‘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.