by Clea Simon
She lets him go after that. Her questions on behalf of the missing Rafe abandoned in the flood of new information. She barely seems to notice as he takes his leave.
‘I’ll come back, Care. Before I go for good,’ he says. She’s staring at the window, but her eyes are not focusing. ‘The ship’s expected tonight or tomorrow. Maybe you can see me off?’
‘Tick, you don’t have to do this.’ She turns, but he’s already gone.
Whether in pursuit or in response to some other cue, she rises and readies to leave, grabbing the jacket and her canvas bag. This grants me the opportunity to examine the desktop that has so engaged her since waking. I nose the papers she has perused, regretting yet again my inability to make sense of the cryptic glyphs scrawled thereon. My eyes close on finding her perfume, so warm and familiar. It is not quite obscured by that bitter oil, and I would indulge further. There are other odors here, as well. Clues I may read as easily as she does that script.
‘Blackie?’ I look up; she is standing by the door. I cannot resist. These papers are dead things and will remain. I jump down to join her, slipping by her as we make our way to the street. But if I’d thought she might go after the boy, I am taken by surprise. It would be easy to track him. To seek out the small factory where he once worked, assembling cheap clothing for the export trade. To follow him on his rounds. Nor does she head for the waterfront, to search for where this Rafe must be held. Instead, she veers into the old industrial district, into the warren of narrow streets, where the buildings – those that remain – lean so close together that the morning sun does not reach through. Now, indeed, I regret my decision, made in haste. There was something amiss about those pages, something beyond the acrid bite of citrus. I suspected as much, and yet rejected this hypothesis before I had properly tested it. An animal’s response, dismissing the written word as of little importance. Or, worse, a remnant of human pride – unwilling to accept that which I have lost. Now, though, this much is clear. She would not come this way were it not a matter of papers or of the written word.
‘Mr Quirty.’ Having arrived at a familiar doorway, she calls softly. ‘Mr Quirty, are you there?’
Her voice, though low, is urgent. She has observed the usual precautions on her way to the basement where the keeper may be found. Despite the apparent urgency of her mission, she has paused to surveil her path, stopped and waited at several corners in these close-packed streets. Now that she has arrived, she seems ready to abandon such safeguards. Raising her arm, she bangs on the door with the flat of her hand. ‘Please,’ she calls through the door.
‘He’s not there.’ At the sound of the voice, the girl whips around. I, standing on a pile of bricks nearby, freeze in horror. How can it be that I have been taken by surprise? That this woman – for it is she, Augusta – has managed to sneak up on me? On us. In her hand, she holds the keeper’s short knife.
‘You!’ Care is taken aback as well. She sees the knife and looks back up at the woman, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that Quirty’s? Did you follow me?’
The older woman shakes her head. ‘I’ve been here since dawn,’ she says. ‘I was waiting – hoping to speak with the keeper again – but he’s not been around. I looked—’ And here she turns toward me. ‘I looked in the window, and it’s dark. And then I found this, out here.’
‘Damn,’ says Care, her brow creasing. ‘I wish I hadn’t left him. I wish …’ She glances toward me, as well, and my ears prick up. ‘I wonder if he went after my cat?’
‘Your cat?’ There is a note in the woman’s voice not easily explained.
‘I left Blackie, my cat, with him.’ Care doesn’t hear it, or dismisses it as curiosity. ‘And he got out. I’m thinking that if Mr Quirty tried to find him, he might have exposed himself to danger, somehow.’
I cannot comment. For all I know, her supposition is correct and I am at fault, having left that good man open to danger or, worse, led him into it. All I can do is dismount the pile of bricks and approach the girl, rubbing my cheek against her shin in penance and regret. I hope to offer comfort, if nothing more constructive.
‘Maybe Blackie could have helped him, if he’d hung around.’ Care sounds downcast, and I brush against her again, conjuring a purr as she massages the base of my ear. ‘Maybe he could’ve saved him.’
‘Keepers are often at risk.’ The woman’s voice is low and even. It reminds me of a letter, hidden in the wall. Of secrets that he has held for others.
But I am wrong to dismiss the girl’s powers of perception. Her retention of all I once taught her. ‘Why are you here?’ She looks up at the woman, waiting. ‘Really? I know you hired someone else – before you came to me.’
‘I did.’ The woman nods, as if she is not surprised. ‘I needed to check you out. To see if you were who I thought before I approached you. And he was on the docks.’
Care tilts her head. ‘The boy you hired, he’s been taken.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, but that wasn’t of my doing.’
The girl stands and stares at her. Appraising her, I believe. The woman waits, as if expecting such, and after a moment the girl speaks again.
‘You didn’t have a letter, did you?’ Her question is in fact a statement. ‘The keeper – the man they took – he had no package for you. Nothing from a brother to a sister. You lied to me.’
She nods. ‘I did, about the letter. But not about everything.’ She does not mention the carving, and I glance up at Care to see if she notices the omission. But she holds her face still, waiting, as the woman continues to speak. ‘I was desperate, you see,’ she says this as if it were evident. ‘I needed to find what happened to him, the person you knew as the old man.’
She sighs and her body loosens. A lie is a rope that binds the speaker, and the truth can cut it free. ‘Things are bad, where I come from. They’re getting worse.’
‘But if you knew he was dead …’ Care begins the sentence, prompting her. Has she noticed the woman’s phrasing? That her quest is mentioned as a thing of the past?
‘I didn’t come seeking his help,’ the woman says, stressing the last word. ‘Not exactly. But I helped him once, and I thought … I still believe there might be something.’
‘You thought …’ Good girl. She tilts her head, as quizzical as any kitten, and waits. ‘What?’
Bother. She is waiting for the conclusion of the sentence. Not, as I’d hoped for the reason for the assignment to be cancelled. An assignment that unnerves me, as so much about this woman does.
She is perceptive, this woman. Even as my ears go back in frustration, I feel her turning toward me. Looking at me, as if she could see my struggle to remain calm.
‘I thought,’ she says, ‘perhaps, your cat might be involved.’
‘My cat?’ My ears prick up at Care’s tone. But the woman only shakes her head.
‘It’s not likely, but you never know. People are panicking. They say it’s starting again. The raids. The roundups. And now that I’m here, I see all the signs.’
‘Signs of what?’ Care speaks softly, as if she dreads the answer.
‘The trade.’ A whisper, barely more.
‘That’s why—’ The girl’s voice is not much louder. A thought voiced aloud. ‘The scat. “Export quality,” Rosa said. The ship coming into the harbor.’
The woman nods once, slowly. ‘I fear it’s going to begin again.’
The girl’s face goes blank as realization hits. ‘Tick,’ she says.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Wait!’ The woman calls, even as Care rounds the corner, racing, and I am at her heels. Augusta has turned to follow, but she is large and aged, and her lumbering gait is no match for the girl’s. I hear her labored breathing fall behind us, and then I must focus on my own. The girl is driven by fear, by love, and even in my youth, my strides would not match hers.
I have one advantage: I have surmised her destination. This talk of trade and of export, the boy and a ship. She is heading toward the waterfront, whe
re all these factors come into play. More to the point, she is heading to the pen, where the child was held. The mother spoke of sailors, and also of the relative emptiness of the enclosure. I have only the faintest sense of what such a space may be used for, but I have an animal’s inborn distrust of the cage. I believe this same instinct has been roused in the girl as well.
Suspecting her purpose, I am able to pace myself, to make use of the shortcuts available to one of my size and ability. When the girl rounds a corner, racing around the perimeter of a wreck that once housed a factory, I am able to leap over the rubble and cinders to meet her on the far side. When she must detour to avoid a fence, a barrier of wire erected around some small freehold, I can slip beneath it. No stakeholder will note my passage any more than he would that of a bird or rat, and were it not for my midnight coat, most would welcome my presence for the services I provide.
Still, I almost miss her when I arrive, panting and winded, at our destination, not a block from the river basin. I have come by a back alley, a narrow passage letting out toward the back of the enclosure, where the walls, tall and windowless, block even the midday sun.
A trickle of water, making its way to the harbor, runs the length of the fencing, and I pause, thinking to refresh myself. The water is unclean, I know, and I lower my face to it gingerly. This form, I have learned, is resilient in many ways, but I am not immune to sickness or to poison. Jaws open, I breathe it in. Waste, which I expect. The faint oily tang of industrial residue, not surprising down here by the docks. And something more – yes, blood. I drink my fill, but not with fervor. The blood I am tasting has a particular taint. It came from men, and it was shed under great stress and pain.
Once I have slaked my thirst, I begin my exploration. The girl must be here, I know, and although I trust her to conceal herself, she cannot hide from me. Sure enough, I smell her before I see her. The run has warmed her body, and although she does her best to keep her breathing silent, her exhalations spread her scent in the warming air.
With my nose as a guide, I quickly locate her across the main thoroughfare from the pen, crouching in the same alley we availed ourselves of the other night, one that affords her a view of its entrance – and of the guards. I pause where I am, across the street. It may be risky for me to approach her. Not only may I, or another of my ilk, still be sought, the two men on duty look bored and dull, capable of cruelty even without the added impetus of profit. A small gang nearby talk loudly of their exploits of the night before. I study them, weighing the signs, and it is as I hoped: some member of the cluster engages the two on guard. A rude jest causes them to laugh. Their heads back, mouths open, they are as heedless as they will ever be, and I use their distraction to dart into the street toward—
Blat! The blast of sound sends me flying, its blare almost physical in volume and force. But instinct serves me well, for I am across, and the truck that rumbles past, a hair’s breadth from my tail, provides cover as I join the girl, who now stands, white-faced and shaking.
‘Blackie.’ I allow her to gather me up in her arms and hold me close. I, too, felt the chill of death just now. But in a moment she releases me, and hunkers down again. And I by her side lend my focus, taking in the guards and their cohort. The walls, and the one gate that stands closed and barred. It must appear impenetrable, I think, to one such as the girl. Those walls stand higher than any man. Higher than some buildings, these days, and the guards will not be so careless a second time.
The girl is small for her age, and thin. I take her size into account as I gauge the wall and the wire atop it, coiled and barbed. If it is the boy who is inside, they might both make it. Provided, of course, that the guards did not detain them, and they could gain sufficient leverage to top the barrier. If it is another – I think of the man Quirty and of the lad Rafe, whom she has sought – then I am less sure. The man is slight, but well beyond first youth. The lad I have not seen. I sniff the air, pondering other options. Walls may be breached. That streamlet may have done its work, loosening or undercutting what looks like plaster upon stone. I consider returning to that back alley. To seek a weak spot, where the ground is soft.
‘Tick.’ Her whisper distracts me, and I look up to see her staring back toward where she has come. A sense beyond mine – born from affinity or long association – has alerted her. It’s the boy. Shoulders back, the knit cap pulled down almost to his eyes, he’s walking down the street toward the group of men now roughly queued outside the pen. He’s moving quickly, lengthening his loping gait as more men gather. But not running. No, as if he’d put such childish moves behind him, he strides in haste, and his lengthening limbs – this new posture – presage once more the man he may become.
‘Tick,’ she calls, louder now. Perhaps she sees this too. ‘Come here.’
‘Care.’ He sees her and pauses in the street, his eyes darting from her sanctuary in the alley to the men and back. ‘What are you – you can’t be here.’
‘I’m so glad I found you.’ She stands and doesn’t seem to hear the import of his words. ‘I thought – I was afraid …’
‘I’ve got to go, Care.’ He steps back, turns to look at the men again. ‘They’re lining up.’
‘No, wait.’ She reaches for him. Takes his arm and pulls him into the shadow. ‘Tick, you don’t know what they’re doing.’
‘You’re the one who doesn’t know.’ His chin is up, his voice full of pride and bravado. ‘You want to keep me a kid, but this is my chance.’
‘Tick—’ He starts to pull away. ‘Look, I’ll make you a deal.’ Her face, always mobile, sets. She’s changing tactic. Changing her priorities too, perhaps. ‘I need to get in there. Let me take your place – just briefly – and I won’t fight you on this. Not anymore.’
‘Why?’ He squints in the shadow, trying to make out her face.
‘It’s a job,’ she says, putting her quest in language the boy will understand. ‘Like I told you, I’m looking for someone, and I think he may be being held against his will. Press-ganged.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think they’re doing that this time.’ He looks over, eager to be gone. ‘I could see if I could find out.’
‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘I’m going in and I need you to stay here.’
‘Care …’ His impatience is giving way to frustration. ‘You can’t go in. They only want boys.’
‘And who’s to say I’m not?’ She grabs the hat, the one she gave him, and jams it over her own head. As I look on, she stands and slumps forward. With her shoulders arched, her slim form could be that of a boy’s in first growth. Could be Tick’s older brother, in fact. ‘That’s why you need to stay here. In case I need you to get out.’
‘But I’ll miss my chance.’ He whines, his rising voice revealing his youth. In response, she reaches for him once again. Holds him close, and I consider that she has heard what I do not, an unspoken plea. A regret and a request.
There is little of logic in what she has said. Little, I suspect, the boy could do to free her, if she does indeed manage to make her way inside. And I am compelled to consider if by this ruse she merely intends to keep the child from hiring on, for I little doubt she would sacrifice herself. Will she also find the other lad – this Rafe – or answer the riddle of the keeper’s disappearance? From up the block, I hear a limping step. A panting breath. The woman Augusta has found us at last. Care turns and sees her coming. She pulls the cap low almost to her eyes and, with a swagger that befits a would-be seaman, saunters toward the gate.
I will not panic. It will serve no purpose to run after her, like some dog, as she queues up with the men across the street. But I am stymied, as I stand and stare.
She is wise, this girl, and she has observed the men carefully. Although she has joined them, she does not engage. Her goal is to gain access to the enclosure, not to gather information, and so she slumps against the wall, as several of their party do. Her arms are crossed across her chest, a further barrier to conversation, b
ut this pose only makes me more aware of her changing body and of the risk she runs, putting herself at their mercy.
Beside me, the boy grows restless. I do not know if he worries for the girl or if he is simply regretting the opportunity he has surrendered. I have little patience for him and would leave him behind. Only, this alley, nearly opposite the entrance to the pen, offers the best vantage point. The girl chose it well, and I would not leave it until I have a plan.
‘Don’t worry about her.’ The voice, close to my ear, makes me start. I have been so focused on the scene across the street, I had not noticed the final approach of the woman Augusta. She crouches now beside me, lowering her profile and putting herself almost on my level, as I sit, head up and ears erect. ‘She can take care of herself.’
I cannot help it. My ear flicks at her voice, an unconscious acknowledgement of her words. I will not reveal that I comprehend her words, even as I find her declaration encouraging. Nor will I be distracted from my watch. But she has noted that movement, or perhaps some other sign that I am not what I would seem. I have been careless and now fear becoming embroiled in an exchange I do not understand when I have neither time nor energy to expend.
‘Who are you?’ The boy saves me, without meaning to. His question, edged with annoyance, will not be ignored.
‘Me? I’m a client of your friend’s,’ says the woman. ‘I knew her mentor, you see.’
‘The old man?’ I can’t help it. My ear twitches again, turning to catch her words. The boy is curious. Eager to be distracted, I suspect, rather than see his chance be squandered by Care. The man she speaks of was known to him, but the boy was too young – and too compromised by a growing weakness for the oblivion of drugs – to be of much use to him. Still, the boy recognizes his importance.
‘Yes, he and I had dealings once. We had an agreement.’ I do not respond. I observe as the line across the street begins to move. The guards are talking to the first men. Asking questions and taking their measure, I gather. One has passed the interrogation and goes inside. The next is not so lucky. A guard – the shorter one – pushes his shoulder and he sways back. I wait, expecting a responding blow. A brawl, a punch, but the man keeps his hands by his side and, recovering his balance, stands straighter. A test then. A few more words, and he too is waved in. Care stands and takes her place as the queue assumes a more formal order.