by Clea Simon
‘No, nuh-uh.’ In a strange turnabout, the boy is reassuring her now. ‘No, you didn’t do anything. He wasn’t – that was no punishment. It was the bobbins, Care. He was too big to work the machinery. You’ve got to be small, like me. Small and fast.’
‘Bobbins?’ She pauses. There is something about the monster within the building, about the cheap cloth that issued forth that interests her. ‘That’s – you can’t be working here, Tick. This company – this business … It’s not safe.’
‘Care …’ His voice rises into a whine. ‘Please.’
‘I’ll go,’ she says. ‘But you’re coming with me. We can get lost. You know we can. We’ve done it before.’
The boy wants to follow her plan. The longing is apparent in his eyes, by the way he must clamp down on his lower lip to keep it from quivering.
‘He’d find me.’ His voice has sunk as hers has risen. Even I must pitch my ears forward to make out his words. ‘The boss … you don’t know, Care.’
‘We’ll go to Miss Adele then.’ He jerks back, but she holds his arms firm. ‘Look, Tick, you’re not supposed to be here. I went to her, when I was trying to find you. She’s not – she doesn’t know that you’re working here. She thinks you’re on a farm somewhere.’
‘No.’ He hangs his head, addressing the pavement. Only the movement of his head shows he still hears her. ‘No,’ he says again.
‘Tick.’ She shakes him. She is desperate to convince him. To make him face her again. ‘I’m sorry. I know about Miss Adele. About the services. They’re not going to put you with a family again. Not like before. And even if they do send you away, send you to a farm, it’ll be better than this.’
‘You don’t get it. Do you, Care?’ He looks up at her once more. The trembling has stopped, and he appears suddenly to be the older one of the two. ‘The rozzers, the services – the boss owns ’em all. You report me, and I won’t go to a farm. No way. I’ll go – Care, the boss, he’s got other places for boys like me. And I’ll – I’d kill myself, Care. I like it here. It’s a good job. We, you know, we make things.’
‘Tick.’ Her voice is sad, but not surprised. She raises one hand to his pale cheek. ‘These people. This company. You don’t know—’
‘Care, you’ve got to go.’ He doesn’t hear her. Doesn’t want to. ‘You’ve got to run. He knows who you are. What you did.’
Now it is her turn to simply shake her head. ‘Of course, he knows who I am. He hired me, though why he did—’
‘No.’ His whisper grows adamant. ‘Not really. He couldn’t really. Things are too – they’re messed up now. I meant the big boss – he knows who you are. I heard. You’re costing him, they say. Costing him coin.’
He stresses the last word. It doesn’t help. Her face remains blank. Behind them, a grinding noise and that roar. The gate over the bay rumbles and begins to rise, stopping halfway as a man ducks under it and stands surveying the street. The girl freezes, and Tick peers over his shoulder. I can hear him gasp, but when the man places a cigarette in his mouth and pulls out a lighter, he turns once more toward the girl, his large eyes intent.
‘Please, Care,’ he says. He turns once more toward the smoking man. Toward the open bay. And then he is gone.
TWENTY
Care sits down hard on the curb, oblivious to the damp as she watches the boy skitter, rat-like across the open space. The man tosses his cigarette to the pavement and turns back inside. The gate rasps its way down, as a shadow darts toward it. It is the boy. He ducks under the closing barrier and disappears inside.
‘I don’t understand.’ The girl isn’t talking to me, but I go to her. Her hand reaches for me without thought, and I am glad to give her the comfort of my fur, of my wet nose against her palm. ‘How can he …’ She pauses, her shifting expression revealing the turn of her thoughts. ‘What did he mean, Gravitch didn’t hire me? He did.’
As if mere paper could deny the evidence of her eyes, she opens her bag, seeking, I can tell, the contract that greasy man signed. The first page at hand is not that, though. From its scent, from that strange imprint at its top, I know it as the letter that came under the door. I do not reckon time as she does, but I recall her words. She has only days now. Two, I believe, remaining to gather up her few possessions. To vacate the office that she had come to consider home. I study her as she reads it and see the pain and recognition begin to sink in.
When she shoves it back into her bag, her body slumps. She no longer searches for the contract. She has given up on it, I can see. Given up on the promise of pay and of more custom to come. Instead, she stares at the closed bay, her eyes dead and cold. If I could communicate more directly, I would remind her that these men deal in betrayal, as well as death. I would remind her that she has already interfered in one criminal enterprise. Caused the arrest of several people and the confiscation of their illicit goods. Surely, she cannot be so naïve as to imagine that such acts do not have repercussions, that the underworld that controls this city is not alert to such moves. She cannot be so unaware. But I see no such cognizance in her, and I am reminded once again not only of her age but of her inexperience. The affection she has – still has – for others. The lingering belief in a system of justice. For all the skills she has worked so hard to attain, Care is not a child of the streets. Not originally, and she is vulnerable. If she is to survive, she must learn to make these connections. To read these signs. To listen to what she is told.
The boy, for example, has done her a favor, advising her to flee. Now that he has confirmed my worst fears about this place – about this job, I would she heed him. More vital still, I would have her question his sources. His very appearance is suspect, to an unbiased viewer. How could the boy elude his erstwhile employers, not once but twice? Even if he believes he did so independently, outwitting their watchful eyes, can such an escape be trusted? Is it not as likely that he has been permitted to leave the premises, as a lure to the girl? In which case, of what worth is the warning he has brought?
I am troubled that she does not ask any of these questions. Instead, she seems consumed by another thought – that notice, no doubt, or the body of the man who tried to be kind. She shakes her head. Her lips move, and I make out words. The letter, she says. The truck. And then the name of the boy, as she folds herself down, her head in her arms, and begins to sob. It is now that I most regret my current form. For while I would take her in my arms and hold her, it is all I can do to lean against her heaving side, offering the poor consolation of my soft, dark fur.
I will give her this. She does not cry for long, this girl. She vents her sorrow, her frustrated love, and then she rises, wiping her face on her dirty sleeve.
‘Thanks, Blackie,’ she says, looking down at me. I stare back, my visage will appear impassive, I am aware, but I am warmed by her words. Warmed, as well, to see her readying for action. My tail and whiskers perk up; my ears, despite their ragged state, stand upright and alert.
‘I guess we should be going.’ She forces a smile, more to hearten her own resolve than for my benefit, I must believe, and then she looks around. I know these streets, and I would guide her. Away from the harbor would be best. Away, even, from the city, although it is all that I have ever known. When she spoke of her father, a memory awoke – not of my own lives, but of hers.
She had told me, once, of her family. Of its ruin and its flight to this ugly, desperate place. Her mother shrank within herself, she said, when the small family lost its home. And once her father was imprisoned, her mother lost the spark of joy, the will to live, almost, despite the girl’s best attempts to cheer her.
She blamed herself, of course, for failing them. Her mother, for her despair. And her father, because she told him, sobbing out the truth during the monthly allotted visit. She’d had no choice, of course. Her mother’s absence had had to be explained, and better sickness and despondency than death. Besides, he would have seen for himself how his young daughter was dressed, her apparel ragged and
outgrown despite the weight she had lost.
He was trying to right their little ship. She has told me of his struggles. That he was fighting the charges that had impoverished them. The system itself, he had claimed. But the law is slow for those without the wherewithal to grease its wheels, and Care’s dismay was real. No wonder, then, that he had taken advantage, abused the relative privilege of a prison clerkship and snuck away. He should have been back by morning, unnoticed and unregarded. He would have been eligible for parole in a few more years.
‘This can’t be a coincidence.’ The girl is staring at the brick building. At the shuttered bay, the rumbling within contained but constant. ‘I think that’s what my father was working on. The information he was trying to get out to the authorities, Blackie. I think, maybe, if he and my mom hadn’t arranged that meeting. If they hadn’t borrowed that car that night …’
I do not trust machines. They do not respond as we do, we living things, to each other and to the world. Perhaps that is why my fur starts to rise along my back. Or perhaps it is the resolve in the girl’s tone, as she steps out from the shadow.
‘It’s time to finish what he started,’ she says. ‘I’ll do what needs to be done.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘I need your eyes.’
Her voice is low, but insistent, and the little man before her winces. Quirty – the keeper – had been surprised to see her. Those eyes she references opened wide when he answered the knock upon his door. At her request, he recoils, and she stumbles over her apology.
‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ Hands up in submission, she begins to back away, up the steps to the alley. ‘I mean, I need you to look at something. Please.’
‘Of course.’ He ushers her in, then, and pauses, skinny neck craning this way and that. He need not worry. The girl is careful. We have arrived at his office by a convoluted path through the narrow streets of his district – Kern and Leading and Type. Waited for the shadows to stretch even across Ink Square and further obscure our passage.
His caution speaks of more than custom, however. More, perhaps, than the shock of seeing the girl again, and as he peers up toward the street, I slip by his ankles and find sanctuary beneath his desk. I had not intended to follow her inside. The day has been long, and I would sate my own needs while she fusses over paper and ink. But there are factors in play that I do not fully understand. As well, Care did this man a service, and I would ensure that her trust is justified.
She is seated before me when he returns. It is warm here, and secure, and I do not realize I have drifted off until the rustle of paper rouses me. She has shifted, taken something from her bag, and lays it before him. A single sheet of paper. The notice?
‘I got this almost a week ago now,’ she says. Yes, I am right. But … a week? The parsing of time is strange to me. In my dream, I was more aware, although others senses lagged. I would return to it. Would understand – only as I muse, I miss her next words. Questions about the notice’s significance, which surely she has ascertained.
‘This …’ His voice wakes me, its slight tremor of anxiety as alarming as a bark. I am alert once more. A rustle. He has taken the page up to examine. ‘You know what a holding company is?’
A soft demurral. ‘Not really.’
He sighs. ‘This logo – Metric – it’s not a real firm. It is – it was how business was done, back when …’ He does not finish his sentence. Does not need to, apparently, for Care is nodding as if to move him along.
‘So how do I find out who to contact?’
He interrupts with an uncharacteristic fervor. ‘No,’ he says. He is waving her down, as if she were rising. ‘No, you don’t. If it were a simple lease – a simple landlord – I could try … I could negotiate for you. Take the office in my name. That is among the services I offer. And, in truth, I would be happy to do that. In fact, I can begin making inquiries. Looking for a suitable situation for you.’
‘That’s not what I want.’ There is an edge to her voice, though it is unclear whether in frustration or because she is worrying over a notion unspoken. ‘The office is home to me. Home to my friend, too, if he ever gets out. No …’ She pauses, as if considering. ‘I need to find out who runs Metric. This M—’
There is another muffled sound, as paper changes hands, but it scarcely registers. I am bothered. Haunted by a word, a name. My recent inability to step into the open. To speak my mind. To read. Only, what would I say?
I too am a hunter, but the prey this time remains elusive. Besides, I am hungry, and my questions are both futile and discouraging. In the silence that follows, I set them aside. Examine my shelter for signs of life. No building is without its unseen tenants these days, and I sense the presence of game. From my covert position, I can see one particular crevice that interests me, over by the exterior wall. Only the constant movement of this little man’s feet – an anxious jangling beneath the desk – distracts me. I approach gingerly, unwilling to have him notice my presence. The mud of the harbor is common enough. So is the sweat and stink of fear.
If I could read, perhaps – if I could remember.
‘Metric might be anything,’ he says, his voice distant and restrained. ‘Might be one man.’ It is difficult to sniff an agitated foot, and I draw back for fear of being kicked. ‘For all any of us know, it might be a ghost.’
TWENTY-TWO
When she heads back to the office, I am, at first, relieved. The girl is tired, stressed from the long day and from the shock of what she has uncovered. Sleep is restorative, and I expect her to hole up as she did the night before, creating a nest of the old sofa cushions and whatever clothes were left unsoiled.
She starts off in this vein, securing her ruined base. Righting the chair and using the heel of her palm to drive a shattered board back into the rear of the desk. Some creatures nest, and while I am not one of them, I can understand the impulse, after a fashion, and I begin to relax.
But once the office again more resembles its staid self, the girl does not recline on the sofa. Nor does she lean back in the chair, her feet up on the desk while she reads. Some of this may be the absence of books. All but one has gone, sold or exchanged for food. Instead, she sits, her back stiff, facing the door. From my perch on the windowsill, I can see the tension building. Although she is too well disciplined to fidget, her hands clench and unclench on the desktop. Her lip, too, is bitten to the quick, and her tongue, darting out, must taste the blood that wells up on it. It is not likely that she can smell her own sweat, the acidic tang that comes with anxiety, but I can, and it keeps me from my own rest. She is still, but she is not at peace.
I would sit with her, keeping watch, if my own wakefulness would serve a purpose. It will not, I realize, as I jump down and approach, rubbing against her shins. She starts when I do this, so consumed is she in her thoughts, and then looks at me with concern.
‘Shoo,’ she says, a word I do not associate with her. ‘Go, Blackie.’ She waves one hand toward the window. ‘It’s not safe.’
I retreat then, back to the sill, but not beyond. I do not wish to increase her burden, but neither will I desert her. And so, at last, when I do sleep, it is with a kind of half-wakefulness, mindful of the window, of the room and of the world around us.
At first, I hear little but the scratching of small claws. As the day winds down, the creatures of shadow become active. It would be a good time for hunting, were I not on another duty. Vehicles on the street below, including one rumbling truck that causes Care to tense, although she keeps her seat.
What I do not hear is the approach of other humans. There are passing voices below, as the few workers who remain employed in this dying city leave their offices for the day. The tired sigh of the vagrant who each night makes his own nest beneath our stairs. But that is all. This building must have been respectable once. I know the old man rented it for its utility, a meeting place amenable to a wide range of society, all of those to whom his particular skills might be of value. As the day fad
es further, and the passage of the daily traffic is replaced by other, more nocturnal sounds, the girl relaxes. A car slows and its driver murmurs to one in the shadows. The transaction completed, it drives off. A man whistles, the jaunty sound both a warning and fortification as he swaggers down the street.
Somewhere close, an iron grate is rolled down over a storefront, its rattle and clank reminiscent of the bay door. I would question the boy, who shelters with monsters inside that locked box. I would better understand the ease with which he appears to leave it, whether on his own or another’s bidding. I think of cages and restraint. Of beasts and of three men watching and waiting, as another, held captive, knows that all hope is lost.
And it hits me – understanding, like a bolt of lightning – waking me instantaneously from my musing dream state. From my memories. She is waiting, sitting at her desk like that. She waits, this girl, for the man to reappear. The greasy one who hired her. I am not one for calendars or timepieces. Not anymore, but it has been three days since he appeared here, with his ready cash and the promise of more. She is tense because she has finally accepted, as I longed desired, that he may well be the reason for her near capture in the hovel. Because she has learned that he has her friend in his control, and that – if the boy is to be trusted – he has aims for her that are not those he has announced.
She is tense because she does not know in what form or in what company he will appear, here, as he promised to do three days ago. She is anxious, as well, I see as the sky blackens further and the room grows dim, that he will not come at all.
I wait for the dark to overtake her. I listen for the even sigh of breathing that will signal sleep. She is young and healthy, despite her hardships, and it is the natural order of things that she should rest when she can, when the world is in night. She almost succumbs, I believe. And then, blocks away, a car backfires and she jumps awake, nearly leaving her chair as she tenses.