Catspaw

Sometimes the teeth of the gift horse are rotten. But that doesn’t matter when you desperately need a ride.

The thick, heavy envelope showed up one day, full of 100-dollar bills, a lifeline against the circling sharks. With the 20 grand, she could pay them off, move town, put a deposit on a small apartment for them. It would mean a fresh start. She thanked God and her daughter, and didn’t ask questions.

She made the calls, packed a suitcase with her son’s few toys, some clothes, and loaded everything into the car. The exhaust thundered as she pulled away, and she hoped she would have enough money left to have it fixed. She wondered if her daughter would visit, but no. She had done enough.

*

Kate steeled herself. The envelope she held was weighty, off-white, and expensive. An expensive envelope. A ridiculous luxury juxtaposed with the grimy back street she was standing on. She broke the carefully crafted wax seal, perfectly imprinted with His crest. The faint smell of lilies drifted upwards, making her want to retch. The paper inside matched the envelope, the crest printed neatly and embossed in gold. Likely real gold, she thought. Two words, in swirling, hypnotic cursive were pressed into the center of the page. They drew her in, made her head fog up. She could imagine Him directing them through a pen worth more money than she had ever seen, controlling the words carefully, and controlling her with equal fluidity.

One more.

She realized she had sat down while reading. Sank down to the dirty ground, blending into the trash cans and the roaches and the used needles. The cold from the ground leached into her, wrapped her legs and her fingers until she felt she couldn’t release the paper, her hands clawed, her nails imprinting crescents into the fine paper. Her ears remained hot, her face white and her stomach nauseous. It would never be just one more. She was His now, and they both knew it.

At least Johnathon would be ok now, and her mother. The last time gave them enough to reset. He might continue to help, a benefactor from afar. Their lives and their freedom for hers. Two for one. Except it wasn’t just her life she was giving to Him. Standing, brushing herself down, she went to see who else would pay to give her family a chance.

It was dark when she slipped down the ally at the side of the grand, imposing townhouse. No one used these paths anymore. They had been built for access to the back servant’s entrances, but most people didn’t keep a staff anymore. If they did, they used the front door, allowed the dignity of being treated as human. She used the servant’s entrance. It was more fitting, He said. The discretion was a bonus.

She was aware of her loose, ripped jeans, caked in the dust from the dirty ground. Her hair hung loose and lank, and her top slipped off her shoulder to reveal a graying bra strap. He would be angry. He liked her to look presentable for Him. She didn’t care, knowing the only difference it would make was she would probably face a grueling two hours of being bathed and primped by his housekeeper. At least she might get clean underwear, and if she were lucky, he would be too busy to watch.

The door was unlocked, as expected. The housekeeper looked up disdainfully from where she was organizing a tea tray, regarding her with disgust. The Lady Grey wafted steam, strong and floral. Sickening.

“You might as well take this with you. Wash your hands, you’re vile”.

Kate complied, knowing the woman would be running her bath and had full discretion to decide whether to put cold water in with the boiling.

The study door was closed, and she fumbled, balancing the tray, and trying to turn the knob. The first time she came here she had stood tall, spoken clearly, looked Him in the eye. He had laughed at her, and now she knew why.

The door opened, finally. He was in His chair, whisky in a crystal glass on the small table beside Him. He was watching the door, having heard her struggle with it. Keeping her eyes downcast as she approached, she placed the single teacup on the table, carefully positioning the handle. It clinked as she set it down, and she pretended that He hadn’t noticed her hand shaking. She backed up, and waited to be addressed.

He didn’t tell her to sit, just watched her the way a wolf surveys prey too small to bother pursuing. His gaze didn’t move as he stirred sugar into his tea. One lump, then two, and then a third. Revoltingly sweet. The sound of the teaspoon on china made her spine clench and resonated grotesquely against the oak paneling.

“You look like you’ve crawled out of a gutter. Ms Beard will have to fix that. You’ll need to look your best for my next assignment.”

With surprising grace for a man of his age and stature, he rose. She shifted as he walked towards her, circled her, close enough that the cloying scent of flowers and cigars that followed him everywhere filled her nose like dirt falling into a grave. Once he was stood directly behind her, his fleshy finger stroked her cheek, slow and soft. He laughed when she stiffened, the sound high-pitched and scratchy.

“Oh, Kitty. You didn’t think I could let you go, did you? Silly little Kitty-cat. You need me. I couldn’t let you face the big bad world alone. What would your poor, wretched, mother do without my generous donations? Without me, the debt would just pile high again.”

Kate closed her eyes. He was right, the money from last time wouldn’t last long. Not with her brother’s medication. But maybe she could bargain.

“I’m yours. Just…give them enough to survive. Monthly.” Her voice wavered, but only slightly. It was hard to stay calm when you made a deal with the devil.

“Of course, my Kitty-cat. The price of insulin grows ever steeper. But so long as you do as you’re asked; you won’t kill your darling brother.” He petted her head and sat down again, pulling her onto his knee.

“Then who do I have to kill”.

He laughed again. “Don’t be so crass, my dear,” he chided as he produced a file from the drawer in the little table, handing it to her with a flourish.

She hesitated to open it, just long enough to prompt him to nudge her. “Good girl,” he purred as she began to read, stroking her hair with one hand, the other resting on her upper thigh.

The Boy was 19, an avid sailor, handsome, and very wealthy. More importantly, he was the son of the American ambassador to Ukraine. And in two months, he would be found dead on the floor of a dingy hotel in Russia. The American’s would blame Ukraine, the Ukrainian’s would blame Russia, and nobody would blame Kate. Hopefully.

Later, she emerged from her bath, scrubbed raw and tender, her damp hair set tightly in rollers and smelling strongly of the same perfume that emanated from Him. A reminder. The room she was led to was sparse, but expensive. And on the writing desk lay a small, black leather-bound book, sucking her towards it like a black hole. That book would destroy her, line by line, with each new name she had to print in it. Opening it at the first page, she ran a finger over the three names already there, the ink long dry. It wouldn’t be long until The Boy joined them.

The door opened, but she didn’t turn until He spoke.

“You’ll be such a good girl for me, won’t you Kitty.” It wasn’t a question. “Go lie down.”

*

The evening dress He had her fitted for the next day was red, sultry, and perfectly cut to hide the purple, circular and jagged bruises that His teeth had left on her flesh. Arms curled around her waist as He looked over her shoulder at the floor-length mirror. He pulled down the neckline just enough to expose a particularly vicious mark. “You suffer so beautifully for me”, he breathed, the heat of the words trickling down her neck.