The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [35]
This was the last time he’d be terrorized by a cat. By tomorrow morning, he’d be a man.
“Come on, Slag,” he murmured. “Nice Slag. Harkins just wants to be friends.”
Bess was watching him curiously from the gloom. She moved back and forth to keep him in view, fascinated by his strange behavior. Harkins did his best to ignore her and concentrated on calming his hammering heart.
Slag was in here somewhere. He knew it. He’d spent the night lying in wait, down here in the hold, hoping for his chance. This was Slag’s territory. He was bound to emerge sooner or later. To speed things along, he’d left a bowl of food out.
Finally the cat had appeared, slipping out of an air vent, and eaten the food. Harkins had meant to spring on him then, but he found that he couldn’t. In the end, it took him half an hour to pluck up his courage, by which point the cat had long since slunk off into the labyrinth of junk.
It was the thought of Jez that made him move in the end. Sweet, sweet Jez. He imagined her whispering encouragement in his ear, and it made him brave enough to act.
“It’s … well, it’s nice outside,” he said soothingly. “You don’t want to spend the rest of your miserable life on an aircraft, do you? No. I mean, I’m going to set you free! All those tasty birds and mice! That’ll be nice, hmm?” He lowered his voice to a mutter. “And maybe something horrible will eat you, you vicious little slab of mange.”
He took off his cap and rubbed sweat from his scalp. There were too many dark corners here. Forgotten things loomed over him. Frey had been promising to clear them out for years, but, like so many things aboard the Ketty Jay, it somehow never happened.
He swallowed his fear and moved steadily forward. A rustling, thumping, clanking noise attended his footsteps. He looked over his shoulder. Bess froze, caught in the act of creeping along behind him.
“You’re not helping, Bess,” he whispered.
Bess singsonged happily. She showed no sign of leaving, so Harkins decided she could come. He’d sacrifice stealth for some reassuring company.
He moved farther into the aisles of junk. Bess tiptoed as best she could. His eyes moved restlessly around the shadows. Could the cat be among the pipes overhead? Was he watching them from some secret corner, ready to pounce? Harkins was seized with terror. He wanted to turn and run. Jez didn’t ever need to know. He could come back and try again later.
You can do this, he told himself. You’ve lived through two wars. You can handle a small domestic animal.
Then he heard a rapid scratching coming from a small gap between some crates and the bulkhead. He stopped still and put his finger to his lips. Bess imitated him, clinking her finger against her face grille. The scratching came again.
Slowly, Harkins lowered the box to the floor and took the blanket in both hands. It was Pinn’s winter blanket, made of hide, thick enough to resist Slag’s claws. With it, he’d smother that damned moggy and stuff him in the box.
He took a deep breath. Scratch scratch scratch.
A huge black rat darted out of the gap. Harkins yelped in fright. It stared at him and scurried away.
Harkins let his breath out. He was trembling. False alarm. He turned to Bess and managed a nervous smile.
“That was close, eh?”
The cat dropped from the pipes above, landing on his head in a frantic scurry of claws. Harkins shrieked in panic, wheeling away down the aisle, beating at his head as if his cap were on fire. He spun past Bess, still trying to get a grip on his yowling adversary, then tripped over his feet and smashed his head against the corner of a crate.
The next few moments were a blur. He was lying on his back, unable to move, too stunned to work out what had happened. The cat padded over and leaned into his field of vision, peering into his eyes. Satisfied its foe was vanquished, it wandered away.
Jez … he thought. Jez, I failed you.…
The last thing he remembered was Bess squatting next to him and poking him, evidently wondering why he wasn’t getting up. After that, everything went