‘Run!’ She doesn’t try to pick me up again but watches as I veer toward the open door, following me as I clear the alley and turn down a street of broken cobblestones. I am running without thought but not without purpose. The scent of leather, of horses long gone, beckons, and a phrase – Farrier Lane – comes to me as I race, her steps behind me. I hold the pace, panting, desperate to recall another scent. A landmark.
There it is – a heady whiff of tar. Another turn and we are back to the scrubby brush of the no man’s land. She hesitates only briefly as I dash across the tracks. Of course, her dull hearing cannot reassure her that no train is drawing near. But she lets me set our course as I lead her down the verge and into an area of broken stones and trash. I do not believe she has injured the man from the alley, nor would that blow have hindered him for long. But I neither hear nor smell any pursuer, and so at last I slow, my breath coming hard, and collapse behind the shell of a car, a rusted carcass arcing over a patch of dry ground. She slumps down beside me in this man-made cave, still clutching the leather-bound volume, and places one warm hand on my heaving side.
Immediately she pulls it back, catching herself with alarm. But I am no longer the hissing, spitting demon of the pawn shop. I turn to her, something like a purr starting up deep inside me despite my still-labored breathing. I acted to save this girl, and did so. But she has once more rescued me.
I think back to how she attacked. Choosing a weapon, a moment, and making her one shot count. What’s more, she did so without giving warning, without betraying herself, despite what must have been considerable emotion at the time. I look at this girl, her pink hair now falling across that pale and dirty face, and I think again that somebody has trained her well.
‘You would have liked him, Blackie.’
I blink. Our thoughts have run on parallel tracks, like those we jumped a few minutes before. That is all.
‘And he would’ve liked you.’ She releases the book, that unlikely weapon, and wipes her face with the back of her hand, tears making trails through the grime. The other hand still rests on my back, and under its warmth I feel myself drifting toward sleep.
‘The way you went for that creep – I felt like you were protecting me. Silly, huh? But I’m glad you did it.’
She sniffs, and I relax. She is talking to herself as much as to me. To her former mentor, the one who died. Wiping her face one more time, she reaches into a pocket, and I perk up. It has been hours since that chicken, and I have not had the opportunity to hunt. When she draws out a dirty rag and blows her nose, I slump back beside her, hoarding the warmth of our bodies against this hard, cold cave. As soon as I have rested, I can remedy my lack. Here in this urban wilderness, there is prey to be had. Not the songbirds. Their spring calls may taunt me, but even as my eyes close, I can tell they are out of reach in my current condition. I need something I can stalk.
And I need rest. I am tired. I cannot remember ever being so tired. ‘I wonder what happened to Fat Peter?’ Her sniffling has slowed, curiosity replacing the shock. Her voice grows softer, too, as fear gives way to fatigue, and she shoves the rag back into her jeans.
I begin to drift, dreaming of meat and cream. Of eating my fill and sinking back. Sinking …
The balance is off …
‘Or should I say who?’
With a start, I come awake. Haunted by an image: the three figures, dark against the sky. The world is not my friend, nor this girl’s, apparently. I have been lucky. I cannot count on such luck twice.
The girl isn’t sleeping. I see her eyes are open and staring into space. Still, my memories have banished drowsiness, and I prepare myself for the hunt. To run again, if need be. We are small creatures in this world, this girl and I. There is much that I would share with her, if I could.
‘I mean, if he was giving short count, it could have been anyone. But …’ Her voice trails off where I cannot follow. Reliving the scene we have just survived, perhaps. Remembering the old man, or thinking, as I am, of food. No matter. One of us must act. I must hunt.
I had to have been a young cat once, but I cannot remember those days, now. My breathing has regulated but I still feel where I was grabbed. My hind legs are sore. I begin to wash, as if the rasp of my tongue could reach the aching joints beneath the fur.
The girl shifts as I do, reaching into her pocket once again for that rag. But as she blows her nose, I see that the movement has dislodged the rest of her pocket’s contents. Two coins spin and flatten on the ground. As she reaches for them, close-bitten fingernails scraping them off the dirt with difficulty, a heavier object falls free. The oddly shaped weight that Tick had handed over, the smaller cousin of the cylinders in Fat Peter’s shop.