‘Not on the same level,’ Tick mutters. ‘It might have been that.’
‘Either way,’ the girl adds, ‘he said – or they thought he said – too much. The ledger …’ She looks around before she remembers. ‘No, they don’t care. But the marker … What is that about, and why do they need it?’
She reaches into her pocket, retrieving the pawn ticket, and stares at it for the longest time. As she does, the boy settles on the couch. He is bored – the shock of what he has seen has passed, leaving him tired and drained. He sticks his hand into his own pocket, pulling out the brass weight. I watch him as he tosses it from hand to hand, and then turn back to observe the girl, her pale face a mask, now, hiding thoughts I cannot read.
THIRTY-ONE
The room is quiet. I drift, as is my wont, toward sleep, settling into the drowsy dream-like state that allows me to better review my thoughts. I twitch at a touch. A fly or – no – a hand.
‘He’s so soft.’ It’s the boy, his voice quiet. ‘He looks so beaten up, but his fur is really soft.’
‘Let him sleep, Tick.’ The girl now, her voice gentle. ‘He’s not a young cat anymore and he walked all over the city with me today.’
The hand withdraws and I shift, tucking my nose beneath my tail. I will not argue with her assessment, though I reject the implication that I am exhausted or unwell. No, I have lived, even if I retain little memory of times past. What I do have is a sense of proportion, of timing, that a younger mind lacks, and which at this point alerts me that something is amiss. The girl – we – have missed a beat, and I would like to pick it up.
It is not simply that the girl cannot quite make sense of the killing of Jonah Silver. As I slip into semi-consciousness, I find myself pondering what I have heard, and an unaccountable sadness washes over me. Grief, perhaps, albeit trimmed with a sense of culpability. Of responsibility or guilt, sat-urated by an overwhelming melancholy. Were I human, I could weep.
It cannot be for that scarecrow of a man. I did not know him, having no recollection of him before the day’s introduction beyond the merest flicker of recognition, one I can trace to the girl having mentioned his name. Besides, death is part of my routine, dealt by me as often as not, and not anything to be laid so low by. My own death, yes, I have tasted it. Fought it, too, and will continue to do so. But that is our nature, which we beasts do not question. The death of others? It is of little account.
No, it must be for the girl that I am sad. This girl whom the man would have protected. Tried to shelter – as others have—
I wake with a start, having fallen more deeply asleep than I’d intended, having dreamed of concealment and betrayal. The boy is dozing beside me, stretched out on the sofa. The girl is gone. I yawn, back arching and tail outstretched to fling off any vestige of stiffness, and as I do, the inchoate impressions of my dream come back to me, coalescing into a sense of urgency. Of dread.
The girl has missed a cue. This I had known, I had sensed while she dredged over the papers, over the events of the last few days. What has come to me now is not what has been overlooked – not exactly – but a sense of its importance, not only to her queries but to her more essential being as well. Her freedom – possibly her life – is mixed up with this quest of hers; the threats that poor man would have sheltered her from are lurking. And my role? Cats are not reflective. We do not pause to consider our place in this world. We simply are. We do. We act. With that in mind, I turn once more to appraise the room behind me. The boy asleep, the jumble of papers on the table. No, I will not find my answer here. Turning once more to the window, I ready for the leap and exit, silent as a ghost into the city beyond.
The sun is setting. I slept longer than I had intended, and while time has little meaning in any abstract sense, I am aware of the shadows stretching across the alley. Dusk brings good hunting, the first waking of night creatures, the sleepy fumbling of daytime dwellers. For me, however, my search this time is of a different kind, and while I would prefer the clarity of daylight or the cloaking of night, I am committed to this errand regardless.