I am drowning. My mouth fills and my heart will burst with the strain. But no, I blink away the vision and realize that it is scent, not water, choking me. For a moment, it is as if I were not a cat, a creature of heightened senses. As if this outpouring of odor was foreign – was, in fact, a substance that could overwhelm me.
It is a room – one I had missed in my earlier visit, though I had theorized its presence. Guessed at it. A storeroom, the source of the coats I had seen in that tawdry showroom. Large and dark and full of furs badly cured. Of the smell of decay, of death. The scent is stronger here than in that shabby lounge. High square windows, begrimed and fogged by time, let in some light – outside, the moon must be at its zenith – but their few broken panes are not enough to release the corruption. Indeed, what air there is, and a chill breeze does send a scrap of rag flapping, must draft directly to that back passage, for the air in the stairwell gave little hint of the depth of foulness here.
And then I see her, pale in that faint light. She is stumbling toward the far wall. A fixture, a box. No, to a phone, and as she pulls a card out of her pocket I make my way to her. I am moving slowly. The climb has taken its toll, my injured side heaving, and the smell – the overwhelming scent of death …
‘Child in danger,’ I hear her say, her words calling me back through a dark fog, through the water. ‘Please, come soon.’
What happens next is confusing, the more so because my head has begun to throb. The girl begins to race around. She pushes aside the coats, releasing more of that fetid reek, and dives between them. I want to chase her, to pull her out. This is bad. This is danger, but I cannot. The glow from above grows and pulsates, blinding me. By the time she emerges I am in despair, but although I am howling now, my wail a seemingly distant thing, she does not return to me. Instead, she makes her way around the perimeter – her movements desperate and more hurried. I sense her flailing, even as I cower and cry. Only when she finds something – a door – does she return.
‘It’s OK, Blackie. We’re getting out of here, I promise,’ she says. She does not understand – this is not my fear. This room is not merely a cage, not a trap. It is infinitely worse – a room of death.
‘Only I’ve got to get Tick.’ She is still talking. ‘No matter what. I promised him, you see.’
I do not. I see only the light, pulsing in time with my throbbing head. When she reaches for me, I pull away. It is not Care, the girl I have come to trust – to love – whose hand comes toward me. It is another’s – rougher, larger – and I lash out in agony and fear.
‘OK.’ She pulls back and I glimpse her shock. Her pain. ‘I’m sorry.’
With a worried look at me, she heads back toward the stairwell. It would be difficult to see from here, even were my vision clear. The doorway was designed to be hidden from the uninitiated, and as I watch the girl steps into it sideways and seems to disappear.
I howl. I cannot stand it. Being here is terrible. Losing her, worse, and so I quiet myself. I force myself to follow. Panting from the pain, I slink into the stairwell. She has already begun to descend back to the loading bay, but I catch up with her. She has paused, alerted by the noises below.
‘I didn’t think …’ She stops and draws back. The air here is clearer and I feel more myself again. Peeking through the hidden entrance, I see why she has stopped.
The truck outside has gone. The bay, however, is still open. Only now the light is changing, flashing in time with sirens as cars race up and brakes squeal. In a moment, spotlights flood the interior of the bay, illuminating every crate and pallet. In front of them a line of uniformed men advances, their shadows long before them. The crew stands there, as if transfixed, as another uniformed newcomer emerges from the depth of the bay. He propels AD before him, holding the gang leader’s long arms secured behind his back, over the filthy shirt that hangs loose over his jeans.
‘This one made a break for it,’ he yells to his colleagues. AD turns wistfully toward the open bay. In the distance, a whistle blows.
Beside me, I sense Care craning her neck. We are in the shadows here, the entrance to the stairwell hidden in the stark black. Still, she is careful, keeping inside the dark. Trying to see without being seen. Looking, I realize, for Tick.
‘Guess who was in the office.’ Another uniform, a woman, appears, stepping in front of the bay. She has Diamond Jim in front of her. The fat man looks deflated, like a sad toad blinking in the glare of the spotlights. ‘Says he’s not the boss. That he’s just an investor here.’
‘Investor.’ The other cop laughs as he hands AD off to a colleague, an officer with a baton. ‘Hang on to him.’ They are rounding up the rest of the crew. They are putting them in restraints, working their way down the line. Care is standing on her toes, holding on to the door frame. Looking.
‘Tick!’ she calls out, her voice too loud. People turn, but as they do a scuffle breaks out.