by Clea Simon
‘It’s OK now. You’re OK.’ His voice is soft, as if he would comfort us both. ‘Those men – I don’t think the boss is even looking for a cat anymore.’
‘Who are you?’ The girl reacts, holding me tighter to her chest, and steps back as he raises his hands, but he only holds them there, as if in surrender.
‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I wanted to get you away. Big Dan’s a savage.’
She nods, but stays silent, willing him to tell her more.
‘I recognized you, you see. As soon as you came in. Despite the hat.’ One hand goes up to his own head, as if his words were not understood. I do not think that is why the girl holds her peace, however. She has been startled out of her ruse and been speaking in her normal voice. This must have occurred to her, and now she would resume her subterfuge – if it has not already been revealed.
‘I knew about you, about how you work.’ He keeps on talking. ‘So I wasn’t too surprised.’
‘But who are you?’ She pitches her voice low, but not unnaturally so. In the dim light, she could still be taken for a boy. After all, nothing he has said is definitive, though she must have the same suspicions I do.
‘I’m Rafe,’ he says, as if the answer is obvious. ‘I was told to look for you, you see.’
What follows next is curious, not least because of how the girl reacts. She lets me down, for which I am grateful. Her arms loosen as of their own accord and I jump to the floor. I am quiet, I know that, but the soft thud is clearly audible in the silent room. And yet the girl does not move her head. Does not make her near automatic confirmation of my landing or where I would go next. Instead, she stares still at the freckled youth. Almost, I think, she would approach this lad. That she doesn’t leaves me grateful. Although his voice is soft and he appears to pose no threat, too many questions hover around him. How he came to be here, for example. His late colleague admitted some complicity in the effort to entrap the girl, and here he is, in this evil place. Surely, Care must question this. Even her apparent rescue should not be taken at face value. Not while we remain here, in this enclosed space, at least.
‘I was on a job.’ He starts again after the moment’s pause. ‘I – my friend was urging me to look, to find something else to do. We work on the docks together, but it’s getting hard for him. I let him think I wanted that – to go off on my own. And at first it was fun. A woman hired me for an errand. I went to see some little guy, works out of a basement—’
‘Quirty,’ she says. Then, with some urgency: ‘Is he here?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’ His skin is fair, beneath the freckles, and he does not color as he speaks. A sign of honesty, perhaps, or of long dissembling. ‘Why?’
‘He’s missing.’ She bites her lip. Unwilling, I believe to say more. But her eyes reveal her distress, darting back and forth.
‘I don’t think he’d be here,’ the youth says, and there is something conciliatory or consoling in his voice. A warmth, though that may be affected. ‘They wouldn’t take a man like him. His age and, well, his sight would make him – he wouldn’t be of use to them. Unless …’ He shakes his head. ‘No, they don’t know.’
‘What?’ Care seizes his hand.
‘It’s nothing. Rumors. Things they say. What I do know is he told me to look for you. That you do this kind of thing for a living.’ He stops then and I see that he is staring at her, his mouth agape. ‘He said your name is Care.’
There is a moment then that I do not understand. A communication of some sort I cannot decipher. I look from this tall youth and follow his rapt gaze. His eyes are brown, plain as mud compared to hers. His hair unkempt and shaggy. Still, there is a connection. A magic – a meeting – that I do not comprehend. He stares at the girl, and she stares back. Both pale and far too thin, even if labor has put some wiry muscle on his bones. Both of an age. I would study them. Would understand. The silence in the room is palpable. The noise outside seems far away, and then suddenly it isn’t.
‘Hurry!’ A man yells, right outside the door. ‘You laggards, hurry up!’
The spell – whatever it may be – is broken. Both the youngsters start, as if bracing for attack. Care turns toward the door and then looks back up at the youth.
‘Is there another exit?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only back into the courtyard. They lock us in at night.’
‘Yo! Over here.’ Another voice, and footsteps racing. Some tumult in the yard. The girl drops back. She runs her hands along the far wall as if looking for a weak spot or a door. A crash, as of a body, hits the wall beside the door and both jump. But there is no follow-up attack. Whoever fell is off and running, amid shouts for aid, for water.
Water? I, too, have been bewitched. My attention stolen – diverted by this young man. But now the danger has become apparent. A low growl starts deep within me and my fur begins to rise. I go to Care to stand beside her, even as she continues her slow progress, running her hands along the far wall. When the youth – Rafe – approaches, my growl grows louder. This may not be his doing. I care not. This slim young man has trapped the girl in here. Trapped us both as a predator I cannot fight bears down. She does not know this yet – cannot smell what I do and does not hear the hiss of its approach.
‘Fire!’ The cry is raised. ‘Fire! All hands now!’
The girl spins round to face the red-haired youth, but he is too fast. He reaches for the door. His hand touches the knob and with a yelp jumps back. ‘It’s hot,’ he says, shaking his burned hand. Behind him, the girl gasps. She sees now what I have scented – the faint stream of smoke that worms its way inside. Pulling the thin blanket off a cot, the youth wraps his hand and reaches once more for the door. He winces as he turns the knob and begins to pull it toward him.
‘No!’ The girl is beside him, pushing the portal closed. With reason. Her senses may not be as keen as mine, but she could see the ash and flames beyond. The inferno waiting merely for an opening. That crash – whether by intent or accident – has brought the danger to us. Whatever burns is propped against the bunk room’s outer wall and door.
‘Up.’ The youth now eyes the ceiling. Uninsulated, bare, it shows the thatch upon the beam. The girl looks, too, considering, and as she does, her companion acts. He grabs one cot and pulls it over. Throws it on its mate, ropey muscles standing out on his wiry frame.
‘Come on.’ He motions her to climb. To mount the teetering pile, and when she hesitates, he jumps up there himself. ‘I can boost you,’ he says. ‘I bet we can break through.’
She joins him then and reaches up. He clasps her around the waist and lifts her. ‘It’s soft,’ she says, pushing against the matted straw. ‘It’s rotten.’
‘Hang on.’ He lowers her and together they stack another cot upon the pile. For sure they must both smell the smoke. See how the thatch has begun to smolder, the red of embers crawling up the straw.
‘I’ll push you,’ Rafe is saying. ‘You can climb up, on the beams. They’ll hold you, I think, and you can scale the wall.’
‘No, wait.’ She scans the room. Between the darkness and the smoke, I do not think she sees me. ‘I need to find …’
I would not detain her and, gathering my courage, make my move. I leap atop the cot beside her. She rewards me with her smile.
‘Boost me up,’ she says. ‘Then hand me Blackie, and then I’ll help you up.’
He looks at me but doesn’t answer. Only joins his fingers together and crouches, waiting for her foot. A heave and then she’s up. The thatch is old and damp and shreds where she pushes at it. Coughing, she breaks through. And as I watch her go, I feel his hands upon me. Hoisting me. I hiss and I would fight. But then I am raised high as well and, scrambling, find myself upon the roof. The thatch has caught at last. Flames lick at its edges and smoke rises thick and black from its damp rot.
Care coughs, crouches forward, and I suffer a moment’s fear. She will fall. Back into the barrack, into the flame. But she catches onto the beam.
Wipes her streaming eyes with one free hand, then leans forward again.
‘Rafe!’ she calls, as loudly as she dares. ‘Come on.’ She extends her hand.
‘Go.’ He’s shouting to be heard over the cacophony of the yard. The fire crackles. Smoke is rising. ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice cracks.
A crash from below sends smoke billowing up and the girl starts back. Voices call out, and among them I hear the young man cry. Whether in pain or joy, I cannot tell. I would not linger and instead leap and find my perch upon the outer wall. Where I wait an anguished moment, as the girl, thrown back by the thick grey smoke, appears to hesitate – to question.
Go! If I could command her, I would. Flee! Instead, I cry, lifting my head for a heartfelt yowl. And as my wordless protest dies away, I turn to see her staring. Her face fraught with concern.
‘Blackie, are you hurt?’
I am not above dissembling, and lift one paw in response. It works. She scrambles up toward where I sit, and as if spooked, I leap again, landing in the alley below. It is only as I step back that I remember to limp, and I am rewarded as I see the girl swing her own feet over the barrier and then drop, with only a little less grace than myself, onto the dirt below.
It is only then that we see someone running. The boy – Tick – and right behind the woman called Augusta.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Care! Over here!’ The boy waves madly and the girl rushes to him. ‘You’re safe! I was so scared.’
He hugs her, his eyes closing, and the girl holds him close. I stand back, fur still on edge. He stinks of smoke and stinging ash. As do we all, I know. Even the girl, whose joy shines through her smutty face. ‘Oh, Tick,’ she murmurs, lips close to his unclean hair. ‘Tick.’
It is my nature to stand apart at such moments, shunning such embraces even when tendered with love. Still, I cannot help but wonder at the timing of the boy’s appearance. I had seen no open flames inside the enclosure. Smelled no cooking pits or forges.
I would know more, and gingerly approach, sniffing for further clues.
‘We can’t be seen here.’ I catch myself at the voice and see Care start at the sight of the older woman.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tick pulls free from the girl. Looks down the narrow alley, hedged in by high walls. ‘We can’t stay here. Come on.’
They follow the boy away from where Care has dropped down, along the pen’s outer wall until we come to an alley, leading up to the street. The shouts are louder here. More men pass by the alley’s mouth, coming at a run, heedless of our small crew. The smoke is thick and oily, but we are risking exposure, and then Augusta begins to cough. Soon she is bent double, with Care supporting her, they maneuver her up the alley and onto the street. Together, they move down the block, a victim of the fire and her helpers, disregarded in the panic.
I linger, unnoticed in the shadow of the curb. The runners do not pause or turn as they pass by, their attention taken by the fire in the enclosure. The gates have been opened, I see, but men pour in, rather than the reverse. Their efforts are paying off. Although the air remains bitter with smoke, the quality has changed. Steam – the smell of wet straw of saturated wood smoldering – gains preponderance. The fire is coming under control, as I rejoin the small crew in the alley, not far – certainly not far enough – off the main street. But even were my lashing tail insufficient as a warning, I would note the tension here, between these three. The level of strain is dangerous, as it keeps the girl here, too close to the street, and vulnerable.
‘Come on.’ The boy is frustrated. He takes Care’s hand and would pull her along.
‘No, wait.’ The girl stops and would turn back. ‘Rafe. We have to wait for him.’
‘What?’ The boy looks up puzzled.
The woman, however, reaches out. ‘No, go. You have to.’ Her eyes are clear and there is no trace of hoarseness in her throat. ‘You were lucky to escape,’ she says. ‘He won’t be far behind.’
Her meaning is clear to the girl, at least. She shakes her head. She would object, I believe. Would ask for explanation or some elaboration of the process that has clearly been elided over. I would that she would query their arrival here as well, so synchronous with that conflagration.
Perhaps this has also occurred to her. I see doubt cross her face.
‘Care!’ Tick pulls at her. Perhaps he spots it, too. The boy has not had a great deal of education, despite the girl’s best efforts. But he has learned much of how to survive on these streets, and that means honing instincts others might disregard.
‘No.’ She looks at the boy, then at the woman standing calmly by. ‘I need to know.’ I await the question – the one I myself would ask. It does not come. ‘Augusta,’ she says at last, turning toward the older woman, ‘did you hire Rafe?’
‘I did.’ She nods once, in assent.
‘Why?’
‘As I told you, I seek that which was my brother’s – or news of him.’ This second bit follows fast. She is not quite comfortable saying this. She is hiding something. ‘This lad was on the docks when I disembarked, and he had an honest look about him. But then, when I didn’t hear from him …’ An eloquent shrug completes the thought.
‘He was grabbed.’ The girl sounds angry. ‘Taken. And then I was hired to find him, much as I work for you.’
‘You were hired to search for a youth.’ The woman repeats the words. ‘When his location was already known.’ Care does not argue. ‘Have you given thought to why?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The girl shakes her off, but I still hear Peter’s words. To keep her busy, he said. So she may be followed. ‘The man who hired me is dead.’
‘Loose ends.’ A sharp note in the woman’s voice causes the girl to look up. ‘And the man who sent him to you – the keeper?’
‘Quirty,’ Care fills in the rest. ‘You know that. And now he’s missing. But he’s not in there – in that pen. And Peter didn’t – he said he didn’t – tell anyone about him.’
‘You guys!’ Tick interrupts again, urgency raising his voice almost to a whine. ‘It’s not safe here. We have to go.’
‘We’ll go down there.’ With her chin, Care indicates another alley, running off the street. Even from here, I can smell flowing water, the ditch that flows past the enclosure. A good choice, then, with outlets on both sides. Hidden from the street and sheltered, shadowed as the day grows older, but not right by the pen – and not boxed in. Like any vulnerable creature, Care has learned a fear of traps.
Dropping her hand, the boy breaks into a run. The women follow, picking up their pace.
‘Someone is looking into you.’ The woman speaks softly, as if sharing a confidence. She could be speaking to the girl; she could be addressing me. ‘Looking into your secrets.’
I freeze as if the shadow of a raptor has passed over me – and with much the same feeling of dread. Of course. That scent that put me off. The papers on the desk. Someone had been there. Searching, only I in my animal ignorance had not thought through the possibilities. That one might read and learn, and then retreat, without removing anything. And the boy, with his foul fruit that masked any scent? Was he complicit?
The girl will never make this leap.
‘Quirty wouldn’t give anyone up. Maybe he’s gone into hiding.’ She remains defiant. An image of a mole comes to mind. Small and blind and secretive, but not so small nor so trusted as another, closer still. ‘I hope he’s gone to ground.’
‘Care!’ A whisper – loud – from the shadow of the wall. Tick snatches the girl’s hand.
‘Sorry,’ she says, as she lets herself be led into the alley, where the boy relaxes, with his back to the wall. The woman hovers, pacing. She peers down the alley, along the trickling watercourse toward the enclosure. The pall of smoke hangs heavy in the air, but the cries have died down. Out on the street, men are standing, no longer racing too and fro. And another, at the alley’s mouth, slouched against the brick.
‘Is that? Yes.’ Care stands,
as if to hail her onetime colleague. For it is Rosa, standing – one hip out – on the street leading to the enclosure gate.
‘Care, no.’ At Tick’s protest, she stops and turns. The boy has scrambled to his feet again. ‘That Rosa? She’s a skank. I don’t like her.’
Care frowns at the boy. ‘Tick, don’t talk like that. You’ve been spending too much time with those men. Rosa does what she has to – what she can to get by.’
‘It’s not that,’ the boy protests, and I find myself listening. Remembering the way that woman licked her fingers. The way she spoke to those men. Care is lonely, I know, and I fear this has made her susceptible. I recall the way she looked at the youth, and I would lend my protest to the boy’s. It is too late, Care is waving. She catches the woman’s eye. Rosa turns and looks around, blinking into the shadows where we shelter. She wobbles as she does so, and staggers against the wall.
‘Care?’ A grin breaks across her face, and, still blinking, she pushes off. Begins to make her halting way.
‘What luck,’ I hear her say. Her mouth opens as if in greeting. As if she would call out more. But her words are lost.
One voice, then many, from the street beyond and echoing down the alley.
‘The ship!’ they cry, though in wonder or in fear, I cannot tell. ‘The ship is here! It’s come!’
TWENTY-SIX
Augusta reacts first. She starts and turns as if to run back to the street. I dash out of her way. I do not fear her, but a headstrong woman may trample any creature in her path and our narrow sanctuary is deep in shade this late in the day. She does not get as far as where I crouch, however. Instead, she reaches for Care’s arm. The girl’s own forward motion spins her round, one foot slipping on the wet gravel where the rivulet still runs.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ the older woman hisses.
‘I know her.’ Care protests. ‘She’s a – a source.’ She would say friend, I think.
‘That woman is a whore – she’d sell you for a hit of scat.’