As Dark As My Fur Read online

  ‘And you want me to follow this man,’ says the girl. Her voice is calm and businesslike. ‘To find out what he is doing and with whom, and report what I find to you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’ Gravitch nods a little too enthusiastically, his lips clamping down on the match. I narrow my eyes, the better to take in his scent. His sweat has a bitter edge – fear and something more. A chemical smell, dusty and sharp, more than can be explained by the sulfur of that matchstick, and also, strangely, soap. ‘I need you to follow him.’

  ‘And you can pay?’ Somehow she has sensed the weakness of the man as well, has drawn the same conclusion. ‘For a shadow job, I get forty a day. Half of that up front.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ He digs into a trouser pocket and comes up with a roll of bills. I hear her intake of breath as he peels off six. He holds them out, an offering. ‘Will three days be enough?’

  ‘It should be,’ she says, returning to the desk. ‘Now, Mr Gravitch, if I can have some information?

  He steps forward awkwardly, placing the money on the scarred wood before him, and shies slightly as she pulls a sheet of paper loose and retrieves her pen. It’s the writing, I believe at first. The presence of such formal documentation unnerves him. Still as he answers her questions, I catch him leaning forward. Watching as she writes.

  ‘This is the standard contract,’ she says, noting his unease. ‘I’ll need the subject’s name and habits.’

  ‘Dingo,’ the man before her says. ‘Everyone calls him Dingo,’ he repeats when she pauses in her writing. ‘His real name’s Paul Dingett, or something like.’

  She takes it all down, then enquires about his hours, the location of his workplace and where this Dingo spends his time. He relaxes as she does so, one purpose of the ritual, as if the form, the pen and ink, give her authority beyond her age.

  ‘And how may I contact you?’ She raises her eyes at last, and I will her to study him. To note how he stiffens again and withdraws. ‘Do you have a phone? Should I come to your office?’

  ‘No, no.’ The matchstick moves as he chews. ‘I’ll come back,’ he says, nodding as if to seal the deal. ‘In three days, I will.’

  She nods too and studies him. The money is on the desktop. ‘Good,’ she says.

  He steps back and exhales, the tension he’s been concealing released at last. I strain to catch the tang of something underlying, but it will not come to me before he backs again, and turning, makes for the door. I watch him go, but flick my ears. Care, behind me, has grabbed up the money with a soft sob. She is counting it, placing some of it in an envelope, some in her pocket as she leans heavily on the desk, her last reserve exhausted.

  The outer door of the building has opened and swung shut. The footsteps, lighter, fading, as I turn toward the girl – toward Care.

  ‘We’re saved, Blackie,’ she says, a smile playing around her pale lips. ‘I’ll find us another place. Get us some proper food. I have a job.’

  I look up at her but do not purr. My tail, ever my betrayer, lashes behind me.

  This is why my thoughts turn dark, my ragged ears begin to flatten back. I cannot tell her what I sense. Cannot explain myself. This man – this client – who would deliver us? He has resources, more certainly than that mole man does. No doubt, he has a purpose, too, a reason for employing her. Employing us. But there is more here: I feel the truth of that in every bristle of my whiskers. I am an animal, unable to communicate as I would, but this I know. This man? This Gravitch? Whatever his motivation, it is not the one that he disclosed.

  FOUR

  There is another reason for my discontent, for the impotent rage that makes me stalk about and lash my tail. I was not always as I am now, black of fur, acute of nose and eye. In my dreams, I find the truth. Once I was such as Gravitch or that mole creature, Quirty, or nearly so. I was a man, an old man. This girl’s mentor, but how I came to be as I am now, I cannot tell. That she rescued me, pulling me from the icy flood, is the first true memory I have, from soaking tail to bedraggled whiskers. Before that, though, all is shadow, and my inability to understand, as well as to fully recall, infuriates me. Perhaps if I were, as I once was, a contemplative man. Rational, deductive … then I would understand. But I am not.

  I whip around, leather paw pads silent on the bare wood floor, and begin another circuit of the room. This I know: I was a hunter, such as this girl aims to be. Only I was snared. Entrapped and shot, and left to die. The image comes to me in sleep. Three men, their eyes more cold than mine could ever be, who watch me as I sink, as life recedes. I know them now, or feel I do. Those eyes, those forms – a memory in nightmare form. And more than that. Those who wish me harm are still at large; I sense this as I can the rats beneath the street, the roaches in the wall. They seek to hurt the girl now too – for her ties with me, for work that she has done that has cost their criminal enterprise dear – this is what I believe, and this is the root of my frustration. The one true thing that I am unable to share.

  I am, I know, a cat. And while I have come to terms with many aspects of my animal nature – am more than amply recompensed for many of its drawbacks, in fact, by the finely tuned senses that I now enjoy – there are others that discomfort me. That remind me of another life, before my mind – my conscious self – assumed this form. In my former life, I vaguely remember, I was taciturn. Were I now capable of speech – intelligible speech – with even a fraction of the articulation and precision I have so long admired – my words would flow freely. I would be voluble. Verbose, even, and content.

  As it is, I am confined to mews and chirps and must make myself understood through gestures, like the one I now make. Ceasing my endless pacing, I brush against the girl’s shin to get her attention and then stare up at her. My eyes, I know, appear cold. Their green, reflective surface not softened, as hers are, by the subtleties of brow and smile. Often, this frustrates me, but at this moment it may serve my purpose. I want to disconcert her. She must question. She has to be aware and on her guard.

  ‘What is it, Blackie?’ I blink in acknowledgment. I have long ago given up any hope of communicating my name. We have started a new life together, this girl – Care – and I, and what came before would have little bearing on the present, were it not for the arrival of this man. This Gravitch. For her sake, now, I would have her trust me. Would have her regard my warning as more than brute instinct or, worse, the panic of a small and vulnerable beast. ‘Do you want my lap?’

  She sits again and pats her thin thighs, encouraging me. I hesitate a moment, and then I jump. A simple matter, really, although the physics of springing more than my height straight up sparks a quick, fevered calculation in some fading part of my brain. It is not the girl’s hand I want, although she lays it gently on my back. It is that envelope. Ignoring her gentle touch, I push my wet nose toward it, eager to discover on the bills within what traces I may of the stranger’s hand, his origins. The real impetus for his visit to our lair.

  Closing my eyes enhances my other senses, and I do so, leaning in. In the fibers, I taste the salt of sweat. The stubby fingers of the man, and many others, held this note tight, fear and desire making them averse to let it go. I get traces of those emotions – the pheromones that leak from the grasping hands. Fear, again, and longing. And, that astringent scent of soap, as well as other, harsher cleaning agents of a kind I would not associate with such a grubby man. That scent – with its bite of lye, the overlay of cheap perfume – almost obscures another odor, more deeply ingrained, and with a bite reminiscent not of nature but of industry. A chemical tang, the scent of rainbow slicks on puddles. It is the same odd scent I got from the rat-like man, despite his attempts to wash, only stronger. Wherever this envelope and the bills that it contains were stored, it is near the source of this strange smell. I would know more.

  ‘Is it the glue?’ Care’s voice interrupts my thought and I realize I am licking the envelope. I have progressed from diagnostics to savoring the glossy inside, redolent of some anima
l in a sun-soaked field. I sit back up and blink, somewhat abashed and troubled, frankly, that she will regard me as simpler than I am. And as I do, she tucks the envelope into a drawer, which she then closes shut. It is times like this that cause me to despair of my current form.

  ‘You must be hungry.’ Her voice is soft, and I do not believe she expects an answer. She simply speaks to me in lieu of other company. Were I to read anything else in her occasional appraising glances, I would surely go mad. ‘I am, that’s for sure.’

  She makes to stand, and I jump down. She fishes the remaining bills from her jeans. Her face is pale and so young. This girl is barely in her teens, but her brows come together in a way that ages her as she examines the well-worn notes. I stretch. Even up on my haunches, I cannot reach them as she turns them over in her hand, but my sense of smell is acute, and I pick up once again the tang of sweat, the dulling overlay of dust – and something more – before a rumble startles me out of my reverie. She has opened the drawer again and tucked all but one note inside.

  She looks at me now with a trace of a smile, the apology in her voice. ‘Did I scare you? I’m sorry, Blackie.’

  I sit back and begin to groom. Bad enough to be a beast, but to be judged a coward as well is infuriating.

  ‘I’ll lay in some provisions. I promise.’ She has read my mood aright, but misinterpreted the cause. ‘It’s only, well, if we have to find another place …’

  I cease my washing and regard her once again, unable to respond. My lack of language maddens me, but at this time I still my tail and keep my ears erect. Although I do not understand the means of such a transformation, or why it has come to be, I have returned – both to this life and to this girl, this Care. I stare at her, a mere child hungry and alone, as she peruses the pages before her. She’s planning, this one, jotting memorandum, and I strengthen my resolve. I have my limits, specific to this form and which I have only begun to learn. Still, I am here with her. I am trusted, and I will merit that faith. Whatever I can do to keep her safe, I will.

  FIVE

  I curl upon the couch, my resolve, at least, at rest. But soon drowsiness takes over, and the dreams begin once more. Three men, silhouettes against the sun, looming over me …

  In my dream, I welcome them, as terrifying as they may be, and seek in them the answer to my state. But when the girl leaves some time later, following our visitor’s path out the door and down the worn steps of our building, I turn from them and rouse. It may be that all she seeks is nourishment, to forage as she has before. And yet I watch her from the window, a nagging fear goading me from resuming my rest. Instinct, perhaps, one of the few benefits of this form, has pricked me. Troubled me, although I know not why.

  And then I see it – the flutter that has weighed on me. A line of movement, dark and spare. A trick of the light, perhaps, that shimmers a half breath later than her passing. I pause and sniff the air, but I am stymied by the distance. By the aromas in this room, and by – perhaps – my age. A shadow, but it shrinks into the greater shade cast by the building rather than stretching out.

  I make my move. For although I am aged – much older than my newly glossy coat suggests – I do not believe I am mistaken. I will not take that chance and leave the girl unattended. The door is shut, but the window remains ajar and I use that as my path, maneuvering beneath the raised sill and with two successive leaps attaining first the brick ledge that protrudes above the ground-floor window and then the alley.

  The girl had shouldered her sack, empty now but for two of the better apples and the few small essentials she always carries. Whatever else this Gravitch brings us, he has brought her ease. Not only food but light has been lacking in her life. The loss of artificial power does not bother me. I prefer the softness of her candle, the play of flame upon her face as she leans over her few books. It has hurt her to part with any of these, I could tell. She went between them many times before packing up the largest, those covered with the freshest hides and hammered leaf. Still, it has been several nights since she has had such stock to sell, or the means to heat even the small kettle she keeps in the alcove off the office proper.

  I do not have the skill to foretell where she goes now, whether on the hunt or drawn forth on some mundane errand. But if I have seen her venture forth then, so too may others. That fleeting shade, perchance, or those for which it scouts. And so I wait by the alley’s mouth until she passes by. It is a simple matter then to follow her, and I dart from one shadow to another, taking full advantage of the graying sky, of the dimming afternoon.

  When she turns from our rutted street and from the center of this blighted city, I yearn for my first guess to be correct. Although I dread her interacting with that one-eyed man, I would have her continue on in this direction – to the market and its offerings. Other vendors gather there, with trade of a more honest kind. It was there she brought the books, swapping them for tins with dents in lieu of labels, apples, and once, for newer footwear, only slightly worn. She’s growing fast, is Care, despite a diet that would be well supplemented by what I could provide. But, no, with this strange split awareness, I can almost comprehend the disgust my offerings evoke and shudder from it as I would a flea. I do not need this additional reminder of my animal state, bestial and crude.

  Perhaps, were I other than I am, I would understand. My hope would not be in vain, but as I track her turning path, as she turns off toward the setting sun, I face the truth. She is not heading toward the market now. Nor, as I had wished, does she intend to use those bills to treat herself, perhaps to another of those books she so admires, at any of the city’s more refined vendors on this evening sojourn. No, I gather that she is on one of two paths. The reasonable one relates to her new commission. I heard what that man Gravitch told her, and so it is possible that she makes her way toward the district run by his crew; the harbor, even would be preferable, in search of that suspect employee. But I fear her steps lead elsewhere. When she takes another turn, leaving behind the missing cobbles for the smoothness of asphalt and concrete, I feel a heaviness come upon me. I know where she is heading. And I cannot say a word.

  ‘Tick, they call him.’ She is talking softly, only the tightness in her voice betrays the import of her words. ‘Thomas – Thomas Sears.’ She gestures with her hand to indicate a height below her shoulder. ‘Brown hair. Little, he’s maybe ten?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him.’ The gruff voice is new to me and startles me back into focus. As much as I dislike admitting it, I have allowed myself to become distracted. A rat has died, its body settling into the refuse-filled well of a basement window. Not by my actions, but its fragrance proved alluring, and I had been studying it while we waited. We are in an alley, the girl and I. I followed her here as I have before, almost daily these past few weeks. She had been leaning back against the brick when I first became aware of the decaying rodent, close enough for me to ascertain the girl’s movement, or so I thought. She has crossed over, while I explored, to press against the iron fence that rises opposite. She waits now, grasping the bars. The man on the other side steps forward quickly, with a furtive glance to either side. He’s tall, although the coarse shirt hangs loose on his gaunt frame.

  ‘What you got?’ His voice is hoarse.

  A dirty hand reaches through the spikes, and Care fishes in her bag, bringing out an apple – a better fruit than the one she gave herself. The big man takes it with surprising delicacy and then devours it, core and all, in four bites. Even as his jaw still works, he looks around, those sunken eyes as jittery as a spooked horse.

  ‘Thanks.’ The voice is unexpectedly soft, and Care manages a smile of acknowledgment. Just then, a whistle blows, and I know we will not be long. Her routine varies only in her confederate, as each visit seems to match up with arrival of a different shift. It matters not. None of these men have any news for her. None of them have seen the boy she regards as a brother, the little one who was taken away by men in uniforms, like those who watch over this yard.
r />   ‘You’ll keep looking, won’t you?’ Care sounds near tears.

  ‘I’ll pass it on,’ says the man, glancing back at those uniforms now. ‘To the next crew. I’m due for a work duty soon.’

  There comes the sound of feet, a hoarse voice calling. ‘Tell him Care is looking for him.’

  The man’s head whips back. ‘Care? You’re Vic’s kid?’

  ‘You knew my father?’ She grabs the bars, leans in. Her voice drops as she looks around. ‘At the Dunstan?’

  ‘What?’ He turns again. Those feet are getting closer. ‘No. I don’t know nothing about that. Nor do you.’ A yell hastens him, and he turns to run. A loud smack. The sound of leather on flesh.

  I stay by the basement well, though I give up the temptation below me for the raised ledge of a bricked-up window. I do not need to see the yard to know what has just transpired. I examined it the first time we came, its dark paved space echoing with the steps of booted feet. Have seen the inmates lining up and the reluctant march back to the hulking building, its shadow growing in the fading day. A metal grid covers the windows, as small and deeply recessed as the well beneath me, but the girl strains forward anyway. In vain, she tries to make out faces in the pale shapes that file past, but they fade away into darkness.

  ‘Who’s the boy?’

  Care spins around. She sees the woman coming up the alley; she must. It would be hard to miss the blowsy blonde tottering toward her, unsteady on absurd heels, heavy legs bound close by a skirt too short for the early spring chill, a dirty purse in hand. But the girl did not notice the rat either, and now cranes her head, as if expecting someone other to appear from the shadows.

  ‘The boy you’re looking for,’ the newcomer says to clarify. It serves to still Care’s desperate searching. The woman nods toward the fence, although she has stopped short of it. Maybe it’s those heels, but I suspect she prefers to remain in the shadow of the building. ‘I’ve seen you here before.’