Here Come the Dogs

by Omar Musa

  teeth lathered and skin bubbling/

  a cow’s milk curdles in its udder.

  A woman poached in her swimming pool.

  Now a dog screams from the scrub, his fire fiercer.

  It is coming indeed.

  Your heart leaps,

  because at first you think it is Mercury Fire.

  But it’s not.

  It’s a feral dog aflame –

  a satellite of monstrosity.

  You see it all now.

  In the flames there are scriptures and mazes,

  a labyrinth of tinted moving mirrors.

  There is a whole population

  treading down the corridors of flames,

  thousands of people,

  men, women, children,

  the pretty ones, the ugly ones, the young, the lost,

  the Damien Crawford’s who never die,

  those who submit, those who endure,

  those who burn within or drown without, arms linked, in lines,

  moving forward, a legion facing the greatest horror of all,

  their eyes reflective, their skin spangling with blisters then charring,

  but they walk on, their skin peels, muscle falls from their bones

  and they are a great phalanx

  of reeking,

  clattering skeletons.

  And each skeleton now raises an awful finger

  and points to the sky

  to where the other planets are,

  who have disowned Earth for its beauty and follies.

  You see it all,

  Jimmy Amosa,

  our origins and ends,

  our ruin, our rejuvenation.

  A monstrous, deranged chaos prevails.

  A cardiogram of the nation is written into the rumbling flames. From the Eyre Peninsula to Gippsland to the Blue Mountains, horizons shimmer and bend. The needle on the fire-danger sign points to catastrophic and code red. Life and Death are both staunch in their will to survive. The large and small clash against one another – wind, land, water, fire and man embroiled in a tussle with no resolution except that it must happen again. Sobbing and screaming. Sirens. Black clouds cauliflower. Rubber is scribbled on asphalt as trucks swerve through the firewall. Animals seek refuge on highways, mammals and reptiles next to each other, stunned by fear, arranged as if by design on tar so hot a man’s foot can sink in it. Power generators break down and dams are filled with a turbid mixture of ash and silt. In two days, a fire truck is burned to its spine, ten people lose their lives and hundreds of houses are destroyed. Rumours of looting. Abandoned cars showed their ribs to the sky.

  After the fire has moved on, people pick through the carnage of their houses like rag and bone men, with tears streaking clear lines down their masks of soot. A woman clutches a photo album to her chest while her husband sifts through bricks and broken pottery and misshapen blobs that were once glass bottles. He stoops, picks up a diamond ring and holds it to the red sun.

  Sympathy and charity flow and a school hall is turned into a makeshift camp for the displaced. People who have never met sleep side by side on donated mattresses and many ask why it took a catastrophe of this magnitude to finally bring forth compassion in Australians.

  The simmering whispers now.

  How did it start? Lightning in the mountains? A firefighter, a glory seeker, a wannabe hero (and indeed an off-duty fireman did arrive at the blaze a little too quickly)? Some say it was live ordnance practice at the army facility that kicked it off. Some say it was the emergency services department’s fault for being tardy and underprepared. The emergency services department points out that a pine forest too close to the suburbs had been allowed to grow uncontrolled for too long. Was it further proof of global warming? The prime minister replies that global warming is a fallacy and that bushfires had been a part of Australian life for as long as anyone can remember. He poses next to the firefighters for pictures before his PA ushers him back into the chauffer-driven car.

  An old woman, sitting on her verandah, notes to her daughter that the Ancients had long used fire to shape the land, to create abundance, to allow flora to flourish that needed fire to release its seeds, to control the wilderness and to prevent bushfires through back-burning.

  And indeed, soon, the rejuvenation will begin. Little bluebells will appear from cracks in the earth, tiny stark eyes that observe the world as it remakes itself. The immense gallery of black trees will grow new leaves and stand on grass as level and green as felt on a pool table.

  But for now, the fire, with its millions of beating hearts, understands, and will understand, all.

  9

  I’m there early,

  watching the support act

  with Scarlett.

  He is obviously nervous

  and keeps yelling,

  ‘Putcha fucken hands UP!’

  The room has five people in it.

  Scarlett orders two gin and tonics.

  The barman hands her change

  over with a smile.

  It’s a five-dollar note.

  Queen Elizabeth wears a crown of thorns

  and there’s a timebomb on her shoulder.

  Scarlett crushes it into her pocket.

  . . . And here come the lads

  Charged up and gnashing their pearlies,

  kebab-fed thoroughbreds and mongrels

  single file down the club stairs like

  mercenaries,

  stamps drying on their wrists.

  The show is about to start.

  Sin One at first seems more phantom than flesh.

  He emerges from the darkness at the back of the stage,

  slowly.

  He is wearing an oversized hoodie, face full of shadows.

  Then we see the jagged nose and cheekbones lit red by gelled spotlights.

  He moves towards centrestage

  like a latter-day monk or prophet.

  Jimmy nudges me,

  and his teeth glow neon in the blacklights.

  DJ Exit is spinning now, an industrial beat.

  Dirty, bassy.

  His face is rendered masklike by the lights

  but his eyes are feral,

  dancing from the decks to Sin One to the crowd

  then back to Sin One,

  who posits himself at the front of the stage

  and stands rock still.

  He is enormous.

  He pauses,

  then raises his left arm.

  The room is only half full,

  but responds

  with a terrifying, guttural roar like a

  beast in a bear pit.

  The bassline is a deep drone

  but DJ Exit is scratching on top of it now,

  rapier precise.

  Aleks leans over and whispers to Jimmy,

  who nods and takes something from him at thigh level,

  slips it into his mouth with a jerky movement

  then takes a swig of vodka, lime and soda.

  Aleks smiles at him and nods,

  his lips pursed almost flirtatiously.

  Jimmy whispers to me

  but I shake my head.

  Jimmy has a look of absolute concentration

  on his face,

  that could be excitement or terror.

  DJ Exit’s eyes are closed,

  in a trance.

  Sin One has been perfectly still,

  but then his right arm lifts to his face,

  creating a ninety-degree angle.

  At first his flow is a whisper.

  People crane and stretch to hear him.

  Then he begins to snarl and yelp into the mic –

  fast, complex, wordy.

  Despite his speed,

  the crowd is yelling every word.

  He is their god.

  They are moving up and down

  with their arms around each other’s shoulders,

  like a bedsheet billowing.

  There is something i
n his performance

  that seems significant,

  like all the anger and futility and tenderness

  within in him are rising and capsizing in his sea of words,

  bobbing between him and his audience.

  The maimed captain of a shipwrecked generation,

  roaring against certain death.

  His words are respite from the pain,

  futile,

  but respite nonetheless.

  Scarlett turns to the crowd,

  with all their parched lips

  and upturned faces.

  Some people are laughing,

  some are intently focused,

  some are shaking their heads in wonder.

  I must look disturbed,

  because Scarlett asks, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. This is dope. He’s different to what I remember. He

  looks . . . old.’

  ‘Well, it does happen, Solomon. Even to you, baby.’

  I grimace.

  Sin One

  I approach him and he’s arguing

  with the promoter.

  ‘Bro, I didn’t see a single poster around town.’

  ‘There were heaps. And we did online promo.’

  Sin One turns and gives me a tired smile.

  ‘Bro, I’m a massive fan.

  Any chance you can sign this?’

  I say, holding out my ticket.

  ‘Sure. Actually, I’ll do one better than that.’

  He fumbles in his pocket

  and pulls out a crumbled piece of paper.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Solomon.’

  He scribbles on the page and passes it to me.

  It is his set list.

  At the bottom,

  in surprisingly neat handwriting –

  ‘Solomon. Thanks and peace. Sin One.’

  The paper is damp with sweat.

  I look at him and know

  that I’ll never see this man again.

  The end

  The clubbers emerge in a daze

  not wholly induced by drugs and drink.

  The dawn sky is black –

  the rising sun is lipstick red.

  ‘I’d forgotten about the fire!’

  says Scarlett.

  Her arm is linked with mine

  and we look up at the firefighting helicopters

  sniggering overhead.

  Jimmy is laughing, head far back,

  and we smile at him.

  The strange look he had is gone

  and replaced with something

  jubilant.

  Aleks’ eyes are dull with drink –

  a piece of pizza in each hand,

  head moving from one to the other.

  We walk past the late-night

  watering holes and bloodhouses

  that haemorrhage noise and people.

  Scarlett is watching me.

  I catch her eye

  and I can see the end.

  We smile at each other regardless,

  broad and pure.

  We kiss.

  This will end soon, my darling.

  This beautiful, dumb love –

  this will end.

  My Scarlett.

  I look beyond her shoulder

  and begin laughing and pointing,

  eyes full of wonder.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Soon she is the same, though,

  our eyes upwards –

  pointing and laughing

  like farmers seeing the first rain

  in years.

  But it is not rain.

  It is ash,

  the finest black powder

  falling onto our collars and shoulders,

  drifting around us, falling down

  like soot from the grate of heaven.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In memory of Andrew McMillan, Hunter MC, Ollie MC, Auntie Marj and Grandma.

  Above all, I must thank my mother, Helen, for everything.

  Thanks to my father, Musa bin Masran, and my family in Malaysia. Special thanks to my editors Ben Ball, Caro Cooper and Michael Nolan for their insight, patience and sharpness. Extra special thanks to Sophie Cunningham, who lit a fire under me to write this thing in the first place. Thanks to the brilliant Penguin team of Anyez Lindop, Rebecca Bauert, Alex Ross, Adam Laszczuk, Laura Thomas, Andre Sawenko, Rhian Davies, Clementine Edwards, Cate Blake, Nicola Redhouse and Heidi McCourt. Thanks to The New Press team, including Maury Botton, Julie McCarroll, Michelle Blankenship, Ben Woodward and Carl Bromley. Thanks to Fatima Bhutto. Thanks to my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown. Thanks to Cole Bennetts, Kadi Hughes, Simon Cobbold, Sof Ridwan, Karolina Kilian, Kilifoti Eteuati, Sisilia Eteuati, Will Small, David Celeski, Aleksandar Celeski, James Rush, Tristan Gaven, Antony Loewenstein, Joshua King, Bibi Jol, Leanne Pattison, John Mazur, Lamaroc, Tornts, Brad Strut, The Tongue, The Australia Council, Hau Latukefu, Daniel Merriweather, Horrorshow, Mantra, Tom Thum, Newsense, Mohsin Hamid, Christos Tsiolkas, Nam Le, Sarah Tooth, Stephen Atkinson, Luka Lesson, L-Fresh the Lion, Rob Lancaster, Daniel Guinness, Mighty Joe, Sean M Whelan, Raph Dixon, Marksman Lloyd, Big Village, Gary Dryza, Joelistics, Thundamentals, Maxine Beneba Clarke, Emilie Zoey Baker, Polly Hemming, Kate Shelton at Benedict House, and Ali Cobby Eckermann at the Aboriginal Writers Centre: all great advisors, readers and friends.

  Finally, much love and many thanks to you, the reader.

  Omar Musa, Queanbeyan, 2015

  CREDITS

  Lyrics from ‘Life is . . .’ by David Dallas (2011), Dirty Records, Dawn Raid Entertainment and Duck Down Records. Courtesy of the artist.

  Lyrics from ‘Listen Close’ by Horrorshow (2013), Elefant Traks. Courtesy of the artist.

  Lyrics from ‘Animal Kingdom’ by Trem (2011), Unkut Recordings. Courtesy of the artist.

  Lyrics from ‘Face the Fire’ by Jimblah (2011), Elefant Traks. Courtesy of the artist.

  Lyrics from ‘Poison’ by Tornts (2013), Broken Tooth Entertainment. Courtesy of the artist.

  On page 325, the line ‘Now a dog screams from the scrub, his fire fiercer.

  It is coming indeed’ is an interpolation of a line from the bushfire scene in Tree of Man, Patrick White (1955).

  Please note that every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. Anyone with an outstanding claim should contact the Penguin Group (Australia).

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