‘It’s a ticket,’ says the boy, reaching for it. I growl, ever so slightly, but he is too distracted to heed my warning and does not put it down. ‘One of Fat Peter’s tickets. It must have fallen back there.’
‘Unless he hid it.’ The boy looks up as Care says this, his eyes wide with doubt – or fear. ‘The old man always said to question what I find,’ the girl goes on to say. ‘To not take anything for granted, or assume that something was an accident.’ She reaches for the scrap and turns it over in her hand. ‘It’s blank – just the number and M on the line for Mister or Miss. Maybe it is just a scrap.’
She tucks it into her pocket before I can get to it, but her purpose too is thwarted. ‘They took the books.’ Her voice is flat with disappointment. ‘Of course.’
Beside her, the boy fidgets, shifting from one foot to another. I eye him with distaste. He is old enough to have mastered the basics of toiletry and self-care. But no, instead of excusing himself he appears intent on getting the girl’s attention. I close my eyes, the better to concentrate on the faint whiffs of scent still in the air. Beyond the grime of the dilapidated shop, beyond the blood and fetor of Fat Peter’s last struggle, there is something heavier – a deep funk. I close my eyes to concentrate and see before me three silhouettes, the tallest one in black.
‘Care.’ Tick draws two syllables out of the word, the whine in his voice as bothersome as a fly. I do not wish to remember this dream, but if I must, I would prefer to do so quickly. ‘Care, I don’t like this …’
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.