‘Here it is.’ The girl’s voice breaks into my reverie and I blink over at her, aware that time has passed. She is sitting in the desk chair, the papers she had sorted now spread before her. Leaning forward, she resembles a small bird herself, her crest of hair falling in her eyes. ‘I knew it.’ She brushes the hair back with one hand while the other flattens out the page before her. It must have been one that was discarded, left crumpled on the floor by Bushwick’s men. I jump down, curious to examine such a document – something of importance to this girl and yet so easily overlooked by the crew who came to search.
She is lost in thought, biting at her lip as I gain the desktop. She strokes my back, an automatic move, as I step forward to sniff the page. The girl, yes, she is everywhere. The old man, too. I have come to recognize the scent of ash and woolens, a dry and woody scent. Other males – those thugs, the big ones. They were here. They may have handled this paper, even, though in truth their scent is strong enough that I cannot distinguish hand from boot in this context, nor do I know if they can read. And something else, as well – fainter and yet – yes, the slightly rank perfume of the warehouse. What I thought was the stench of droppings, of dampness and of rot, is something different. Sweeter, artificial and not quite capable of masking the decay underneath.
I close my eyes and open my mouth, the better to take in the scent. But the gentle pressure of her hand has increased. She is moving me. Sliding me over to focus her own face on the paper.
‘Sorry, Blackie.’ I cannot help my disgruntled mew. ‘I’ve got to read this. It’s the contract. Clear as day – recovery or information, which he knew. In fact, he said …’
Her mouth goes slack, as if she’s been struck. She looks at me. ‘I was wrong. I didn’t give him anything he didn’t know, Blackie. I didn’t give him information. He knew. Diamond Jim knew – he knew about Bushwick before I told him. That’s why he didn’t react. But he didn’t care.’
There is little I can add to this, although the involuntary purr that rushes through me must seem a poor response to the confusion on her face. ‘What?’ She shakes her head but I hang back. She is asking the right questions now. Better ones than I have, and more likely to be answered. But before she can go further, I hear a noise outside and my response – I stand on guard, my whiskers alert and bristling – causes her to gasp.
‘Who’s there?’ She pushes back and I see her reaching for a book or board. I hop down to let her know she need not fear.
‘It’s me.’ The dirty face appears as the door cracks open. ‘Care?’
‘Tick!’ She rushes to the door and pulls the chair before it back. He steps in and looks around, panting. He has run. ‘I’m so glad. You wouldn’t believe what I found. What I figured out. Did you find Jonah?’
She’s talking quickly, unaware that the boy has been running, not seeing how his thin chest heaves. But with her last question his face pinches and she stops.
‘What is it, Tick?’ She bends to face him, wiping away the marks of dirt and sweat with her thumb. ‘Could you not find him?’
He shakes his head and blinks. Tears, not just sweat, have made those marks. ‘I found him, Care. Down by the loading dock, just like you said. Only—’ He stops. Swallows. Tries again. ‘They said he made a run for it. That he was trying to jump a train. Only he didn’t make it, Care. He’s dead.’
THIRTY
Any response she might have made is interrupted as the boy bursts into tears. He quiets almost before she can comfort him, though, pulling away from her embrace to wipe his face roughly with the sleeve of his jacket.
‘Sorry, Care.’ He sniffs, his face unreadable. ‘I don’t mean to be such a baby.’
‘You are—’ She stops herself in time. ‘You’ve had a shock. It’s understandable.’
‘It’s not like I haven’t seen a stiff before.’ Another sniff as, chin up, he assumes a tough-guy pose. ‘It’s just – it – he was really messed up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Care withdraws to the sofa, her eyes still on the boy. ‘Poor Jonah. You saw it – saw what happened?’
The boy shakes his head. Swallows. ‘No, but they – they had him there.’
‘Nobody tried to help?’ She answers herself. ‘No, not that crew. They wouldn’t.’
‘They were all saying how it was his own damned fault.’ The boy is talking, seems to want to talk. The girl doesn’t respond but he keeps going. ‘How he got what was coming, him not holding up his end and all.’
‘Not holding up his end.’ Her voice is soft. She shakes her head, then turns again to address the boy. ‘He was an old man, Tick. He shouldn’t have been doing that kind of work anyway. Not anymore.’
‘It wasn’t the work,’ says the boy. ‘It’s that he was always talking. The other guys on the dock said he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’
‘He couldn’t …’ She stops herself. ‘Who said that, Tick?’
A shrug. The boy is himself again, the shock of what he has seen dulled by the retelling. ‘The lugs on the dock. The guys who unload the trucks. You know.’
‘And did any of them see what happened?’
Another shrug, eloquent in its lack of commitment. ‘They were all talking like they knew, and, Care, it must have just happened. I mean, they brought him back and he was just lying there, like …’ Another swallow. ‘It was pretty gross.’