I know ’cause it’s been like that from the beginning between Cobra and me. I told him years ago that I plan to marry him as soon as I’m grown. Was five years old at the time, and from what I recall, he looked mighty pleased. My head pillowed by his arm, he grinned, then said slow as molasses dribbling off a spoon: ‘Sante-girl, maybe one of these days I will marry you.’
Leastways, he didn’t say no. And from the way he behaves, the way he looks out for me and holds my hand when I’m low, I’m still his best girl: even though once in a while, he does make eyes at strangers.
I think of Cobra when I see the redhead with Cat and wish he was with us. He’d figure her out in no time at all and know what to do now Cat seems moon-crazy. The girl clings to her, head cradled on the back of Cat’s shoulder. Hanging on for dear life by the look of it, and Cat seems to like it.
With Priss on my hand, I take hold of Taj’s rope, and lead ’em to a seaside café for a bite to eat. Cat and the girl don’t talk; just stare at each other. Might take ’em a while to get their tongues moving again, so I order breakfast: bread, butter, eggs and bacon, mint tea the way Mimi makes it. Fresh leaves scrunched up in a pot served piping hot. I calculate how much it’s going to cost and set money aside from our earnings this morning.
Cat and the girl munch in silence. No time for small talk, these two. No how-do-you-do and, by the way, what’s your name? No, sir! They link fingers under the table like Cobra and I do, and gaze into each other’s eyes.
I dunk a hunk of bread into my fried egg, stir it around. Take a bite of yolky crust and look at ’em. Priss is eyeing them too. Wonders who in heaven’s name the redhead is, while I’m trying to figure out what she’s up to.
Mama Rose is always saying you can tell a lot about a person from the way she eats. The redhead eats daintily, chews before she swallows. May be hungry, but she doesn’t rush her food. Doesn’t wolf it down like Cat and I usually do. Nails may be a bit grimy right now, but her hands are smooth, manicured, nails painted a delicate pearly pink. From what I’m seeing, I’d say she’s more of a buyer of bread than a seller of it.
I watch her. Watch the two of ’em gawping at each other, then I say: ‘Girl, what’s your name?’
She looks at Cat. Cat nods.
‘Scarlett,’ she says. ‘My name’s Scarlett Woodhouse.’
‘Scarlett,’ Cat repeats. ‘Cat.’
‘Cat.’ The girl smiles and Cat purrs.
Under normal circumstances, I’d leave ’em alone to get acquainted. After all, Cat’s my older sister. She knows how to look after herself and usually me. But the state she’s in, with all that staring and purring, seems to me I’m the Old One here.
‘Where are your folks, Scarlett?’ I ask. ‘Your family from last night?’
Her mouth twitches. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s about to run into the sea again, when Cat strokes her hand and says: ‘Take your time, Scarlett.’
Cat holds her hand until the lip-twitching stops, and then pours tea into Scarlett’s cup. Scarlett sips it, begins to talk. As she tells her story, tears run down her cheeks, and I see a side of Cat I’ve never witnessed before: tender tabby Cat with kitten; unusually touchy-feely for someone who laughs when Redwood encourages us to hug trees. Cat murmurs over Scarlett, nuzzles against her, patting and caressing, as the story unfolds.
Turns out the rest of the Woodhouse family left town first thing this morning. Borrowed money to buy tickets home.
‘I thought we were all going home,’ says Scarlett. ‘All of us: Jack, my parents and me. They promised! Promised not to leave me again. But when I woke, they were gone. Miguel told me they left me behind as insurance. I’m to stay with him till they’re able pay him back.’
My mouth drops open while Cat continues murmuring. Keeps it up, I reckon, to encourage Scarlett to tell us more. Some things, however, are just too hard to speak about, so I ask: ‘And in the meantime what are you supposed to do?’
Scarlett tries to straighten her back, but her shoulders droop as words too difficult to utter stick to her tongue. She blushes and hides her face with a blanket of hair. From the look of it, she’d rather drown than go through with what’s expected of her. And yet, from what I’m gleaning, she can’t very well ask for help from the police. Her folks would get into trouble then.
‘Miguel’s got my passport, everything,’ Scarlett says. ‘Won’t give it back to me till I’ve paid off our debt. Says I belong to him now.’
I see a glint in Cat’s eyes that spells trouble for whoever’s bailed Scarlett’s parents. ‘You’re not his slave,’ Cat says. ‘Not if you don’t want to be. No one has to do anything they don’t want to, not nowadays.’
I agree and that settles it. We’re taking Scarlett in.
*
When I get back to the camp, the Old Ones are packing up to leave. It doesn’t make sense. Not when there’s money to be made in Cádiz and we’re not yet covered in clover. But there they are, sorting themselves out. Bizzie Lizzie attacks a line of carpets with a brush and then spreads them in the trucks while Mimi throws rubbish on a fire.
Traces of dust linger in the air; embers of wood spark. Food cartons crackle and melt as Priss yelps and flies to her perch. I’m wondering how I’m going to persuade Mama Rose to stay longer, so I can speak to that African, when Cobra jumps out of the front seat of her truck.
‘She wants to speak to you,’ he tells me. ‘Says we’re leaving ’cause of you.’
‘But why?’
Cobra shrugs, and then helps me prepare Taj for his trailer. We remove his finery. Just as we start to coax him inside, Cobra stumbles, falls against the trailer and steadies himself. Touches his arm as if it’s suddenly numb and he can no longer feel it. Rubs his arm, shakes it. ‘Where’s Cat got to?’
‘She’s gone to town to sort out her new friend,’ I tell him.
‘Where exactly?’
I give him the address where Cat’s gone with Scarlett to pick up her things and retrieve Scarlett’s passport, if they can.
Cobra shivers, closes his eyes. Groans, holds his head, as his whole body starts trembling. ‘Something’s not right,’ he says. ‘Cat.’ He whispers her name and a glimmer of fear lightens his eyes.
That’s the way it is with Cobra and Cat. The twins are so close, they’re able to talk to each other when they’re apart, sense where the other one’s at.
‘She needs my help.’
I’m tempted to ask him how he can be sure, but the dread in Cobra’s eyes brightens. ‘Got to find her,’ he says, and I nod.
Next moment, Mama Rose in overalls, leans out of the truck: ‘Sante? Sante-girl! It’s time I told you what you want to know. Told you about those men Redwood and I met this morning.’
Mama Rose jumps down, but I’m half-gone already. Cobra runs and I run after him. He leaps on to the back of Redwood’s motorbike and I hop on behind. I shout for Priss, and once she’s in the air, we’re away.
*
Cobra leans low and my body follows him. Tilts to the right and so do I. To the left and I’m with him. Two bodies bound in motion straddling a giant panther as it roars down a track, then swings left on to a curve of highway.
My head on Cobra’s back, the wind on our faces, we hurtle downhill in our rush to reach Cat. The sky, a pale simmering blue, crouches over us, licking up whispers of heat from the tarmac. A huge yellow sun burns my shoulders.
We climb a steep slope, career down so fast, it feels as if we’re flying past trucks, scooters and cars. Zigzag in and out, around a bend that takes us over a wide, open landscape: the Atlantic on one side and on the other, a trail of flowers beside the motorway.
We race past villas and farms, over flatlands. Should have told Mama Rose and the others where we were heading. Should have given her Scarlett’s address in the old part of the city: number five, calle Horozco, near San Antonio square.
Priss, flying overhead, darts along the shoreline, above high-rise apartments into the old quarter. ‘Find Cat,’ I tell her. ‘Help her.’ Priss flies on, and Cobra and I, keeping an eye on her, track her through narrow cobbled streets. Tall, balconied buildings crowd in on us. Cafés, taverns, a church, San Antonio square. Then we zip down an alley marked calle Horozco, to where Priss glides in a shaft of light.
‘She’s here somewhere. She’s close by,’ says Cobra.
He parks the motor. I jump off and run with him to a block of buildings and find number five. Priss yelps, then gives a high-pitched screech that rips the lining from my gut. Trouble. Big Time.
‘What’s your bird saying, Sante?’ asks Cobra. ‘What’s she seeing?’
‘On the roof. Women screaming. Help them, Priss!’ I signal ‘attack’ and Priss dives.
Down below, I help Cobra push open a large door made of heavy, old wood. We pass through a courtyard in the centre of the building and then Cobra stops. He closes his eyes. Sniffs. Feels the pulse of the house. Shakes his head in dismay, then scrambles up a narrow staircase. Up, up we go, past luxury apartments. Round and round, up five floors, and the closer we get to sky, the more we hear what Priss has been hearing: screams. Screams so loud, my body quakes as we rush on to the roof terrace.
I’ve been running through shadows so long, the sunlight dazzles me. I hear a jumble of sounds, then figures begin to form and I’m able to see ’em. A barrel of a man punches Cat. She ducks, lunges at him. Scarlett, a satchel over a shoulder, jumps on him, thumps him again and again. He shakes her off as Cat headbutts him. Scarlett screams, and a sleekly-dressed man, black hair oiled in a quiff, grabs Cat from behind while the big one reaches for her legs.
Wings poised, Priss swoops and tears out tufts of hair. The big man yells, lets go of Cat. She wriggles free and Cobra, behind me, throws her a knife. She catches it and smiles at Quiff. Quiff simpers. A flick-knife springs into the palm of his hand and they circle each other, two tigers about to let rip. Scarlett scrambles behind Cobra and hides.
The big man is about to jump Cat again when Cobra steps in front of him. The man downs Cobra with his weight, tramples him as Priss dives and rips open the man’s face. Talons drip blood.
I yell: ‘Stop, Priss! Stop!’
I say the words and Quiff looks at me. A moment – that’s all it takes for Cat to pounce and plunge the knife into his shoulder. Quiff yowls and gawps at the blood gushing. Flips open a phone, summons help. Slumps over.
‘Take her,’ Cat says, shoving Scarlett at Cobra. ‘Get her out of here quickly.’
‘I want to stay with you,’ Scarlett whimpers.
‘Go!’
Cobra takes Scarlett’s arm and they’re away down the stairs.
In five shakes, I begin to wonder if they were able to make it as the thud of feet running upstairs sounds from below. A gang, maybe four of ’em, closing in.
Cat slashes washing lines to slow ’em down. Nods, and we run as far away from the stairwell exit as we can. We run across the roof terrace, bodies pursuing us. I look behind. One of ’em trips over a tangle of washing, but they’re fast. Six-packs heaving heft, they trample through a roof garden. They’re agile, these men. What they don’t seem to realise is that we circus folk earn our living being fleet-footed and nimble. They may be quick, but we’re going to show ’em we’re quicker.