As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  I use the time to contemplate the room, the boy’s retreat and onetime hideaway. As spring progresses into summer, this will be a good place to remember – a refuge from the heat where other, smaller creatures will come, too, seeking relief. Many of them will find death here, at my behest or others’, but that thought does not trouble me. That this girl not be one of them matters, however. And as she surrenders more deeply to sleep, into dreams that I surmise are full of questions and concerns, I watch, through lidded eyes and listen. I cannot intervene, but I can observe, holding myself in readiness for her time of need.

  ‘Tick,’ she says, the name coming to her even in sleep. This time, however, the boy’s name is not a cry, not an invocation of sorrow or longing. It is a statement – the answer to the questions she has been asking. But not, I fear, a safe one. I rise at that and stretch and begin to bathe. I do not like where the girl’s thoughts are proceeding, but I will not let her follow them alone.

  FOURTEEN

  The heat of day has passed before she rises, as meager as it was even at its peak. The timing served to hinder my hunt, a twilight activity at best, nor did my reluctance to leave the girl give me much scope. Still I have found sufficient prey among the basement’s crawling things to sustain my strength by the time she rouses fully, and I greet her with my senses sharp and at her service.

  ‘Tick’s the key, Blackie.’ She looks over, and I blink back to indicate my benign awareness of her words. I am bathing, but I am alert. ‘He knew about Dingo – and he knew I’d be there, too,’ she says. ‘He tried to warn me.’

  I pause in my ablutions, waiting, but she does not hear the error in her thoughts. The missed note, so gulled is she by her affection for the boy. ‘He acted like a decoy, running the other way like that.’

  She is pacing now, inscribing a circle on the damp dirt floor. I recognize the motion, the excitement that cannot be contained. It’s a precursor to action, akin to the lashing of my tail. Only when I hunt, I begin with observation. With scent and sound and even, at times, sight. The girl, on the other hand, is acting on incomplete information. She perceives that the boy is involved – and that the boy was aware of her involvement. That he made an effort to shield her, I will accept, though unlike Care, I do not confer motive. What I distinguish, which she does not, is that his appearance suggests a deeper collusion than she would credit. That he may have a larger role, may have been complicit in the arrival of Gravitch – or of the lugs at our door this morning who arrived with some semblance of authority. Of office.

  She does not see this, or does not wish to. If I could grant her a more pragmatic outlook, I would. But although she lacks my age and perspective, she has my allegiance, and so I ready myself for whatever she plans next.

  That does not mean I am without apprehension when she exits the basement and takes a familiar path deeper into danger. Closer to the waterfront. Some of that is my own history. Although I have some memory now of what happened there – of how I was trapped and hurt and thrown in the water to perish – I do not know everything, and these gaps may prove dangerous, leaving me susceptible to ambush or other attack. Being in the company of the girl is no comfort. Yes, she pulled me from the flood, saving my life in the process. But she too is susceptible, the more so as she is driven by emotion rather than the calm of reason or the cool calculation of the hunt. There is a reason that beasts such as I forget their offspring once they have been weaned. We none of us benefit from such mindless alliances.

  My bond to this girl is of a different nature, one of choice and obligation. And although my nature limits our communication, I would wish her to emulate my stealth as we draw near the piers. Perhaps she senses this. The girl is careful to vary her route. We skirt the lot where the hovel once stood, passing behind the building through which we so narrowly escaped. The streets are quiet now, the hum of life as it occurs here subdued in daylight, but I can still scent the dust and other debris on the air. The oil of the machines that went through here, leveling the shack – and most likely the body inside – in their wild passage.

  My apprehension rises as we pass further on, into an area where the low brick buildings still stand and serve some use beyond mere shelter. The commercial district, such as it is, and I cannot help the low growl that escapes me as I realize her destination. That brick building – Gravitch’s place of business, if not his lair, but marked by him as much as if it were a nest – its street front blind and dull. But not abandoned. A dim light makes the one unpainted window glow, and there is no mistaking the snarl of activity within.

  The girl must hear it, too, the rumble that makes the structure itself sound alive. When she stops short of the flagstone paving at its front, I congratulate myself. The girl has learned. She will steer clear. But when she retreats to the building adjacent, I comprehend her more subtle plan. With an energy I envy, if without the grace that is second nature to me, she jumps and, grabbing the lowest rung of that rusted fire ladder, she pulls herself up. There is no platform, no access to the building it would serve. But from her perch, I see her squinting. Leaning forward as if to leap—

  No, it is too far, and when she lands back down beside me, I understand. Although I could not emulate her feat, I too would spy out what may lie within. And from that rusted perch, she may have been able to see into Gravitch’s sole unblocked window. If, that is, there were anything to see.

  ‘Damn,’ she curses softly to herself. ‘I was hoping.’ And as I butt my head against her in both inquiry and comfort, she explains, ‘I saw a couch, but it must just be his office. Not his home.’

  I find myself relieved, for reasons I cannot entirely explain. But as she makes her way around the building, skirting the stone to enter the alley on the other side, I reflect on the woman we saw leaving here. Of the appetites she serves, as well as the ones she has fostered within herself in her search for oblivion. A couch may be used for more than sleeping. But she is not here now, and I find no fresh indications of her passing.

  Indeed, the scents in this passage are male and rank, calling to mind the young tom, of the traces on those papers. I consider the boy Care seeks and wonder again at his involvement. I would that she could forget him. I fear what he may do, wittingly or not, to ease his own burden.

  I know she is thinking of him, too. She has retreated one structure beyond the alley, where a once grand stoop offers a modicum of cover. From here she watches the stone piazza, the entrance to the alley. I am reminded of the vehicle that pulled up at the alley’s other end, of its unseen driver, and his connection to this low place, but if the girl does not make that connection – does not choose to explore it, then I am content. The woman, Gina, met unkind handling from the occupant of that vehicle, and I would keep the girl from them both if I could.

  The light fades as we wait, both hidden in the shelter of that stoop. After the fashion of my kind, I curl up, making of my own tail a cushion for my chin. I have slept in low places for long enough that this hard berth does not discomfit me. I begin to slip back into my usual dream, while remaining aware of the gathering dusk. In other parts of the city, this would be the hour of exodus, when workers leave for their homes or gather in places like the one we visited last night. There is no siren here, no bell to stop the machines that grind and whir, but time is passing. The girl huddles down as the evening chill descends and the damp of the day coalesces into a mist. She wraps her too thin arms around her torso, and I rouse enough to lean against her. As I do, I hear footsteps. The girl unfolds herself to peer over the stoop, but before she can make a move I gauge the shadow and I leap. She gasps as I pass by her, but then she holds her peace, noting no doubt how I hang by the building’s side, another darker shade to all but the most perceptive eyes.

  Two men, full grown, are walking toward us. They are not the youths I have sensed, but there is something familiar in their voices and their stride. They are laughing, mouths wide open, as they walk, but as they pass in front of Gravitch’s building, I catch their sce
nt. They were part of the assault last night, two among many but their unwashed bodies are as distinctive as any other beast’s. I believe the girl is waiting for Gravitch, looking to question the man who hired her, but I trust she has the sense not to approach these in search of information or access of any sort.

  ‘Oi! There you are!’ A third male, emerging from the alley. He turns toward the newcomers, but Care shrinks down anyway. It is a healthy instinct with brutes such as these about, and I myself push further into the old doorway. ‘What took you?’

  ‘Had to clean up a bit,’ the smaller of the two responds, as his companion laughs. He raises an implement – a tool of some kind, for machinery. It has been wiped clean to their eyes, although its appearance evokes more of the same humorless mirth. To me, the odor of blood is as clear as if it dripped still. Wherever these two came from, they left violence behind them.

  ‘Boss gonna complain?’ The man from the alley ushers the two before him, and I feel Care breathe more easily as they turn away.

  ‘Nah, this wasn’t like the other night. This was on the shop floor. Come on, let’s get going. I’m getting wet.’ More laughter as the three disappear from sight. I smell as much as see that alley door open. Dust and a gust of heat, a young, male scent. The growling rumble grows into a roar, drowning out that laughter, and then the door closes again, cutting both off with a bang.

  As I’ve said, time means little to me in this form, and my guard hairs are good about shedding the thickening mist. But I am hungry when I wake next, and as I stretch I feel the chill of full night on the bare leather of my paws. The girl beside me has dozed as well, despite the damp, and starts as I rise before peering once more over the stoop. I would tell her not to worry. I would have woken had another come down this way, would have registered even the lightest of human steps.

  She does not appear as confident. Instead, she licks her lips and turns both before and behind. I lean against her to give her comfort, but although she smiles down at me, it is an anxious smile and quickly disappears even before she speaks.

  ‘I can’t believe I fell asleep, Blackie.’ She is shrewd. She keeps her voice low but does not whisper. To any whose ears are sensitive, the sibilance of a whisper would give her away. ‘I meant to keep watch. Gravitch has got to come out at some point. I mean, this is his place of business.’

  I lack the means to share what I have already discerned. There is no scent of the dusty little man about this building. There has not been in days. But as I pull back, considering how best to move her on, her own body betrays her. She is shivering, and I can hear her teeth chattering in the cold spring night. The mist has changed to rain while we rested, and her thin clothes are soaked through.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’ She rubs her hands up and down her arms. ‘I wonder if it’s safe …’ She stands and looks around. Her thoughts would be clear, even if I did not know her this well. She is weighing her options. The makeshift nightspot where she met with Gina. The bare cellar where we last sheltered, and the office that had become our home. She is a practical girl and has been trained in skills beyond mere subterfuge. She was schooled in the hunt, as well, though I did not then call it such. Taught to attend the traces all creatures leave, to weigh and understand.

  She must know that those who pursue her can marshal superior numbers as well as brute force. But perhaps she can judge as well how they rely on inciting fear. When she heads back the way we came, I am heartened. The rain is drumming down. Exposure to the night will do this child no good, and I know I can at least do my best to guard her. To warn her if danger comes again.

  The office has been ransacked. Whatever could be broken has been, her small store of food tossed to the ground and soiled. The envelope of bills gone. But once we have ascertained that the space is empty – I by quick evaluation, my nose and ears in confirmation, the girl only after a more laborious examination – we find shelter of a sort. The gutted sofa cushions piled are softer than the floor. The retrieved overcoat still serves well as a blanket, despite the tear that splits its back. Even the office placement serves us on this cold night: two floors above the street, the radiant heat of bodies and of more affluent tenants, those whose radiators hiss and bang, seeps in. Although she has the prudence to leave the window ajar, a gap large enough to serve as my egress, we are warm here. We are dry, and I would we sleep. Exhaustion and fright take the girl first, and soon she is breathing evenly, the worries of the day dispelled. For me, rest is more elusive. Even when I do succumb, I dream of three men, of hunters, and I know that I have become the prey.

  FIFTEEN

  By first light, I have roused. The rain, which continued through the night, provided a thrumming lullaby that lulled me into a deeper sleep than I expected, into dreams of the hunt among the rumbling of machines. I wake suddenly, as is my wont, and to a sense of urgency that sends me out to scour the grounds around our violated sanctuary as the weak sun rises over oily puddles.

  On my return, the scuffle of movement behind the ruined door makes my heart race. Makes me curse those memories I cannot quite recall. I still myself. I wait outside, listening and poised. And then I recognize her light step, her gentle breath, and know I can relax. Uncoiling my readied limbs, I slip back through the shattered frame.

  ‘Blackie,’ she calls softly. The rest has done her good. Despite the pallor of her cheeks, her eyes are bright and the hint of a smile plays on her face. ‘I’ve got something. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.’ She holds up a paper and so I leap up to the desktop. It’s the eviction notice: I recognize the shape of the imprint. The smell of its ink. I lean in, to examine it further. But she misreads my action as affection and moves the page away to rub my ears. This frustrates me, but she continues. It is an enjoyable sensation, I must admit.

  ‘It’s a corporation, see?’ She pauses in her ministrations to indicate a symbol. The peaks of a mountain, or of shadows looming. I reach to sniff it, and her smile broadens. ‘I’m underage. But maybe if it’s just some corporate board, they won’t care. I mean, if I can come up with the scratch. If I can just figure out how to reach out the right way. More Corp? Moon? At any rate, M—something …’

  I pull back and regard her, meeting her gaze with my own. Her eyebrows arch and that smile broadens, as if for a moment … ‘I swear, sometimes I’m sure you can understand me, Blackie,’ she says, her voice soft.

  My heart stills, and I open my mouth to speak. That logo, her words …

  ‘Mew.’

  I am humiliated. Frustrated to the extreme, and as she chuckles, I jump to the floor. If I cannot express my more subtle emotions, I can at least signal my readiness to leave this space. Whether she understands or simply agrees, I cannot tell, but she begins to pack up her bag, adding some of the other papers that she had left in our hasty retreat. I wait by the door, alert for the sounds of others. Returning to this place was a necessary evil. Remaining here, while the girl is hunted, would be foolish.

  ‘You’re ready to go out?’ The girl smiles down at me, the dangers we have faced seemingly forgotten. I lash my tail, but she pays it no heed. Despite our flight from this very place only a day before, she appears to be of a cheerful demeanor, and I find myself disturbed. I would this girl be more cautious. Be more wary of the dangers of this city. And yet, as she reaches down to ruffle my fur, I cannot resist pushing my head into her hand as a purr rises deep within me. There is joy to be found in a bright morning, in the company of one whom may be trusted.

  In the richness of the world as well. And as we turn toward a ripening I know well, I race ahead. We are headed toward the workhouse, the girl and I. And much like the rat, whose stink beckons even as its corporeal self disintegrates, if the man whom she approached yesterday is no longer accessible, there will be another. These prisoners have their own means of passing information along, and the meager reward that the girl can offer has concrete value.

  As expected, the rat is nearly gone. There are other, less fastidious, creatur
es about for whom its peculiar perfume is a particular enticement. They scatter as I draw close and, to my dismay, do not return. The man with whom Care spoke yesterday does not approach either. No one does, although the girl presses close to the fence to scan the crowd. With frustration or perhaps concern, I note that she consults the tower clock more than once.

  I make use of the delay to scope out the alley. In response to the rain, life has re-emerged here. Slugs and worms have been brought to the surface, the city-hard earth having become quickly saturated in the night’s downpour. Rodents and other scavengers have enjoyed the bounty, while larger hunters have feasted in turn. Some of my own kind have been through here, but theirs is not the scent that causes me to pause, making my wet nose pad twinge. No, it is a human scent, a combination of unwashed flesh and waste that urges me to stick closely to the girl.

  Someone has spent the night out here, despite the weather. A woman, not young. And while there are many in this city who lack shelter, this alley is not one of their usual gathering sites. Not a place to drink or to consort, but for a female – an older one – its isolation may mean safety, if not comfort. I begin to work my way through the refuse that is piled here, taking my time to process what may be hidden beneath the rich aroma of new mold, when Care gives a small cry.

  I turn to see her staring into the yard. At the men caged there within. But something has changed in their routine. The men emerge from the stone building, but they remain in lines today. The lines form a circle and as we watch they begin to walk, feet dragging and shoulders hunched forward.

  ‘Come on, you slugs!’ The yell carries over the paved yard, although it does little to speed up the circle. The sound of a blow, muffled by cloth or flesh, and a brief cry. But the speed of those walking barely changes.