The Devourer
“How do I find someone?”
Tom paused in his careful stitching to look at her. The slim needle in his grip shone briefly in the lowlight on the roof as he set it and the shirt aside. She held his gaze, but her own hands kept scrubbing furiously at the rusty piece of tin sheeting they were going to use to repair the roof. They’d sprung a leak in the last couple of days, and cardboard wasn’t going to cut it this time.
“Who, Cat?” He asked, already suspicious, and peering at her with far too much knowing. “You haven’t gone lookin’ already, have ya?” Self-consciously, she reached up to poke at the black eye that was slowly but surely developing on her right eye.
“No.” She muttered. “And it don’t matter who.” The black eye was a result of boredom – she’d wandered close to one of the fancier private schools and goaded a group of older boys in blazers into a fight. A brief smugness warmed her belly at the memory of the tallest boy’s nose bleeding all over his fresh-pressed uniform.
Tom chuffed a humourless laugh. “’Course it fuckin’ matters, girl. Some people are harder to find than others.”
She kept scrubbing at the tin, thinking about what to say. A particularly stubborn piece of rust diverted her attention for long enough that Tom picked up his sewing again. After another minute of fruitless scrubbing, she set down her brush, and looked at him again. “The bad men. The ones that k-killed them.” she only stuttered a little, and for that she was proud.
Tom cursed, his hands shaking with a sudden tremor that drove the needle into his thumb. He shot her a furious look, sticking the tender spot into his mouth. “No.” He growled finally.
That had not been the reaction she had been expecting. “What?” she craned towards him, bending her body over the metal to try and meet his downcast eyes.
“Are you deaf or just stupid? No.” He snapped at her, and stabbed through the worn fabric with far more force than he needed.
“Why not?” She demanded, the faint rush of irritation in her stomach tamping the usual respect she affected with him.
Tom’s lips had drawn back in a slight snarl, silver incisor sparkling furiously. “Stupid, then.” He muttered, almost to himself. He affixed her with a baleful look. “Those bad men, girl, you won’t find ‘em. Even if ya did – what are you gonna do, huh?”
She blinked, now caught between anger and uncertainty. “I’m gonna- I’ll-”
“What? You gonna kill them, girl?” His voice was hard, cold in an emotion she didn’t recognize. It reminded her of the sheen, and she looked away from his sharp, sharp eyes. “You gonna get your hands wet and red? Hmm? Drive a knife through their black hearts?”
Pine and metal. Wet carpet. Wet and red.
“-maybe you’ll choke em’, wrap your little hands around their necks and wring until they’re just bodies. You gonna shoot them down like they did your folks?”
She stood with a great scraping clatter of sheet metal and tools, and the bucket full of greasy, soapy water tipped over and the foamy liquid spilled darkly across the cement. She stared at the mess she had made and breathed out pine and frost. Reflected in the water, her mother’s open eyes stared back, empty and unseeing, and her chest throbbed and itched.
“You need to put them out of mind, Alley Cat.”
Tom’s voice had softened. Still, she couldn’t look away from those dead eyes, and the mess, and she thought she felt pine needles against her skin and in her chest.
“You can’t kill. You won’t.”
It sounded like a promise, and she dragged her eyes up to meet his. There was knowing in the chill of his irises, and she nodded jerkily. He was the first to look away, clicking his tongue and muttering absently for her to “clean that shit up.”
As she soaked up the dirty water with old cloth, she thought about the faceless Man on the Sofa, and she imagined the boots scattered on a hard floor, bloodied with the red of their owners. And her stomach roiled and turned, but not in nausea, in something like anticipation.
There was a pounding in her temples; the ache of exhaustion that came from over-exertion, and yet she didn’t slow her relentless movement.
She threw herself recklessly from the lip of the roof, and for a moment, was suspended in space in-between the two apartment blocks. Her landing was shaky, and when she tucked and rolled to absorb the hard impact of her landing, she felt her teeth clatter together and her shoulder twinge painfully. She forced herself to her feet anyway, and kept running.
She ran until she dropped these days.
She ran on the streets, and then when that grew boring, when she thought she must have mapped every alley in Queens and then some, she took it to the next level. She gripped fire escapes, balanced on industrial catwalks, leapt between roofs, dug her nails into impossible grips between bricks, hauled herself up, up, up and over whatever obstacle she could find. Sometimes she ran to run, sometimes she ran to get away.
She had calloused now, roughing her palms, hardening her heels and feet. She wore through trainers and shirts and pants.
But if she didn’t run hard enough to pass out into a deep, exhausted sleep then she would dream. And her dreams hadn’t improved of late. She could always taste them when she woke; evergreen and sour metal tang in the back of her throat.
She let herself fall, jumping down to balance on the edge of a balcony just off the roof, and reached for the fire escape. She made her way down slowly, muscles crying out for a break, fingers and palms smarting from the rasp of brick against them.
She dropped quietly onto the uneven cement of the alley below, just a few feet from the street entrance, and headed towards the lights of the street. She was about to turn out, make her way back to the tower, when the faint muffled edge of something caught her attention.
She paused, turning uncertainly back to the darkness behind her, the impenetrable shadows coalescing where the streetlights couldn’t reach.
There.
There it was again. She twitched, squinting into the alley. This time, with her focus, she thought it sounded human. Then, something scraped on the brick, a distinct sound of a scuffle, and then a tinkling as something glass was dropped and shattered. She felt that same itching, whispering feeling she felt on the edges of roofs, when Tom got in a mood, when she thought something might shake free.
She took a step back into the alley.
“Hello?” She called into the blackness. To her own ears she sounded uncertain and meek; a child’s cry.
Now, closer, that muffled noise solidified. It was a whimper, and then a man spoke. Yelled, really. “Fuck off, kid!”
More shuffling and scuffling, and her skin itched and itched and the scars on her chest burnt with sudden ferocity. She took another step into the alley, and another and another, until shapes began to form in the dark, and something glinted coldly.
It was two figures. One, tall and thin, undeniably the man that had spoken, the second, smaller and cowering, pressed flat to the brick. A woman. A woman with eyes blown wide in fear, her dress torn, and a knife to her neck.
Several things happened very quickly, and though her mind was white with shock, her reaction was smooth and precise. Something like muscle memory guided her, as she leapt at the man, hands closing desperately around the arm holding the knife. At her movement, the woman began to buck and cry out again, and as she jolted, the man’s gloved hand covering her mouth slipped, and her scream came out high and clear, bouncing off the walls of the alley.
With her full weight behind it, the man’s arm gave way, but now with his other hand free, he grunted and twisted, hitting her across the side of the face. The bright, popping pain was a lot more intense than the limp-wristed hits of private school boys, and she had to blink rapidly at the flashing light that obscured her vision for a moment.
“Little bitch-” the man was swearing, kicking the woman viciously in the gut as she tried to wriggle from his grip. The woman gagged and folded in half, and the man fisted his hand in her hair to haul her upright and against the wall again. “I’ll cut your throat, whore, shut up-” he shook her hard, and the woman’s head cracked against the brick and lolled like a ragdoll, and she forced herself to her feet.
“Let her go.” Her voice shook and sounded far away – though that might have been the dull ringing in her ears.
The man laughed. He was wild-eyed, dark haired, and the sickly pale of a junkie. His clothes were near as dirty and filthy as her own. He bared his yellowed teeth at her, and swung the knife threateningly in her direction. “I’ll kill you first, kiddie, c’mere!”
With that, he lunged at her, the woman crumpling as he let her go. She twisted, jumping back to avoid the stab at her face. With his arm outstretched and stumbling from his own unbroken momentum, she kicked as hard as she could at his knee.
“You’re weak, girl, too skinny, with twig-arms to boot. Hmm. You got no power in ya punches.” Tom had her building up her upper-body strength, but he was right. He was always right. “Kick ‘em. Wherever it hurts, and then some, huh? Yes – just like that!”
She heard the slick slip and crack of something moving wrong, and he howled, buckling forwards, but he hadn’t dropped the knife. She lashed out again, spinning her upper-body into the kick, just like Tom had taught her, and her boot caught him around the face. There was another one of those wet snaps, and he stopped making noise, finally releasing the knife as he stumbled and fell, clutching at his jaw.
She pounced on it as it went skittering away, and wrapped her hand around the worn handle. It was a steak knife, the wooden-handled ones they gave out at burger joints. A gurgle from behind her made her turn.
The woman was attempting to right herself, and she could see bruises beginning to form on her face, one eye swelling shut. For a moment, with blood running down her cheek, she thought she saw Thalia.
Pine and frost and blood.
Because that was what that metallic scent was. It was everywhere, wet and hot and red. Blood on her boots, and running out of the wound on the woman’s head. She dropped the knife with a clatter, and hurried to her side.
She smelt like the girls who worked corners, that cheap, floral perfume they all bought clinging to her skin, even though the sweating and bleeding. She supposed that was kind of the point of wearing it. Gently, she pushed her into a sitting position. She eased up the ripped neck of her dress, trying to cover the woman’s exposed chest and bra. The woman was watching her out of her one good eye, and she licked her dry lips nervously.
“Do you have a phone?” she asked quietly.
“N- plisss…” the womans sudden hiss was incomprehensible, but she recognised the panic in her eye, as she grabbed her hand. “no, pol…”
“I won’t call the cops.” She shook her head, squeezing the woman’s hand reassuringly. “But you have someone you can call?” The woman inclined her head weakly, relaxing back against the wall. Her lip was busted too. Movement from behind her made her turn. The man was stirring, pushing himself up onto his feet with a low groan of pain. The woman let out a low, frightened wheeze, straining again, her one open eye going wide.
Her gut twisted, and she stood, curling her fingers around the knife again.
The man turned slowly at the sound of her approach. His jaw was at a funny angle, and he was holding himself up by the wall opposite. She let her arm dangle, let the blade reflect light into his eyes. He let out a tangle of pained, indecipherable noise, an attempt at speech.
She didn’t see him then, she saw wicked eyes, heard a high, chilling laugh – and it was like she was back in the living room. Pine and frost and blood and to inflict pain in return. To avenge.
She lashed out at him like he had done to the woman – she swiped the knife across his exposed face, and red welled and rushed down his cheek. His recoil sent his head thumping back into the brick, and as he blinked, buckling slowly, she hit him like he had hit her. This time, when he connected with the wall, he was still.
Her knuckles ached, her exhausted body trembled, her head still rang – but her hands were steady as she wiped the blade clean on his shirt, and stowed the knife in her back pocket. There was blood on her fingers too. She wasn’t sure whose it was. When she turned back to the woman, she was clutching her phone to her ear, shivering but looking more alert.
She crouched in front of her again, and tugged her thin sleeve over her fingers to gently reach out and wipe at the drying trickle of blood running from the woman’s lips. “Th-thank you.” The woman whispered. “Why…?” she trailed off, eyes slipping behind her to the man, still unconscious.
She shrugged, an awkward half-roll of her shoulders that sent pain down her back. With her adrenaline rush fading, she was acutely aware of her exhaustion. “Wouldn’t you?” The woman looked uncomfortable, and stayed silent. She looked over her shoulder to the street beyond. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Fuck, yes.” The woman accepted her help gracelessly, both of them still slightly too unsteady to do more than hobble, made even more difficult by the tall pink heels the woman was wearing. As they reached the light, she reached into her small bag, and fished out a pack of cigarettes. She proffered the pack with her free hand. “Want one?” Alley shrugged, and pulled one out, tucking it into her pocket. The woman snorted, and then winced, touching her bloodied nose.
“What happened?” Alley tilted her face into the streetlight, pretending that the artificial yellow light was sunshine for a moment.
The woman blew out a large cloud, half smoke and half the fog of her breath in the chill of the night air. “He took me for a drive. All normal. Then he pulls over, and pulls a knife.” Her voice was calm, but her fingers were shaking, and though her face was swollen, she thought she saw a distant horror in her eyes. In shock, then.
She looked around the quiet street. “Where’s his car?” The woman nodded at a beat-up sedan parked a few feet from them. “Fucking freak.” She muttered to herself, and pulled out the steak knife, heading towards the car with purpose.
It took her a few goes to actually pierce the tires, but once she had the hang of the angle, she moved around the car with a vengeance. For good measure, she crouched, and scraped the knife along the side of the door in a deliberate course.
COME BACK AND DIE.
“You can’t kill. You won’t.”
She looked at the words she had carved into the car, and heard Tom’s voice in her ear. A car was making its way towards them with definite purpose, and she listened to the woman’s relived sigh. Her skin crawled and itched, and she scratched at herself. The dark stains on her fingers brought her up short.
“Hey, kid, you want a ride?” The driver, another woman in pyjamas and glasses, was hanging out of the car. She looked vaguely familiar, and as they looked at each other, she registered recognition in her eyes too. “Wait – you’re Tom’s-”
“Alley Cat.” She interrupted, voice sounding irritated to her own ears. She chewed at her bottom lip, considering. Her skin was still crawling and shifting, and the shadows of the alley were looking inviting. But she was so fucking tired. “And yeah. Take me to the station.” The driver gaped for another moment, but nodded. She stomped towards the car, and slid into the backseat, pulling her hood up over her head.
“Annie, hey – don’t go to sleep.” The driver gently nudged the woman – Annie – from where she’d slumped into the window. “You probably have a concussion.”
“Probably.” Annie replied sarcastically, and lit up another cigarette. The driver sighed, and then looked at her in the rear-view mirror.
“Thank you.” The driver said quietly. “My name’s Mel.”
“24th and 42nd.” She said, eyeing her back. Yeah, she recognised Mel. If she pictured her without the glasses, and with a swipe of deep red lipstick and a gold dress, then she could place Mel as one of the regulars on that particular corner.
Mel nodded slowly, eyes widening. “Um, Marsha’s back at work.”
Marsha. In her tired mind, it took her a few moments to connect the name, and remember the bruised woman she’d offered cash to. “Okay.” She wasn’t too sure what Mel wanted from her, and it made her uneasy.
Annie started crying quietly. Mel’s eyes left her, one hand leaving the wheel to stroke Annie’s hair as the woman hunched over and sobbed. Another furious twist to her gut made her wish she had carved something else with the knife. They stopped at a stoplight, and Mel turned her attention to Annie fully, hushing and murmuring empty words of comfort.
And they were empty. Because what good did words do in the face of such violence? It was the lack of real horror or surprise that was really turning her gut. These women faced this regularly. Sex and brutality were their lives.
And no one cared. Not really.
There was a reason Annie hadn’t wanted to call the police, there was a reason they weren’t driving to a hospital.
Quietly, she slid across the seat and out of the car, shutting the door softly behind her, and darted for the sidewalk. The bright white neon of a 7/11 made her vision go spotty for a moment again, and she ducked thankfully into the shadows of the side-street beside it, resting in the shadow cast by a large block of flats. From where she stood, leaning against the wrought iron fence, she could see Mel looking around in confusion, the light gone green.
The subway wasn’t too far, but she missed her stop, falling asleep in the cheap, filthy seats. She didn’t think she could muster the strength to walk back, and so she waited another forty minutes for a train back. It felt like the longest journey of her life, walking up the back stairs to the roof. The bucket that collected the runoff from the pipes was freezing, and her hands went numb as she scrubbed and scrubbed. The blood was hard to remove.
The pigeons were mercifully silent. They seemed to sense her black mood, her drained state. The sun was starting to rise when she curled up in her pile of blankets. Tom had long been asleep and hadn’t stirred.
Under the covers, she ran her finger over the flat of the knife, and felt blood on her hands.