The Ninth Life

by Clea Simon

  I flick my ears. He should take heed but even the girl is preoccupied. As I seek to withdraw, to consider the possibilities of this fetid male scent, I hear her moving about. Poking beneath the table, as if to uncover some other cubbyhole or hiding place, some remnant my infinitely more acute senses did not already detect. It is too much, and I would focus. I turn my back.

  ‘Someone’s coming.’ The boy’s whispered warning sends a cold chill through me. He is right, of course. The vibrations of multiple feet announce the intruders even before we hear the slide and click of the lock. I catch myself – the lure of that memory had been intoxicating – and leap to the floor, leading the two children into a back passage where a closet, its contents rifled, sits open.

  ‘Tick, here.’ Following me in, Care crouches down, but not before first enfolding the boy in her arms. The closet is empty, save for an old sack, which the girl drapes over her shoulders and the boy. Ungrateful, he pokes his head out and reaches for the door, which she has left ajar.

  ‘Leave it.’ Her voice is soft but she knows enough not to whisper; those breathy sounds would carry too well in this enclosed space.

  He freezes, not at her command but at a creak and thud. The newcomers have entered the little shop. Their steps are heavy – they are men – and from the way they tread, unafraid to make their presence known.

  We squeeze back in the closet as they put down their bags. I hear wood splinter and the crack of porcelain as the figurine tumbles to the floor.

  ‘There’s nothing here, boss.’ A voice made tight with tension. ‘That was his hidey-hole, where he kept the good stuff, and look, you can see.’

  More footsteps and then more cracking as the henchmen open more of the wall.

  ‘It’s like I said.’ The voice a little breathless now. ‘We turned this whole place upside down.’

  The leader – his stride betokens confidence and good boots – does not respond. Between the clatter of tools going down, going back into their bags, I hear him humming softly to himself as he paces. He walks slowly, his steps measured, and it is with growing trepidation that I hear him move toward the front, toward the window. I do not know what he seeks, but I sense his calm. He is gathering information. Breathing in the room. I can almost see his breath add its fog to the grime as he peers at the junk still waiting there. At the street outside.

  ‘Maybe there never was anything.’ Another voice, trying for calm. ‘Fat Peter was pretty careful.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A low rumble of dismissal and more steps. The sound of a sigh or – no, the sweep of a hand over a surface. The worktable. Does he sense the marks we have left in the dust? The signs of our shared search and discovery? Or will he attribute the passage of fur and paw to some starving feral, another denizen of the city whose agenda does not interfere with his own? It is possible. I cannot hope.

  ‘It’s not like the old man needed anything to go on.’ I feel Care stiffen beside me. I would will her into stillness if I could. ‘I mean, no proof or anything.’

  More footsteps. He has walked away from the table but the fur along my spine is rising. A shadow falls across us but the chill I feel has little to do with the blocking of the sun. He has entered the hallway and stands too near our hidden space. I lower my eyes and trust the girl has the sense to do the same. It is dark in here, particularly now that he has blocked the sun, and we are low. And yet we dare not risk a flicker of movement. Of reflection. My whiskers feel the air, judging the space, hoping for a back door, an opening. I smell the boy’s fear, and the girl. A hint of masculine sweat.

  ‘Besides, it’s Bushwick’s neck on the line if anything does turn up. He’s the one who’s got the most to lose.’

  More steps, lighter and hesitant as the first speaker, the higher-voiced one, comes close in agreement. ‘And he’s doing his own search. If there’s anything, he’ll find it, boss.’

  Another grunt, this time of agreement, and the light returns as the tall man walks away.

  ‘There’s nothing here, boss. Nothing but junk.’ The girl exhales as the men gather up their tools. I hear footsteps on the broken china and the wood. The creak of a door opened casually and held that way. Fresh air rushes in and I too begin to breathe again.

  ‘You want me to lock up?’ The subservient one again, his voice querulous. His companion waits in silence.

  ‘No.’ One syllable, deep and sure. ‘Torch it.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The stench is staggering and makes the threat all too clear. Gas or paraffin – sharp and flammable – and the sounds of splashing as the two goons go to work. The scrape of a metal cap being screwed on.

  ‘Hey, give that here. No sense in saving that. That’s evidence.’ The can is tossed. It bounces against the work table as the men make to leave, the last of its contents spilling out onto the floor. ‘Hold on,’ the louder ruffian calls ahead. The bite of sulfur. The hiss of a match, and our hope is dashed. The sound of the door closing is almost lost in the woof of heat and light.

  ‘Come on!’ Care stands, tossing the sacking aside, and then falls back, coughing. Already the air is thick with dark, oily smoke.

  ‘Care!’ the boy whimpers, curling himself into a ball and giving me an image of how he must have been when he was younger. How she must have protected him.

  ‘Here, take this.’ She rips the burlap and shoves a piece at him before tying a scrap over her own face. ‘Tick, look at me.’

  He looks up, still whimpering, and she takes his hand. With a glance back at me, she pushes the door open. The fire is climbing the front window, devouring the moth-eaten curtains. With a pop and a crash, the glass breaks, but the air rushing in only makes the flames roar louder. I do the sensible thing, retreating as far as possible. The air down here is still breathable, the wall solid against my back.

  ‘Blackie!’ Care’s voice carries over the roar of the flames. There’s an urgency in it, but when she reaches for me, I hiss. I have faced death by drowning. I do not want to burn.

  ‘Care?’ The boy is crying. Either that or the fumes have made his eyes stream, those big eyes looking up at the girl who has one arm wrapped around him. ‘Please, Care?’

  Another crash, louder. The shelving above the worktable or perhaps the wall itself. My ears lie so flat on my skull I no longer hear the difference.

  ‘Hang on.’ The girl takes up the remainder of the sacking and flings it at me. My claws catch as I smack it away, and no matter how I twist and writhe, I cannot break free. She has grabbed me and, I think, stood up. The heat is crushing, the smoke intense as she lifts me off the ground – as she moves, as she leaps. I am tossed sideways. Upside down. The sweet-hot fug of melting plastic and of blood blinds what senses I have left as the world spins and I howl and rage, waiting for the piercing blow, for the heat. This girl has betrayed me. She has turned on me and I am blind. The light makes shadows on the sacking. Three men watching and the pain …

  We tumble. I fall hard, my limbs immobilized by my tangled claws. I hear the grunts of others near me.

  ‘He’s gone.’ A man’s voice, flat and cold. No, it’s Care. ‘They’re gone,’ she says, and suddenly the cloth pulls back, freeing me and revealing a face black with soot and striped with tear tracks. The shadows of my dream. Behind her, a dumpster smells like rotted fish. Like heaven. We are in an alley, sheltered from the street where a crowd is gathering. Where sirens, too late, pierce the hubbub. The boy, crouched beside her, coughs and spits.

  ‘You OK?’ She’s asking him but watching me. I hiss again. Reflex from the scare as I step from the fusty sacking with a sneeze. I have no reason to love humans, nor they me. But this girl deserves the best from me, and so I sit and wash my face as I consider our next step.

  ‘No, Tick, I don’t think we can go back to the old man’s place.’ With a glance back at the shop, its stained brick blackened further by the billowing smoke, the girl urges the boy forward, away from the fire. Away from the crowd. We are heading toward the river. I can smell it. Despi
te a gentle rain, we are not returning to the upstairs room. ‘Not till Bushwick has found what he wanted or given up.’

  The boy is sniffling, shaken by the fire. Care has her arm around him, but that’s poor shelter. We walk a few more blocks, until the boy begins to stumble, and then turn into another alley. This is a good one: a tunnel of brick, with openings at both ends and the ruins of a doorway that keep us above the puddles. But the door behind us is bricked over as well, its ancient outline impervious to Care’s picks. And the overhang that should have shielded us has begun to drip. The wet is slowly soaking, permeating my fur, and I feel the toll of the day. For Care, though, it’s the quiet whimpering that makes her turn; makes her draw the boy close and share her warmth.

  ‘I don’t think they knew we were there,’ she says. It’s not comfort. She knows, as do we all, that our presence would not have deterred them. Knows as well that Tick has failed in his errand and worse awaits him if he returns. ‘Though I do wonder what they were looking for.’

  She fishes around in a pocket, coming up with the scrap. She’s slouched against the wall and so it is easy for me, now, to put my nose leather up to the paper. Too late. I get smoke and ash, the tang of the accelerant. Anything else is gone.

  ‘It’s probably nothing. A scrap that got lost.’ She turns the slip of paper over in her hands. ‘Unless it isn’t.’

  The light is fading and she squints. ‘Hey, Tick. You spent time at Fat Peter’s. Did you learn anything about his system?’

  ‘What?’ The distraction does him good, but as he reaches for the ticket, I feel her hesitate. He is a child and may be careless, I see her tell herself. She does not want to think more.

  ‘Here, look at this.’ Keeping hold of the paper, she stretches it open for him to see. Tick blinks at the symbols printed there. They make no more sense to him than they do to me, I suspect, but he tries, biting his lip as he strives to find a meaning in the marks.

  ‘Tick.’ Her voice has gone soft. ‘Have you forgotten everything I taught you?’

  ‘No.’ The boy is annoyed. ‘It’s just – shouldn’t there be something next to those … you know …’ He points.

  ‘Where it just says “M”?’ Her voice is soft. She isn’t looking at the ticket any longer. Instead, she reaches over and lifts the boy’s chin. ‘Tick, what exactly did AD have you doing?’

  He shrugs. Pulls away and tucks his hands under his thighs. I do not think it is a response to the cold.

  ‘Tick.’ I trust she has noticed, as she had spied the burn marks days before.

  ‘Messages,’ he says at last, when the wait grows too long. ‘Errands. You know. I’m small and nobody notices me, AD says.’

  ‘Is that all, Tick?’ She hears what I do: the boy is not telling her the entire truth. ‘I know Fat Peter didn’t like girls much, but—’

  ‘No.’ The boy pulls away, embarrassed rather than angry. ‘You think that’s the only reason anyone would want me. You think that ’cause you’re a girl, and if the old man hadn’t picked you, AD would’ve had you on the block. But I’ve got skills, too, you know. I’m fast and I know my way around. That’s why Brian wanted me.’

  The girl flinches at the casual reference to the thug. She hides it from the boy, though. He’s wiping his eyes, wiping his face of the rain and mucus that make tracks through the soot and grime.

  ‘So Brian knew you from Fat Peter’s?’ She’s careful in her use of the name, but she manages. ‘You’ve worked for him before.’ She’s slowly piecing this together. I could have told her about their commingled scents back at the pawn shop.

  The boy’s eyes dart up to her face and down again. She sees it, too, but her interpretation differs from mine. ‘I’m not sending you back there, Tick. Don’t worry. But doesn’t it seem odd to you that someone like Diamond Jim should be connected to Fat Peter?’

  The boy shrugs his thin shoulders. ‘The old man worked for them both.’

  ‘The old man didn’t work for Fat Peter. Fat Peter was a source.’ I hear pride in her voice. ‘Like AD.’

  The boy looks up again. This time, he doesn’t look away.

  ‘That’s how I hooked up with the old man,’ Care explains. ‘He came looking for AD one day when you were – when you were still searching for your mom. Said he wanted someone to do some work for him, you know, like he used to. AD laughed him off, though. He told the old man that he had better prospects these days. Better coin and more fun, too. The old man wasn’t happy about that.’ She’s talking to herself now, but I can see it. Her mentor recoiling on his dignity. ‘I tagged after him.’ The ghost of a smile plays around her lips. ‘I mean, I had you to look after.’

  It’s the wrong phrase. ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘Sure you can.’ Care keeps turning the ticket over in her fingers, further obscuring any useful information. I huddle back in the doorway. I’d like to keep my eye on this girl, but the rain is not letting up. ‘Hey, Tick,’ she says after a few minutes have gone by. ‘What say we go over to Diamond Jim’s and you show me what’s what?’

  ‘Care, I don’t want to.’ His voice is winding up as if tears are on the way.

  ‘I said, I’m not sending you back. I just want to look around on the sly, like. See what we can see, you know?’ She grins and the boy grins back. He looks younger with a smile on his face – they both do – though I imagine she is fully aware of the risk she is running. I remember too well the bite of the accelerant. I remember, as well, the silhouettes of my dream. Still, I cannot let this girl face this danger alone.

  Brushing her wet hair off her face, she stands and holds her hand out to the boy. I stand too, shaking off the water that has beaded on my guard hairs.

  The two humans turn at the movement. ‘I don’t know what to do with him.’ Doubt pinches her face.

  ‘He probably thinks we’re going to get food.’ The boy knows better than to reach for me, but when he bends for a rock, she takes his hand.

  ‘Tick, no.’ She pulls him back.

  ‘He’s just some ratty alley cat.’ There’s a sharpness to his voice – a nastiness assumed to hide his fear. ‘Besides, he hates me.’

  ‘He’s with me, Tick.’ She reaches for his shoulder. Pulls him around to face her. ‘You don’t hurt animals. You don’t hurt anything weaker than you are.’ He tries to pull away but she holds him fast, determined to make him listen. ‘You just don’t.’

  I dart ahead of the pair as she releases him. The street beyond the alley has grown quiet, the sirens long since gone. I do not need to turn to be aware of them passing by me, of them veering to the right, back toward the smoking ruin. We are going downtown, back to Diamond Jim’s, with a sullen boy as our guide.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘You don’t go in the front.’ The boy is reciting, his words clipped and formal. Another lesson learned from a heavy hand. ‘You never go in the front. That’s for show and for the nobs.’ He nods toward the fancy storefront as he talks. We’re across the street and several doors down. The traffic here is still considerable, but the grime on these children – along with the stench of smoke – makes other pedestrians give them a wide berth.

  ‘But Brian and his boys keep watch on the alley, right?’ She puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as if to restrain him. She doesn’t have to.

  ‘Uh huh.’ His voice sinks to nothing and he licks dry lips. She notices. I see her glance down at his face, her own growing more drawn. I would have her focus on the shop opposite. We have approached Diamond Jim’s from the high street this time and stand there now, surrounded by commerce and noise. This is not a comfortable setting for me, and I have pressed myself back against a building to escape the mindless bustle. This area has one saving feature. Down here, the entrances to the buildings are separated from the street by planters and columns. The base of one provides sufficient shadow for me to disappear into, the benefit of my dark fur and the dim light, already fading with the day.

  ‘What …’ she starts to ask. The question
remains unfinished. The tumult on the street announces a new presence. A threat. Care glances around and sees me backing further away. I am already secreted, my presence concealed from passers-by. She follows my lead, however, and steps back, pulling the boy with her. They cannot take refuge behind the planter but there is shadow beside the pillar. From here, we can observe.

  ‘It’s him.’ Tick’s whisper sounds loud in the tight space. Louder certainly than his previous admission. I leap to the top of the planter to see, only to feel myself pushed back by the girl.

  ‘Blackie, no!’ I turn and spit, my hiss less loud than that foolish boy, and she draws back abashed. But it is too late. The newcomers have passed into the shop, using the front door despite Tick’s memorized admonition.

  ‘I told you.’ Tick leans forward, peering into the street. ‘That cat is bad news – and we shouldn’t be here, Care. We should go.’

  He steps out, ready to run, and Care follows. ‘Tick, I need to find out what those men were looking for – what Bushwick was looking for – if I’m ever going to figure out what happened to the old man.’

  ‘What happened to the old man?’ The voice behind her makes Care turn so fast she nearly tumbles. ‘What happened to the old man is he got old. He got careless and he forgot that when someone tells you to leave well enough alone, you should do it. Speaking of, I thought you were going to head south, my girl.’

  AD is standing there, grinning, his long arms crossed before him. I sink back one step, then two, into the shadows as he unfolds himself to pull a small square of foil from his pocket. ‘Good work, Tick,’ he says as he tosses it to the boy. ‘Though you certainly took your time.’

  NINETEEN

  The girl gasps – that is all. But in that quick intake of breath I hear everything: dismay, disappointment, fear. As near a sob as a hiss, and of much less use, as it broadcasts her vulnerability when she should be warning this man off.