‘Anyone there?’
I want to bolt. To run fast and low for the river. To find a cranny in the rocks and squeeze in there, glaring at the world until it goes away. I hear the growl rising in my throat and raise it a notch. Surely this girl must notice. Surely she must smell what I do. Discern what I have already deduced.
‘Mr Peter? I—’ She reaches in and finds a switch. The flat blue-white fluorescents highlight the lazy swirl of dust our entrance has disturbed.
A quick intake of breath. A stumble, as Care steps backward, toward the door. She doesn’t scream, this girl. She’s come up hard and learned well. She doesn’t panic or draw attention to herself – even when she finds a body, lying dead upon the floor.
FIVE
This girl is not a cat. Her actions may be better dis-ciplined than what most humans would display. They are not seamless, however – nor are they silent. Now that we have identified the source of the odor, I step forward to examine it, but she has lost her balance. Although she tries to remain silent, she steps back – into a low table. Like the rest of the room, it is covered with clutter, and her weight, slight as it is, sends the items piled there crashing to the floor.
I wince. The noise is startling, especially considering the size of the objects. Three cylinders – round, with bobble tops – have hit the worn wood floor. They are of various sizes, and the thuds with which they land make them seem bigger than they are. I have only had a moment to examine the odd angle of the man’s neck and the blow to the head that undoubtedly bent it so – but I am curious about these objects.
‘Oi, what’s that?’ The door swings open. The alley guard stands silhouetted in its light. ‘You – girl!’
He steps into the space, dwarfing it further, and Care cringes. In the moment this has taken to happen, I have surveyed the scene. There is much more here I would like to inspect: the dead man’s hands, their fingers curled and white. The scuffmarks on his shoes, which bear traces of dried mud. And those cylinders, which Care’s backward scuffle have just sent rolling again.
I am just sniffing the largest of the three – its cold metal surface holds very little scent beyond the dust and oil of the room – when I am interrupted. Care has grabbed me, hoisting me about the middle, and clutches me close. She is retreating, sidling along the wall of shelves and doesn’t understand that she is endangering us both by restraining me.
There is no time to be gentle. I twist in her grasp, hissing and spitting. She holds tight until I kick free. I feel my claws rip through her too-thin jacket, but there is nothing for it now. That kick has given me the leverage I need to launch myself on the attack. Ears back, jaws wide, I fly at the alley guard’s face, enjoying for that brief moment the look of horror that I see. This is not my usual process. I would rather explore and understand, keeping myself to the shadows. This is, I assume, a function of my feline nature. Still, this man is a bully. Violence comes off him like a stench, and I take pleasure in my role.
Even as I land, my body mass nothing compared to his, I am in control. With fang and claw, I assault the soft parts of his face until one large hand takes hold of my tail and throws me to the ground.
I hit hard, twisting just in time to land on my feet and jump before his boot comes down.
‘Blackie!’ I can’t risk a glance. This big man is furious, his pink face bleeding, and I brace myself for another leap. I have succeeded in my primary objective. I have diverted him, making him turn. There is a clear path between the girl and the door, but I will have to be quick to avoid taking his wrath on myself. He glares, and I wait, panting. As the faint stiffness in my hindquarters reminds me, I am no longer young, and the last few days have taken their toll.
‘Unh!’ A loud thud, and with a grunt, the big man stumbles forward. Behind him stands the girl, a black leather-bound volume in her hands.