‘Care!’ A whisper – almost a hiss – makes her pause. Makes her turn. I slide to a stop, a good few lengths from the brambles. I don’t want to see her taken. I do not hope for the impossible. ‘This way!’
It’s the boy. Tick. He’s crouched beside the shed and is gesturing, calling her over. With a glance at me – for confirmation? assent? – she turns and follows, ducking down low behind the second wreck in the hope that the men will not notice her change of direction. In a moment, she is gone. But the big man has rejoined the chase, passing his smaller colleague. And I am seeing the distance between our pursuers and myself close. With the girl out of sight, I am less likely to be in danger. Even the big man is more likely to chase her down than follow me, although I have no illusions about the grudge he holds against me – or the cruelty of which he is capable. I should bolt.
I do. I follow Care and the boy around the shed and see that he has ducked into a dark opening beneath the train bed. It’s a pipe – a drainage pipe – and my blood runs cold. I gasp and feel the pressure again – the water that flooded my mouth and my nose. The cold.
‘They went that way!’ Care’s quick turn – the rusted-out wreck – they have not been enough. The red-faced thug is lumbering toward me, his colleague close behind. The choice has been made. Ears flat, heart racing, I dive into the pipe, my claws scrabbling on the rusted metal. ‘This way!’ Their voices echo in the enclosed space, surrounding me. I am tired, and I am old. And they are getting louder and closer. I hear one of them dive into the pipe. The big man – he blocks the light and I can smell him: blood and rage. But he has to crouch to enter and that slows him, and even as he reaches for me he stumbles, his bulk overbalanced as he hurries half bent. He catches himself with a curse, but it is too late. I have reached the far end and I am out.
‘Blackie!’
I blink, taken aback by the light and pause, panting. I do not know this place. I do not know its safe spots. Then I see. Off to the right, Care is running, the boy before her grabbing her hand. But even as she runs, she has turned to call for me. She sees me and I am heartened, her voice giving me breath enough for a last dash.
With long strides, flying low to the ground, I catch them as they duck into an alley. Close on their heels, I follow as the boy guides Care around a corner and then to an open door.
I freeze. The doorway is black and low, leading to a basement. I am too winded to scent properly. There is water here and mold, and something more. I remember the furtive way this boy avoided Care, the odd scent coming off him, and I will her to look at him. To see what I see and to question.
Too late. She follows him down. The pounding of feet grows louder. I dart down behind them and wait, listening to the three of us breathe.
‘Tick, what happened? How did you find me?’ Several minutes have passed. The footsteps have faded. My eyes have adjusted to the near total dark, and I have grown calmer.
We are in an open space with a dirt floor. Fresh air blows in from the cracks in the far wall. The puddles are rainwater, old and dank but clean enough. I drink my fill, even as Care reaches blindly for the boy.
‘Tick, are you there?’
‘Hang on.’ A hiss and there’s light. He’s brought a candle – or found one – here in this empty space. ‘Care, are you all right?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ She smiles at him but she knows better. ‘So what’s with that, Tick? Tell me.’
The boy turns to stare deeper into the room. He can’t see me in the darkness but I can make out the sadness on his thin face. The hunger and something more, something feral.
‘I didn’t do anything, Care. They knew.’
I hunker down to watch, my ears alert.
‘They?’ Care makes herself wait. I can hear the strain in her voice, but it pays off.
‘Those men – they knew you’d found Fat Peter. They … I didn’t know, when I told you. When I gave you the weight. Honest.’
She nods. There’s more. ‘And?’
‘AD made me go with them. Told them I could find you. That I would.’ He stops and bites his lip.
Care reaches for him, but instead of an embrace she simply takes his hands, turning them over in her own. ‘Oh, Tick.’ Her voice is sad, out of proportion, I think, to the minor burn marks that stripe his fingers with red welts.
‘It’s just … I get so hungry. But I didn’t give you up. Honest, Care.’ He’s talking more quickly now. He has surrendered some truth to her. ‘Not for scat, not for anything. Don’t call the services on me, please, Care. The old man really did come to me, only …’
Care looks into his face. She is still holding his hands. ‘Why did the old man want me to follow Fat Peter, Tick? You have to know more.’