more than he’s telling me.’