Here Come the Dogs

by Omar Musa

  A sign of rain?

  I square up to the hoop,

  jump straight up,

  and flick the ball in a blazing arc

  from the sideline.

  Swish.

  13

  High winds and willy willies.

  Summer marches through the trees, a giant headhunter, taking off skulls. Jimmy has drawn the blinds against it. He’s chopping weed in a bowl, watching Mercury as he sleeps. The room is dark but for an intermittent red light blink-blink blink-blinking from a computer screen. He lays the sticky scissors down, carefully rolls a joint on his knees and holds it up as one might an ancient conical shell found on a beach.

  His eyes grow red as the orchids of smoke sink upwards and pancake on the ceiling.

  He imagines optical fibre connecting him and the dog. It is taut, glowing, perfectly straight like a laser. He now tries to send shapes down the fibre with his mind – bones, balls, love hearts, race tracks, rabbits. As the smoke turns and uncoils, he stares, and images pulse down the invisible filament, growing bigger and bigger until they envelope the dog’s sleeping head and soak into it.

  After half an hour, the dog opens its eye and raises its head. They stare at each other.

  Hello, little dog. Hello, my friend, Jimmy says in his mind.

  The dog raises its head further, nose up, sniffing the air. It doesn’t open its mouth, but the reply comes. ‘Hello, Jimmy. Hello, Jimmy, my master.’

  Jimmy goes for a walk to get food and Mercury trots at his side, the points of its hipbones visible behind the skinny waist. An old bloke yells from across the street, ‘Give him the chilli finger, mate! He’ll run faster.’ Jimmy whispers to the dog, ‘Ignore him, Mercury.’

  The air is dense and smokey. At the foot of a telephone pole, Jimmy sees a dead yellow-crested cockatoo. He hunkers down and stares at it for a full minute – its outstretched wings, its open beak, claws, eyes swirling with ants, feathers a subtle grade of yellow and white. Its fellow birds, arranged evenly on the powerlines, look down in silent vigil like worshippers on a pew.

  The dead bird is huge, as long as his forearm, and has already begun to stink. He resists the urge to pick it up and weigh it in his arms. He tries to send it messages and shapes with his mind, but the filament is frayed halfway and the shapes dissipate in the air. He peers down the street and can see the red sun setting across the wild ridge that borders the edge of town.

  That night he sketches the cockatoo in his torn blackbook. Its wings are spread, about to land on the powerlines. Behind it he imagines a fierce blue sky. MTN 94 Azure maybe? Aspen white and Pineapple Park yellow? He sits back and admires his work. He’ll get Aleks to paint it when he gets out.

  He goes back the next day to see the dead cockatoo. There are now ten of them. All of them are strangely flattened, two-dimensional. Jimmy assumes it’s a combination of ants and the heat that has eaten them from the inside and collapsed them. He sits for a long time, looking at them. Hello, birds, he thinks. Hello, little birds, my friends.

  No reply.

  Trudging back to towards home, he passes the fire station, where trucks are polished to a high red, and the orange and silver firefighting gear is bunched on the wall. He walks inside and begins to touch it, running both hands over a helmet like a phrenologist. He then takes out a marker and tags up the side of the truck. He has only done several letters when he hears a man’s voice and Jimmy goes running.

  The next day, the dead cockatoos are all gone.

  14

  ‘Mr Crawford, I’m a volunteer fireman.’

  ‘Good for you, mate.’

  ‘Mr Crawford, err, our job has got harder over the last few years. I personally believe climate change has something to do with it. Surely this current spate of bushfires is as much the fault of climate change as firebugs. I mean, the fires started in early spring, six weeks out from summer. What do you say to that?’

  ‘I thank you for your question and applaud your good work. But let’s be real about climate change. This hysteria about its authenticity has been largely manufactured. This is an economic question, not an environmental one. Fires have been a part of the Australian landscape from time immemorial.’

  15

  Solomon is trying on clothes and jewellery in Scarlett’s room. He already has several sets of clothes there, neatly folded in the corner. There’s a look of stress in his eyes as he meticulously tries on different combos. Scarlett goes to say something but instead lets the cool air from a cheap fan run over her. She checks Facebook and stares at the endless parade of social media: friends back home offering opinions about Teina Pora, something about a missing plane and Jimmy, as usual, posting graff pics and photos of the dog. She puts on the Hermitude album ‘Hyperparadise’ and, as the chunky beats bump, she starts to sketch. Solomon eventually decides on a black-and-white checkered shirt, dark jeans and a pair of cool grey, black and infrared Jordans.

  When they get to the City, they walk hand in hand past the merry-go-round, past the restaurants with ironic menus and pink lemonade in jam jars, past the bus interchange and straight to the noodle house. Scarlett’s surprised when Solomon ushers her towards a table where a woman is already sitting. She’s half lit, middle-aged, her profile leonine. She turns and her dark-brown eyes rest on Scarlett’s teardrop tattoo. Then she smiles broadly, shaking Scarlett’s hand and patting it with the other.

  ‘You must be Scarlett. I’m Grace – Solomon’s mum. So lovely to finally meet you. Solomona hasn’t stopped going on about you,’ she says.

  Solomon looks down and smooths the front of his shirt.

  ‘And here I was thinking he took all this time to get ready for me. I knew it – such a mama’s boy,’ says Scarlett.

  Solomon’s nervous, as if sharing a secret. He had mentioned in passing that he’d never introduced Georgie to his mother. The waiter comes over and he and Grace are soon engaged in banter about whether laksa is still Australia’s Asian noodle soup of choice, or pho. ‘That is not the question,’ he says with a wink, ‘the question is whether laksa is still Australia’s national dish or not.’

  Solomon squeezes Scarlett’s hand under the table.

  ‘So how’s Aleks?’ says Grace.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Scarlett.

  Grace looks horrified. ‘Aleks is Solomon’s best mate. Shame on you Solomona.’ She turns back to Scarlett and shares the gossip in a stage whisper. ‘Aleks is in jail. He’s having a rough trot. This one hasn’t even visited him yet.’

  Solomon coughs into his fist. ‘I need a ciggie. Order me the duck laksa, okay?’

  He leaves and they can see him pacing on the street, blowing smoke out hurriedly. Grace shakes her head. ‘Samoan men. Useless with their emotions. It was difficult for me to understand as a palagi, until I realised there are some things that we’re not meant to understand. What do you see in that boy, anyway?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Scarlett looks at him bunching his dreds up and says, ‘Actually, he looks just like my ex boyfriend. First thing I noticed about him.’ She puts a hand to her mouth, seemingly horrified, but Grace nods.

  ‘I know what you mean. After Ulysses passed, I kept dating men who looked just like him. No one was the same, though. Are you still in touch with your ex?’

  Scarlett shakes her head and looks away. ‘So. Aleks.’

  ‘Aleks is a good boy, a real sweetheart, in a way. A bit of a contradiction, really. Used to cop it hard as a kid. But every morning, he’d be up the stairs to our place, poking his moonface around the door. He’d help me with washing, with shopping. He used to say, “It’s better to conduct business on an empty stomach – it makes a businessman work harder.”’ They laugh. ‘I’d give him a two-dollar coin, and say he’d make a fine businessman once day. Now look. Him, those sons of mine . . .’ She looks despondent, then brightens. ‘Maybe you can help Solomona a bit.’

  Scarlett shakes her head. ‘I’m not his saviour, Grace. I’m not his —’ She cuts herself short, again realising she
may have put her foot in it. This time, Grace looks slightly offended and sips her laksa in silence. Solomon returns.

  ‘Hope you haven’t been talking about me.’

  * * *

  Before they know it, it’s nighttime. Grace politely declines drinks and leaves. Fairy lights are strung through the centre of town like neon kelp. Scarlett and Solomon end up at a steamy salsa club, surrounded by Latin Americans doing complicated, sensuous dance moves. Neither of them knows the music, but they start to dance. At first she leans away from the synthetic edge of his cologne; as they move, she can smell his sweat beneath it, and sees his mask falling away, just briefly, his eyes open and dark; then he seems to catch himself and the reserve builds up, then the charm.

  She invites him back anyway.

  * * *

  ‘This isn’t a porno, Solomon.’

  ‘But last time —’

  ‘That’s what I wanted then. But not now. Slow down,’ she whispers into his shoulder.

  Music plays softly, Dwele and J Dilla’s ‘Dime Piece’. They kiss each other’s scars as they make love, seeking them out in the dark, by touch. There’s usually a stillness in his eyes, an unwavering knowingness, but tonight he’s trembling all over, almost shuddering, and his eyes are needy and warm-blooded, terrified and terrifying.

  They lie breathing and the biro sketches flap on the wall. He looks to the side and sees that she has packets of medication beneath a desk lamp. He is going to ask her about them, when she says, ‘So what do you think you’ll do with this basketball thing?’

  ‘Dunno yet.’

  ‘You’ve never applied yourself to anything, have you?’ she says tentatively.

  He’s thoughtful. ‘Nah. Not for a long time.’

  ‘You can’t carry on with all that macho bullshit if you’re gonna be teaching kids, Solomon.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ He sucks in a breath. ‘It’s just frustrating. The injury —’

  ‘That’s in the past.’

  He rolls over and faces her. ‘Yeh . . . I guess it’s not just the injury. It was this huge kind of . . . feeling of betrayal. It’s stupid. I felt like Dad betrayed me, by dying, then Mum stopped sending the money back to Dad’s village after he died. And then shame at feeling all that. At my body. But this team. It’s a chance to be proud again, maybe.’

  ‘It is.’ She laces her little finger in his. ‘Maybe you can get funding for it? Shouldn’t be so hard. A local business could sponsor the jerseys.’

  ‘Now you’re thinking.’ He reaches over and holds up a DVD. ‘I could never get into this. Kinda boring.’

  ‘You don’t like The Wire? Shit, boy. You coulda been the one.’

  They smile.

  16

  The next day in the remand yard, Aleks falls in step with Clint, who is pacing back and forth, smoking. There are high winds, so strong that the men almost lean into the wind diagonally. The fellas behind them are talking about selling the Bupe medicine they have scored from the prison doctor and managed to regurgitate. A skinny bloke is moving swiftly among the pacing feet, picking ciggie butts off the ground to scrounge himself some tobacco.

  ‘Ah, you’re back, mate,’ says Clint.

  ‘So. What’s the job?’

  ‘You strapped for cash?

  Aleks keeps his face straight. ‘Nah, just wondering, brother.’

  They continue struggling against the wind as Clint speaks. ‘Janeski, you’re straight-edged, you’re a businessman. I know you wouldn’t fuck it up. If you want work, I got a cousin up in Sydney with the rock.’

  Aleks nods and they quicken their pace. ‘I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.’

  The smell of a barbecue floats to them from one of the other yards, who must’ve spent their buy-up on it. He can’t tell which. Aleks looks through the fence and can see that they’ve been cycled next to the Viet yard. There is an almost military formation around a certain man, who is immaculately put together, hair parted and shining, looking both bookish and stylish. He has his hand to his chin and his nails are trimmed. Aleks wonders if he has known war. He’s quite young, so maybe he came in a boat as a baby. Aleks and Clint stride past.

  ‘So what else is new, mate?’ says Clint.

  ‘Dunno. Been thinking I might go back to Macedonia.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need money for tickets.’

  17

  Toby hasn’t worn the jersey the last few days.

  I finally ask him about it.

  ‘I lost it,’ he says.

  ‘Lost it?’ Some of the kids look around at the sound of my raised voice.

  ‘Yeh.’ Then he repeats it, like a mantra. ‘Lost it. Lost it.’

  I look away, spit, then turn to him and grab him by the shoulders. ‘You’ve got to take more care with other people’s . . . with your shit.’ It takes all my effort not to slap him.

  ‘Fuck you, cunt,’ he says and runs away.

  I can’t help myself and my voice explodes out of me. ‘Fuck you, too, ya ungrateful little shit.’ He’s already around the corner. I’m almost shaking and even shooting hoops can’t get my mind off him. The other kids watch me as I shoot for a while then slope away. As I’m walking home, Muhammad jumps out from behind a bush, and I throw my fists up straight away. Seeing who it is, I awkwardly rub my hands together then let them hang by my side.

  ‘Mr Amosa.’

  ‘Solomon.’

  ‘Solomon. Don’t be too angry at Toby.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not his fault. His mum gave the jersey to his stepdad.’

  ‘What? Why? It’s way too small for a grown man.’

  Muhammad shrugs and he looks down.

  He knows more,

  but I don’t press him.

  I think of Jimmy’s dad, The Prince,

  and stories Mum told me about him.

  The torment in those sort of homes

  goes way past what’s rational.

  Toby’s back the next week, though,

  wearing unwashed and ripped clothes.

  ‘Jersey? What jersey?’

  18

  Aleks is waiting in line for the phone. A man in front of him is yelling instructions to put bets on the Canterbury Bulldogs. It usually calms down after twelve p.m., once people’s phone lists have run out. The man swears, hangs up and walks away. Aleks picks it up and Sonya answers after several rings.

  ‘How you going, baby?’

  ‘Good, good. I miss you, Aleks.’ Her voice sounds clearer.

  ‘I miss you so much, too, baby.’ He’s smiling and he can tell she is, too.

  ‘And Mila?’

  ‘All right. At school. Getting excited for you to come home.’

  ‘You still on the job hunt?’

  ‘Yeah. Still no luck.’

  ‘I’ll be home soon, baby. I promise I’ll sort everything out. Call that bloody lawyer of mine, all right? He hasn’t even visited yet.’

  ‘I will.’

  He has a thought and then says, ‘Categories?’

  She laughs out loud. ‘Sure.’

  The last real holiday they had as a family was in Shellfish Bay, when Mila was only three. When she was asleep, he and Sonya would unfold an old card table on the tiled balcony and play drinking games with the two harmless stoners who lived next door. One of the games they’d play was Categories. Name a category (European cities, Olympic sports, etc.) and list things until there are no more. They’d play for ages, smoking ciggies and listening to hip hop and old rock. Once the neighbours left, he and Sonya would lie on the tiles, side by side, watching moonlight leaping from tile to tile like a fish and, more often than not, make love right there.

  ‘Car brands,’ she says, and the smile in her voice almost makes him weep.

  ‘Toyota.’

  ‘Audi.’

  ‘BMW.’

  ‘Ferrari.’

  When they finish the game, they’re both
laughing, but a line for the phone has built up. ‘I’ll be back soon, sweetheart. Don’t stress.’

  ‘I know. I won’t.’

  ‘I love you, baby.’

  * * *

  In bed, he holds his cross and tries to think of God. But other things take in the darkness above him: knives, fangs, men with the faces of wolves. He can almost hear the snicker and pop of their teeth. He imagines himself running with them, running together through a big, broken city.

  Maybe these are his gods. Solomon didn’t believe in God. Aleks felt he had to.

  What will he do if he moves back to Macedonia? Start the vineyard his father always talked about? Maybe run a tour company. All these things, he figured, he could gain an understanding and mastery of. The Balkans were chaos, but there seemed to be some inner reason to it, perhaps, the energy that propelled it even less opaque than in Australia. Mila would kick up a fuss, but she’d come around. He’s getting ahead of himself, though – first he has to concentrate on getting out.

  Gabe wheezes and puffs and moans, and Aleks is sure the man is going to jump him. Animal, he thinks. Fucken black bastard. The man’s disquieting eyes, his narrow presence, surely it was the portent of something murderous. Who knew what he was truly in for or what he’d done in his own country. Something savage, no doubt. Aleks had seen what war did to people, how it could be used to excuse the most hideous acts.

  Even as he sleeps, he swears he can hear it, the breath like hellish bellows. He wakes several times during the night and begins to clench his fists, open and closed, open and closed, thinking he will first hit the man with a short arm, an elbow to the nose bridge, hard enough to break it, then he’ll sit on him and beat him until the screws come. Maybe use the razor a bit. No, that wouldn’t do. It’d mean more time. It might mean solitary. But the question remains – what if the man gets him first?