As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  I find myself beside her. We are in the hut’s main room, a square space toward the front. She does not see me. She cannot. Although the light seeps through the rotted walls, I know that I am invisible to her, my black fur blending with the dark within. It matters not. She has illumination enough to see what lies before her, before us. There is little furniture in the room – a cot, its thin, stained mattress raised but inches from the floor. A peg on which some rags are hung. A far door, still in shadow, and that is all. And on that bed, the source of my dismay. A body, far from fresh, lies stinking in the night.

  ‘I guess we know why Dingo went missing,’ she says. She’s talking out loud, but not to me. It’s a reflex I recognize, a way of forcing herself to breath. To breathe and not gag on the putridity. Still, her words alarm me. She is looking around when she should be leaving. Seeking some clue, some trace or trail, when her instincts – like those of any living creature – should urge her to flee this place of death.

  She forces herself to regard the corpse. Shivers as she makes herself turn toward it. Makes herself take in the body, the cot with its faded stains. A small wound to the throat – its edges already blackened – reveals the likely cause of death, but two days or more have passed, and fluids have leaked from the body’s orifices as well. Although it has not begun to bloat, its stench is horrid. When she turns away, to examine a sheet of linoleum, a makeshift bit of flooring, I cannot find it in my heart to fault her.

  ‘I wonder if he killed this guy,’ she says, kicking at the curling edge. I see her doing the math regarding Gravitch’s contract. What the rat-like man suspected, and what his employee may have feared. ‘Or if he just found him and took off. He’s been dead for a while, I think.’

  It’s incomplete, her thought process. She has missed a point. Not considered all the options before her. I feel my tail lash with frustration. If I could simply speak in a way she would comprehend, I could guide her. Direct her thought processes, as her onetime mentor did. She is smart, this girl, but she is still a novice in this field, which she would master. And it is a dangerous profession, as the corpse upon the cot makes clear.

  My reaction, involuntary as it may be, does not help. Instead, it raises dust and fans the foul miasma. I back slowly, wishing to remove myself – to remain unseen.

  But as I retreat, my perspective on the room changes. I am watching the girl, attempting not to alert her. Hoping that she will make her observations and leave this benighted place. She has lifted the sheet of flooring and is examining its underside, peeling something free and disturbing a centipede that hastens off to join its mates. Only it is not simply the girl’s movement or that retreat that alters the border of the room. I creep forward again, my tail now stilled through force of will. A shadow – the edge of a door left ajar? No, it moves and shifts – and not with the light.

  I advance with a hiss, ears pinned back and ready to attack. It is not often that I, a cat, experience regret. No, I am a creature of the now. But I have been fooled, allowed myself to be misled by those very instincts that I have come to trust. I knew that this was a dangerous place – a place of death – but I let myself believe that Care’s response was what was wrong, that she was missing some crucial point. I did not dream that I had, too. My concern over the girl has blinded me.

  But my advance now – spitting, fur blown up to double my size – does not undo my fault. Instead, I realize with horror, as I press toward where the shadow falls, it amplifies it. The girl has turned toward me, rather than the doorway. A paper folder – filthy from its hiding place – hangs from her hand, disregarded. It is me she looks at.

  ‘Blackie!’ she calls out. Distracted, she does not even lower her voice. I look up at her and feel my fighting stance begin to fade. I am confused. I have failed.

  ‘Care?’ I whirl again toward the shadow, as at last she looks up. Only the rapid steps she takes toward the darkness – toward that voice – are not the preliminary of an attack. Her arms, spread wide, are not in imitation of my fighting stance, designed to startle and scare. No, she has dropped the file, instead of wielding it as a weapon. Her hands are open, rather than in fists, and as she steps forward, she falls to her knees. A figure has emerged from the shadow. The source of that one word. Tick – the boy she has sought all these weeks – steps forward, and she folds him in her embrace.

  ‘Tick.’ Her face is buried in his hair, but I can hear the sob in her voice. ‘I thought I lost you,’ she says. I approach gingerly. He is small, this boy, even for his age, and thin. It is difficult to scent anything properly in this room, but without much effort I can sniff his hand and see his large dark eyes looking down at me.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says. She has felt him stiffen and misread the cause. He is staring at me, as I am at him, but I do not believe it is my appearance that makes him draw back now. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘It’s just Blackie. You remember him?’

  ‘Care, you can’t be here.’ He has turned from me at last and looks up at the girl, his foster sister. ‘Me neither. It’s not safe.’

  ‘What?’ Care looks over her shoulder. She could not have forgotten the stinking corpse behind us, but what with the papers she has found and the appearance of the boy, it almost seems as if she has. ‘I’m on a case, Tick. Don’t worry – whatever happened here, it was days ago.’

  He shakes his head, dark hair falls over his eyes. ‘You don’t know, Care—’

  He would say more. I see it in his face as he brushes that hair back, as he looks up at her. Only even as I watch, his too pale features are flooded, his eyes shut by blinding light. Care turns toward it. They both do, arms raised to shield themselves from the glare that comes not just through window and door but through the rickety wall itself.

  ‘Come out!’ A male voice, unnaturally loud, follows hard on that light. ‘Come out with your hands raised.’

  ‘Care!’ The boy recovers first, grabbing the girl’s hand as if he could pull her from that house, out of that searing light. ‘We’ve got to run. It’s the rozzers!’

  NINE

  There is no escape. The shadow that had shielded our entry has been banished; the bare ground around the hovel flooded with light. Squinting, I see the refuse – a bottle, a worn shoe – that litters the yard. None of it is large enough to provide cover for the girl, and although I could make use of it – darting from tussock to trash, my midnight fur making me one more frenetic shadow cast by that searching light – I will not leave her.

  ‘Come on.’ She glances at me as she snatches up the file and grabs the boy, dragging him back to the door. It swings inward, at least, and thus does not reveal her location, but one look suffices to stop her. The blue-white of the moon has been bleached out by the floodlights. The neighboring building, with its welcoming façade of crumbling brick, impossibly distant.

  ‘Come on out.’ The voice, male, sounds bored yet confident. This is a game the speaker has played before, and the amplification does nothing to soften its tone or its intent. ‘You don’t want us to have to extract you.’

  Extract. The word suggests the surgical, but there is nothing in that voice that is healthy or clean. Care whips around in response but does not attempt a reply. None is expected. The volume – the light – they are both designed to evoke panic. To provoke flight and easy capture. But although I see the girl’s mouth has opened, hear how her breathing accelerated, I am gratified to also see that she is taking the measure of this shoddy hut. Having turned from the door, she glances up at the roof and down at the floor. Neither will suffice: the roof is accessible, its corrugated metal sits on the tilted pilings that hold up the walls, but it is exposed. The floor mere dirt, except for that patch of lino, which she has let fall back into place.

  ‘Come on, girly.’ That voice again. This time, the amplification picks up the laughter of those gathered around the speaker. ‘We’re not going to wait all night.’

  At that, Care freezes, her pale face taking on a focus that makes her look older than her
years. ‘Girly?’ she asks of no one in particular.

  ‘Care, come on!’ It’s Tick. He’s not responding to the question in her voice. He is staring at that front window, as if he could make out anything in the harsh white light. But he tugs her hand, and she looks down. I bristle even as she does, knowing that she will overlook the timing of his appearance here. His apparent lack of concern over the dead body that lies nearby. ‘I know a way,’ he says.

  I do not like her choices. There is nothing about this boy I trust, and while I understand that the girl feels an allegiance toward him, I would woo her from it as I would from the habit of drugs that has ensnared so many of her peers. Despite my feline form, I have done my best to make my opinion known. If the boy were to look over toward me now, he would see my fangs are bared. The fur of my ruff stands tall and menacing.

  But he does not, and with the clamor outside, my low growl goes unremarked. Instead, he pulls at the girl, and nods his head toward the far side of the hovel, toward the doorway where I first spied him, a shadow in the dark. ‘Come on!’ he says again, his voice climbing higher with urgency.

  She hesitates, the question in her eyes. She takes a step back as he leans toward that door. I will her to voice that query. I would stop her, would put myself under her feet if it would make her reconsider. Only just then the tumult from outside is broken by another, a deeper, roar. An engine, revving. It is enough like a growl to convey its threat. She lets go of the boy’s arm, letting him turn and make for the door, and she follows. With only a moment to decide as the machine roars outside, I dash after them, and out into the night.

  For a moment, I am blind. After the harsh brightness of the artificial light, the brief patch of shadow immediately behind the hovel is too dark – too black. But my eyes are made for such darkness and recover more quickly than those of the two children, who stand against the hut, blinking and sightless.

  ‘We’ve got to run for it,’ says the boy. He reaches for her and as he does, his sleeve falls back, revealing bruises. ‘Come on!’

  I wait for her rebuttal. It is too neat, his appearance, and I trust she has the intelligence to recognize this. She has been shown a body, for reasons I cannot yet decipher, and now she is being herded from it. I wait. But she only nods wordlessly. He does not see it, he cannot, but he must feel the movement, or else he simply knows she has few options left.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Her one question gives me hope. She may be committed to this boy and the course of action he has plotted – but she is looking ahead. She is gathering information.

  ‘A straight shot to the back of the lot, then into the basement. It goes through. You can make it.’ The boy peers from side to side. He is, I see, watching for the shadows of approaching men. ‘Then I’ll go back.’

  ‘Wait, Tick?’ The girl turns toward him, her hands on his shoulders. ‘Go back? Where?’

  He shakes her off but at the same time grabs her hand. He has seen something – heard something – or he has knowledge of this type of attack. The machine roar starts up, the noise augmented by the laughter of men, and the ground begins to tremble. It is this, I see, that he has anticipated. The turmoil of movement, the excitement of the attack. The laughter has gotten louder, punctuated by shouts. On each side of the hovel, shadows become visible, stretching ahead of us as the attackers grow closer. The volume rises. The wall behind us shakes, and a piece of the roofing falls to the ground, the metallic clang only adding to the tumult as it crashes to the hard dirt. The laughter has a frenzied edge. Dust fills the air.

  ‘Now!’ Tick darts forward and Care follows. I too run, fast and low, crossing the shadows that converge on our path. Behind us, the screams of men and machines. I do not turn to see when, to see if, they stop. I can no longer distinguish between their hideous shrieks. The volume is painful. Ears flat, I follow the boy, watching to see if he will lead the girl to safety or if I will need to intercede. He has made it to the building behind the bare lot, and he throws himself down and disappears.

  ‘Care! Here.’ A voice like a hiss, and I see her dive, as well. A low opening – a vent for some machinery or to load in fuel – appears in the brick. I eye it, wary of traps. But when I hear their whispered conversation, several feet away, I too slip in.

  The room inside is dark, and they have crossed to the corner, where another opening – half filled with fallen brick – lets in some light.

  ‘I have to.’ Tick is insistent. ‘The enforcers. If they catch me out, they’ll know.’ He rubs his wrist.

  ‘Oh, Tick.’ The gesture draws her eyes. She sees the welts. ‘No. Come with me. We’ll be okay.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it. It’s not just the services anymore.’

  That stops her. He licks his lips, and his eyes dance, darting as if to scan for enemies – or as if wishing to avoid detection in a lie. It’s a reflex. Only my eyes can see them here.

  ‘Look, I’m working, Care,’ he says. His voice is steady, despite his lack of breath. ‘I’ve got a job. Only, it’s complicated.’

  ‘Tick.’ She imbues years of sadness in that one syllable. I know what she fears – this city is not kind to its young, and there are few good options for such as this boy. But she has made her offer. Outside, the shouts are growing louder. The hunters are no longer laughing.

  ‘Go this way!’ He shoves her toward the pile of brick and waits while she finds her way through, then follows. I too jump free and join them on the broken pavement outside where the moon can still be seen, low between the buildings. She takes a few steps and stops, hidden for the moment in the shade. He has paused as well, only in the blue-white light that reveals how gaunt he has become.

  ‘Over here!’ One of the men has found the vent, has found the room, and the opening on its other side. Tick turns away – toward the harbor – and runs. ‘There he is!’

  I hear Care sob, one hand stifling the sound as the men pass by. But then she too takes off, back into the shadow, into the path of the sinking moon.

  TEN

  I should be able to lap the girl back, having routes open to me that are not available to her. I wait, of course, to make sure she is safe – to see that the thugs have followed the boy, have lost her trail as she ducks into an alley and then vaults over a fence, a move easier for a girl her size than for the heavy brutes who follow. But then I make my own way – a more direct course – from ditches to rooftops, where the last of that moonlight bleaches the dirty tar, stretching the shadows into tiger stripes. I become that tiger, some instinct surging in me as I take in the night.

  A rustle in a sheltered corner – an early nest – distracts me, and I pause to imbibe the scent of the quarry within. Young, still blind and helpless. Tender – a female. And I stop. Care. I have eaten recently and to sufficiency; while she, too, is hunted, I will abstain.

  Still, she is not at the office when I reach the building. I do not need to attempt the pitted brick wall to sense how still and dark the room inside lies. No light, no movement, no fresh scent of the girl reaches me in the alley alongside. I consider the building’s front door, propped open by the vagrant who makes his home beneath the stairs. I could slip in, glide up the worn linoleum to the entrance that Care must use. But although I do not like such obvious approaches – they are too easily turned into traps – I do not reject this option out of fear. No, even from the pavement below, I can tell. The emptiness is complete; the dust undisturbed. The girl has not returned to her base, and that is the cause of my concern, the reason my fur rises along my spine.

  I will not panic. I am not some heedless prey animal that darts and skitters without sense. She was not pursued upon leaving the basement, of that I am sure. And she has learned much of how this city works. As I return to the street, I take in what the cool night air has to tell me, all the while mulling over what I have heard – what I know of this young woman and her goals. If she has not returned to this, her base, it must be because she has another destination. Another approach she
means to try.

  Not, I fear, in her search for the missing Dingo – or even to decipher the mystery of that corpse, foul thing that that was – but in pursuit of the boy.

  Slowly, more slowly than I made my own return, I find her scent and retrace her path back to the harborside lot. It is not a quick journey, and it tires me. Although my fur has grown thick, my hide beneath is marked with the fights of many years, and as the night fades I feel those scars pull and tighten, the muscles beneath crying out. It is not without reason that I chose another route. On the ground, in the girl’s footsteps, I become more vulnerable, and I do not want to test my tired limbs against what else stalks these streets.

  It is an odd emotion, to be worried so, but one I have often known. In this form, I have been beaten. Have fought and at times lost, incurring wounds that still, now, cry out as cold and overuse awaken them. My left hind leg knit badly from a kick not so long ago, and as I step forward onto a slick cobblestone, I feel it slide out from under me, a moment’s reminder of my age. In response, I leap ahead, claws finding purchase in the gravel just beyond, but it makes me wary. I do not fool myself that I am alone out here, or that my misstep was not observed. A fox has passed this way not long before. In my prime, I could have met her tooth to claw, but if her ears picked up that slip, she will know to wait. To corner, and attack.

  I would do well to keep such vulnerability in mind for other reasons, as well, for there are other hunters here and dangers beyond my limited scope. Although I do not understand the entirety of it, I know I have had another life before this one. A life in which I watched over this young girl, as her mentor and her friend. And while my concern was with her youth and green experience, I misread the symptoms of my own advancing years and allowed myself to become vulnerable. I believe now that my concern distracted me, as it plagues me now, unable as I am to communicate my fears directly to the girl. But I also know that I may still do her some service. If, that is, I have the wherewithal to survive such nights as this, to preserve what is left of my failing strength.