by Clea Simon
‘Blackie!’ Her face and voice both evince joy, and in that I am rewarded.
‘I wish I could send you back,’ she says a moment later, as we pause just shy of an intersection. She is going about the boss’s business, this girl, and in broad daylight. Still, old habits die hard and I am glad to see her take her time. Witness her scoping out the avenue – the traffic vehicular and human – before she would cross.
‘You can’t come in where I’m going.’ Sadness has crept into her voice. With, I dare to believe, a trace of comprehension. ‘It’s not safe.’ A little laugh. ‘I know, it’s not the greatest place for me either. But Tick …’ She pauses. Stares out at the street. ‘I don’t know why I talk to you like this, Blackie. Maybe it’s just that there’s nobody else, but I almost feel you understand me.’
I stare up into her face, hoping the intensity of my gaze will transmit my understanding – my empathy. But my fur obscures any subtle changes in my features. Even were my face like hers, eloquent even in silence, my thickened coat, its midnight color, would hinder her ability to read anything in it. Even, that is, if she expected to find a response there.
She does not, nor does she wait. Instead, she turns back toward the open street and, gauging her moment, breaks out, trudging quickly and with purpose across the thoroughfare. At this time of day, the commerce of the city is in full swing. This far down by the harbor, that means labor of a rougher sort – the muscle that loads and unloads the goods that flow to and from this city, conveyed via ship and truck and otherwise, and those who feed upon them.
It is one of the latter, a vendor of fried meats by the smell, who takes note of me.
‘Hey, watch out!’ He jumps back as I dart from the shade of the corner to the shadow beneath his cart. ‘That’s nasty!’
A head appears sideways, eyes blinking, and I hiss.
‘Yo, Bob!’ He retreats, although not for long. ‘Bob,’ I hear. ‘You got that hook still? Can I use it?’
I am gone before he returns, foolish man. The visitors he does not see have already made a home in the underside of his carriage. As well as helping themselves to his store of rolls, they have gnawed holes in the tubes that shuttle hot oil this way and that.
At least the mild fervor has distracted any attention from the girl. She has grown, it is clear to see, even in the weeks we have known each other. Her long strides reveal a flash of skin at her ankle, and although hunger keeps her slim, there is something about her movement that speaks more of a woman than a child. That hair, now divided by a widening strip of dark brown, does not help, announcing her presence even when she would stay unnoticed. I do not understand the urge behind that, I confess, but at this moment I am beset by other concerns.
The traffic alone is bad enough. For me to remain unnoticed, or at least unremarked, I must make my way by stages – moving from cover to cover – a journey that is slow at best and at times like this, dangerous. The truck I shelter beneath starts up with a growl; the clear path to the next gutter is suddenly obscured by feet, which depart only in time for another vehicle to drive through.
If I were not aware of her destination, I might have lost the girl. Her scent is nearly overwhelmed here by the heavier musk of men and their quarrels, not to mention all their ripe and rotten wares. Beneath it all, the deep, rich breath of the harbor intoxicates me. It is thick with life, in all its stages, while the building ahead exudes a strange, unhealthy stench – some alchemy of oil and steam. It is with some effort that I force myself forward, racing to catch the girl even as she openly crosses the street and treads upon the flagstones toward that squat brick building.
The grey door is open, as she steps into the alley. The rumble loud. An unstopping growl, it is near deafening, and I feel my ears flatten as we approach. Even Care seems to recoil, although she gathers herself and addresses whoever it is who has opened the portal.
And then it closes, latching with a click, muffling the noise within, and I realize I have begun to breathe again. ‘No.’ She shakes her head as she mouths the word. She has seen me, here, beside the step. But the reprieve that I have hoped for is not to be. With another click and a wheeze that grants warning enough for me to sink into the shadow of the alley’s edge, the door opens again and although I cannot make out the voices as the growl escalates, I can see a hand beckon. The girl steps up and proceeds within, and the door closes once more, behind her.
For a moment, I am perplexed, unsure of how to follow. Unlike others of its vintage, this building appears to be secure, its brick kept dry and hard by the stone beneath, if not the vigilance of those who occupy it. There are no rat holes, no broken windows here. Unless—
I race around to the rear, to the street. To where the metal barrier now hangs closed. Except – yes – it is as the boy has said. One side does not hang true. A breach has been left where a truck has backed too close. Although I do not give much credence to any of the boy’s statements, I am grateful to find in this some truth. Despairing of the time already lost, I lunge into the void.
And lose myself. It is not the dark – for the space I find myself in is not truly dark, low lights hum and buzz above. It is the noise that befuddles me, a bestial roar, constant and deafening, clattering and growling all about me, that oppresses and deranges all my senses.
I cannot hear. I cannot see or move, it seems, the noise is such. Only the thought of the girl, alone and unguarded elsewhere, reaches me in my panic. Ears flat, I run, aware as I do of feet and of the close and fetid smell of unwashed bodies. Voices ring out, adding to the confusion, but I ignore them, intent as I am on moving, as fast as I am able, through this building. Past this terror. I barrel into a doorway, jarring the unlatched barrier into opening, and I am through. The noise, the beast contained behind me. A hallway – then an antechamber – and at one end, the girl.
‘In here.’ I catch the words as the doorman waves Care into a room. He closes the door behind her, leaving me in that foyer. I crouch and back against the wall. He may be a fool, and an unobservant one, but surely the presence of a large black feline will catch his eye at some point. And the exit to the alley is closed.
‘You came.’ Gravitch. His voice as clear as if he stood behind me. My ears twitch and then I find it, the source my sound-fogged mind had failed to perceive. Loose siding, dyed to look like wood, and sloppily hung, grants space for me to poke my head through. This building may be built of brick, but its interior walls are flimsy as cardboard. No wonder then that the fiendish growl pulsates through this place. With an undignified squirm, I find myself looking at the legs of a desk and then Care’s feet, in those threadbare sneakers. The floor is bare. The patterns of dust reveal where regular shapes – papers, perhaps – once covered it. The voice comes from behind that desk.
‘Good girl,’ he says. From his voice, I can tell he smiles. It is not a pleasant smile by far. ‘And you’ll do my errands, won’t you?’
‘I’m an investigator—’ begins Care.
He cuts her off. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘But what use have I for an investigator? I want something, Georgie here can get it for me.’
I had missed the presence of a third man. A grunt of assent places him closer to the door.
‘I was hoping—’ Care again, trying.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Gravitch sounds troubled, as if Care’s request bothers him. ‘You want your little friend. But he’s a good worker.’
Silence. Now that I have some shelter, and have perhaps become more accustomed to the infernal thrumming, I can hear her breathing. She is holding it steady, but there is effort involved. She is anxious, I can tell, and also, I suspect, curious. Why did this man summon her, if he had no use for her?
‘Sir?’ One syllable, phrased as a question. It is the smart response.
‘Oh, get her out of here.’ Shifting and creaks: the third man had been seated, as well. And though I cannot see who stands to escort her out, I am able to mark her passage into the antechamber. Peering from behind the l
oose siding, I see the confusion on her face. The hurt.
‘Come on, girly.’ The doorman takes her upper arm, and she pulls free. It is a pointless gesture and makes him chuckle, but it serves the same purpose as grooming does for me. She steps toward the door with a better sense of herself, despite the distressing meeting, and I begin to back out, intent on following.
‘Hang on.’ I duck down just in time, back behind the siding. Gravitch has emerged from his sanctum, as well, and is heading toward the outer door. He grabs it and holds it open as Care descends the stairs.
She stops and looks up at him, and I can see the question on her face.
He steps down beside her and would close the door behind him. Unnoticed, I slip through just in time.
‘There is something you could do for me.’ He speaks in his usual suggestive tone, but he is nervous. He works the matchstick in his mouth with the same rapidity as his eyes twitch back and forth, surveying the alley. ‘Nothing important, you know. Just so I know you’re up to the job.’
Care waits, her head tilted. To the man, she probably appears subservient – his newest slave awaiting orders. I, however, experience a slight swell of optimism. It’s the tilt – an angle I vaguely suspect the girl has picked up from me. She is alert, her posture tells me. Observant of more than the greasy man’s words.
‘Call it a token,’ Gravitch says. ‘Nothing big. Just a – well, a certain file. Something that got mislaid. If you can find it for me, well, then, maybe we can talk about some real work. And then …’ He takes the matchstick from his mouth and twirls it between his fingers. He looks around once more. The hubbub is muted out here, now that the door is closed, but still he drops his voice as he describes a set of figures. A particular heading that would distinguish this trifle, this token. He pulls his billfold from his pocket and peels off a note and then another.
‘Just a private job,’ he says. And then he lumbers back inside.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The street has grown quieter while we were inside. The deliveries have been made, and those with a trade are now engaged in it. Still, Care walks slowly after Gravitch leaves her. So slowly that at first I fear she plans to remain. To insist on visiting the boy or viewing his working conditions. But despite her pace, she continues on as if returning to the office. Only after a few minutes does she stop and step quickly behind a low and crumbling wall.
The sun is at its zenith; the mists of earlier have burned off, dispelling as well any shadows that would conceal me. Still, I follow her lead and find myself in a refuse tip, ripe with rot.
‘Blackie, here!’ she calls to me, and I turn to see her crouched by the wall’s edge. I had paused, intrigued by a scent. Not the moldering fish head that perfumes this snug passage, but the traces of those who have examined it before me, both my kind and others. The winter has been hard and made scavengers of many of us, I realize as I turn. More incentive for the girl to continue her quest.
She is clearly on the hunt. Although she has beckoned me, her focus is now given over to the street. Watching, I now understand why she strode so openly. Once again by her side, I am also made aware of what that last interaction cost her. The sweat drying on her is slightly rancid from the antipathy she did her best to cloak with dignity and poise. I lean in, enjoying the warmth of her as well as that of the sunlight. I close my eyes to better savor her distinct smells. I am proud of her, although I do not know—
I sit up straight, all thoughts of rest banished.
‘Shh.’ She puts a hand out, as if to quiet me. Indeed, I believe she would smooth down the fur that rises along my ruff and back. I stare up at her astounded by my blindness. By hers. She does not turn.
I would warn her. Would stop her, before she proceeds further down this desperate path. But how?
She’s chewing her lip again. Habit, I now know. But by such habits are we undone. I watch the blood bloom by her fraying lip. See her tongue dab at it in an unconscious response, much as I would groom or … or …
Gravitch with his matchsticks. I had thought that we were safe. For surely, Care has sensed what I have. That the man is withholding information from his colleagues, from his betters. That his supposedly ‘trivial’ errand is, in fact, the reason that he entertained the girl’s offer in the first place.
Yes, she must. She is no fool, this girl, although burdened not only by her inferior senses and lack of experience but also by the unfortunate sentiment that binds her to that boy. She would see through the ploy in the office. Her apparent dismissal, and his subsequent summons, minor though he wanted it to appear. Even more than the money – the casual peeling off of bills – his eyes gave him away, darting like a nervous prey animal’s at every sound. That and his own execrable habit: gnawing on wood and sulfur as if such bitter sustenance could soothe his nagging fears.
It is that habit, though, which I did not account for. Which I in my foolish pride did not consider. Hidebound, I am, in ways I cannot even begin to fathom. No, worse than hidebound: fur bound. Illiterate as any beast. But how could I not see?
The papers. Those pages Care has fussed over, which she grabbed from the warehouse and out of which she plucked one to give to that woman. They are what this Gravitch seeks. The reason for his belabored ruse, all to reach the girl.
But not, as I had thought, merely to evade his colleagues – those supposed employees who may, in fact, answer to another, higher up – for private gain or enterprise. There is a darker purpose as well. He has been in that warehouse – the place of records, of documents. I knew him by his habit: the bitter trace of sulfur, the gnawed upon stick of wood. Whatever it is he wants to hide, the carnage there was part of it as well.
Does she sense this? Can she perceive just how duplicitous her erstwhile client is? I look up at her, face intent and waiting, and I do not know what I fear. That she does not know, and I, in this mute and bestial form, cannot find the means to tell her. Or that she does, and risks it all, desperate to save the boy.
The girl is cautious, and for that I am grateful. I have time enough to track – and devour – a large beetle before she ventures forth again. When she does, she remains circumspect, keeping close to the buildings that line these streets and pausing whenever an overhang or the remnant of a stoop offers shelter to scrutinize both the path she has tread and the way ahead. Not that she follows one road. No, in an echo of that six-legged morsel, she jogs thither and yon, although I sense that her wanderings are neither so heedless nor so random, and soon I recognize her intent. An open square, once paved with cobblestones. Narrow streets, and the faint, sweet smell of ink.
When she comes upon a ruined building, its bricks still stained by smoke, I begin to understand. And as she descends a set of broken stairs to an unmarked basement door, I am mindful of the reason for her to take heed. As she closes the heavy door behind her, I make my own way in, slipping past the rag that covers the open window and leaping soundlessly to the floor.
‘Ms Wright.’ The man behind the desk sounds pleased, though his voice remains even. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He has been working, the gas lamp on the surface before him giving off a steady whisper of a glow. He pushes up the magnifier, blinking as his eyes return to a more normal size, and rubs them. From this motion, as well as the ink on his hands, I surmise he has worked through the night.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ The girl approaches. She is holding her bag against her side, as if it were suddenly more precious. ‘I need your help again.’
He nods, as if this were expected. ‘I will do what I can.’ His voice is sad. ‘For your service, as well as for your old man’s.’
‘Thank you.’ The girl grasps the bag more tightly as she approaches, and the crabbed man draws back his hands. It is reflex, nothing more. She sees this too. ‘I’d like you to – I need you to keep something for me. A document.’
‘You – you trust me?’ His eyes open wider, although his tone is still soft. ‘Trust my security here?’
‘Any man
can be undone by violence,’ says the girl, and in her words, I hear an echo of another voice. Her mentor’s. ‘But I was not followed here, and none know what I carry.’ She licks her lips. She is venturing into territory that unnerves her. ‘In fact, I’ve been hired to discover these, or something very much like them, and I need a place – I need these documents to be secure while I explore the case. No one knows I have them,’ she promises, before he can object.
‘All right.’ He nods and sits up straight, as if to pull courage from his posture. ‘Let’s see them.’
She reaches into her bag then, removing the papers from her desk – all but the page she gave the woman, and I wonder. There was no lie in her voice. Dissembling does not come naturally to her, and when she twists the truth it costs her, tightening her breath in ways she cannot yet control. Perhaps she does not consider what the surrender of that one document may mean, what knowledge that woman may have gleaned from it – or to what purposes of her own she, a creature of commerce far more coarse than any Care has known, may choose to apply it.
‘These—’ He catches himself. Beyond all else, he will remain true to his code. But the eyes, red and rimmed with bags like bruises, convey the questions his voice will not. She holds her silence, watching him, and as they remain locked in each other’s silence, I approach. The girl has done this man a good turn, but this world breeds grudges more than grace and I have other means of ascertaining truths.
The cuff of his trouser is frayed. It smells of dirt and ink, the warm and waxy smell of candles and the cleaner one of gas. But there is more, even beyond the overlay of fear worn by all prey creatures in this world. His scent, I realize now, is familiar because it is reminiscent of the girl. Either the tools of his trade – the writing implements, the ink, the reams of paper, much of it scraped clean for reuse – or some other more elusive linkage have imprinted themselves on his skin.