I want to tell her about what I have witnessed. About AD giving out the drugs he made. About my dream. I simply sit and lash my tail. I am listening. Aware.
‘But he wanted Tick – that much was clear. I don’t think …’ She bites her lip, looks at me. ‘Tick’s in trouble because of me, Blackie. Because I’ve asked too many questions. Because—’
She stops. I too have heard the echo in her words. ‘Damn it. This is what poor old Jonah was talking about, only I was too set on finding the necklace to hear him. It’s not about the necklace – it’s about this deal, whatever this deal is. It’s big. Bigger than the usual, and it was true about Fat Peter, he was just small potatoes – not on the same level. I should have listened when Tick tried to get it right. That’s what the old man was trying to tell me. That’s what got him killed. And now AD’s got Tick.’
She stops, staring into space. I watch her and wait. She is putting together what she has learned. She sees that there is a deal going down, something that involves that awful drug. Something that she has inserted herself into.
Only she has given up the marker. She has been warned off. She will be safe now, if she lets this go. The old man is dead. Tick may be a hostage, but the boy has been complicit in these dealings. Has made some choices that she may consider unwise but were his to make. I think of the fur. Of the stench of death and fear. I think of that awful moment of discovery. Of being trapped. I will her to be smart. To make the right choice. To live.
‘I don’t believe it, Blackie.’ The sun is barely up. It rakes through the room, highlighting the shadows beneath her eyes as she pushes back from the desk and reaches for her coat. ‘I know Tick hasn’t made the best choices, but he’s a kid and I …’ She pauses and I can see the tears glittering in her eyes. ‘This is my fault, Blackie. He may hate me for it, but it’s what I’ve got to do.’
I stretch, the stiffness of my nightmare not entirely im-agined. She is talking to herself more than to me, but I know if I wait she will explain herself. It is a failing of sorts. A weakness that could make her vulnerable to another with less charitable motives. I have come to find it pleasant, as if we were conversing. Not that she is capable of understanding the subtleties of my mind or my various modes of communication.
As I listen she rattles on, gathering the last of her foodstuffs in her bag as she talks. She seems uncertain about what to take, and I see that she is thinking she may not return.
‘The old man always used to tell me to think for myself, Blackie.’ She picks up the short knife she has used for the cheese. Wipes it off and puts it in her pocket. ‘That those in authority are as likely to be hindered by their position as empowered by them. And Tick and I, well, we were lucky to get out of the system when we did.’
She has taken the contract and the other papers. The ledger and, after a moment’s consideration, a piece of the door frame that has lain splintered on the floor since we returned. ‘But I don’t have the leverage to stand up to AD and his new buddies. Not yet.’ Now she stands by the door, giving the room a last once-over. ‘And I need something heavy to use if I’m going to spring a trap.’
THIRTY-FIVE
I’m not a fan of cages of any sort, and I know too well how traps can backfire. And so it is with deep unease that I accompany her to a section of the city as yet unknown to me, to an area of bare sidewalks and buildings that smell of rot.
Part of it is that the aftermath of the nightmare has stayed with me. The feeling of vulnerability as I watch something horrible take place. The sense memory of being grabbed, of being taken, is too close to my own experience, and while I cannot recall the actual moment of immersion – whether I was caught unawares by the flood while sleeping in a low place or captured and thrown in with malicious intent – I value my freedom too much to like these cold stone walls, so high they would shut out the weak morning sun.
Even Care seems to have second thoughts now that we’re down here. She pauses in front of one building’s grimy steps. A puddle has formed in the worn spot and I sniff it, hoping for a clue as to the occupants who trudge past here, but I get little. Sweat and worn leather, the threadbare ends of clothing worn for too long. This is a place of drudgery rather than cruelty, though, and that perks me up. And the foul smell of the drug – that, at least, is absent.