‘We’ve got to figure out what’s going on, Blackie.’ She meets my gaze, although her answer is not all that I would wish. ‘I’m sure it’s all connected.’
We have retreated, since the boy disappeared, back to the other alley, but I am not comfortable here. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings plus the sickly sweet aroma are enough to convince me this place is not hospitable to my kind. The odds are high that this space, deserted as it may seem, is monitored, and I do not hunt where I do not know what other predators I may encounter.
‘Why would Diamond Jim be meeting with those creeps?’ She looks at me as if I might have the answer. I can only stare back, willing her to think. We both heard the boy’s theory: that those thugs were performing some kind of service. ‘He wouldn’t have hired them once he heard about Fat Peter.’ She shakes her head slowly. Clearly, she is wrestling with the possibility that her former mentor has been replaced. ‘Would he?’
I cannot answer, but I blink to encourage her process. Question everything, I want to tell her. She may be larger than I am, but she is small compared to many in this city. We must be mindful to survive.
Several more minutes pass and I am beginning to despair. If I cannot rouse her, I should take my own leave. This place does not feel safe, and I know there are those who wish us harm. I have not forgotten the man from my dream, and while Care may be questioning the role his colleagues are playing, I do not want to be caught unawares again.
‘Come on.’ Care pushes herself off the wall and I jump to my feet. Clearly she has reached the same conclusion I have. We small creatures must be alert in order to survive. But as she pauses in the mouth of the alley, I do have a moment of doubt, as painful as that twinge in my hip. She cares about the boy, that much I know. If she seeks to follow him – to go after him within the jewelry shop – will I risk my own safety to follow?
Every whisker is alert as I scrutinize the traffic, both ve-hicular and foot, going past. Every current of air brings me information. I will weigh them all. Only then will I decide—
And the choice is taken from me, once again, as the girl grabs me around my midsection, lifts me up and holds me close.
‘Naaoh!’ It is not only humiliating to be lifted so, it is disabling. No matter how stiff my hindquarters might be, I can still jump and run and slash. Even this girl would be better off unencumbered by me, were I to leave her and not lend my teeth and claws to her defense. And yet I try to keep in mind her intentions as I squirm in her grip.
‘Hang on.’ She presses me close as she dashes into the street. I do not mean to claw, but as I see the onrush of traffic, I struggle for purchase and connect only with the denim of her bag. Still, I will kick. I will jump free. I will not let this child betray me and—
We are across. I have seen the startled faces turning toward us as I cry. Felt her hands clench in my fur. But now she is running, maybe not faster than I could go, but farther at this pace. Within minutes we are beyond the bustle, back in shadowed, narrow streets that seem both safer and more familiar. As we approach one building, its fa?ade striped with damp, she slows, and I prepare once more to leap.
She releases me and I land on all fours, hissing. My bared fangs, wet with spit, must seem a poor rejoinder after recent events, but I do not like being surprised. I have been a victim of malice and not of mishap, of this I am certain. And while I want to trust this panting waif, I cannot condone such treatment – such blatant disregard of my feline dignity.
‘I’m sorry, Blackie.’ She nods, acknowledging the righteousness of my complaint, and just like that, I feel myself settling. It helps that she has turned away, the arrogance of a direct stare mitigated by modesty. Or, no, she is fumbling with a door. She presses a brass lever and, with a sidelong glance, slips inside.
I follow, as surely she knows I will, and climb behind her up the worn stairs, the filthy linoleum worn concave by untold, tired feet.
‘Hang on.’ She searches through her bag and pulls out a ring of silver slivers. I watch, curious, as she slips first one and then another into the nicked keyhole. The hallway is too dark for her eyes. She works by feel, one hand tracing the opening, the other working the pick. I find her face to be of more interest than her hands. The way her brow has furrowed, the working of her teeth on her lower lip. These are not signs of sadness nor the worry that has eaten at her before. She is thinking, this girl. Detailing the process in her mind. Remembering, perhaps, other hands – older and more deft – manipulating the metal just so.
And with a click, the memory is complete, a broad grin wiping out the worried frown. As carefully as I would wish her, she inches the door open. Leans to listen …