“No thanks, Henry.”
“Don’t blame you, kid.” A short smile at the end of a playful, well-exercised mind. He slapped Tommy’s ear, soft and sure, then grabbed ahold of Clay. “And you—do me a favor.” He gripped his face, a hand each side. “Don’t leave these two bastards behind.”
* * *
—
In the post-car wave of dust, the dog looked at Tommy.
Tommy looked at Clay.
Clay looked at neither one.
As he checked his pocket, there was so much in him that wanted to—to break again, into a run—but with the city splayed out in front of them, and the graveyard by their backs, he took two steps at Rosy, and tucked her under his arm.
He stood and the dog was smiling.
Her eyes like wheat and gold.
She laughed at the world below.
* * *
—
They were on Entreaty Avenue—the great hill he’d just ascended—when finally he put her down. They trod the rotten frangipanis, onto Poseidon Road: the racing quarter’s headquarters. A rusted mile of shops.
While Tommy was aching for the pet store, Clay would die for other places; of streets, and monuments of her.
Lonhro, he thought.
Bobby’s Lane.
The cobblestone Peter Pan Square.
She had auburn hair and good-green eyes, and was apprenticed to Ennis McAndrew. Her favorite horse was Matador. Her favorite race was always the Cox Plate. Her favorite winner of that race was the mighty Kingston Town, a good three decades before. (The best stuff happens before we’re born.) The book she read was The Quarryman.
One of three important to everything.
* * *
—
In the heat of Poseidon Road, the boys and the dog turned eastwards, and soon, it loomed: the athletics track.
They walked till they blended beside it, and in through a gap in the fence.
On the straight, in the sun, they waited.
Within minutes, the usual crowd appeared—boy vultures on a sports field carcass; the lanes were awash with weeds. The red Tartan Track peeled from the surface. Its infield had grown to a jungle.
“Look,” said Tommy, and pointed.
More and more boys were arriving, from all directions of their peak pubescent glory. Even from a distance you could see their sunburn smiles, and count the suburban scars. You could also sense their odor: the smell of never quite men.
For a while, from the outside lane, Clay watched them. Drinking, scratching armpits. Throwing bottles. A few kicked at bedsores on the track—till soon enough, he’d seen enough.
He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and walked to the shade of the grandstand.
Its darkness ate him up.
For the Murderer, it was an embarrassing consolation to find the rest of them in the lounge room—what we often referred to as Tommy’s roster of shithead pets. And then, of course, the names. Some would say sublime, others again, ridiculous. He saw the goldfish first.
He’d followed a sideways glance, over toward the window, where the tank was on a stand, and the fish lunged forward and reeled itself back, butting the sheet of glass.
Its scales were like plumage.
Its tail a golden rake.
AGAMEMNON.
A peeling sticker along the bottom announced him in green marker pen in crowded, boyish lettering. The Murderer knew the name.
Next, on the eroded couch, asleep between the remote and a dirty sock, was a big grey brute of a cat: a tabby with giant black paws and a tail like an exclamation mark, who went by the name of Hector.
On many counts, Hector was the most despised animal in the house, and today, even in such heat, he was curled up like a furry fat C, except for his tail, which was stuck into him like a shaggy sword. When he changed positions, fur flew off him in droves, but he slept on, undiminished, and purring. Someone need only go near him to set the motor running. Even murderers. Hector was never very discerning.
Last, on top of the bookshelf, sat a long, large birdcage.
Inside it was a pigeon, waiting sternly still but happy.
The door was completely open.
Once or twice, when he stood and walked, his purple head bobbed with great economy, he moved in perfect rhythm. That was what the pigeon did, each and every day, as he waited to perch on Tommy.
These days we called him Telly.
Or T.
But never, no matter the occasion, his full, infuriating name: Telemachus.
God, how we hated Tommy for those names.
The single reason he got away with it was that we all understood: That kid knew what he was doing.
* * *
—
A few steps in now, the Murderer looked.
This appeared to be the lot:
One cat, one bird, one goldfish, one murderer.
And the mule, of course, in the kitchen.
A pretty undangerous bunch.
In the weird light, in the hung heat, and amongst the other articles of the lounge room—a used and abused old laptop, the coffee-stained couch arms, the schoolbooks in cairns on the carpet—the Murderer felt it loom, just behind his back. The only thing it didn’t do was say boo: The piano.
The piano.
Christ, he thought, the piano.
Wooden, walnut and upright, it stood in the corner with its mouth closed and a sea of dust on top: Deep and calm, sensationally sad.
A piano, that was all.
If it seems innocuous enough, think again, for his left foot began to twitch. His heart ached with such force that he could have burst back out the front door.
What a time for first feet on the porch.
* * *
—
There was key, there was door, there was Rory, and not a moment to straighten up. Any words the Murderer might have prepared had vanished from his throat, and there wasn’t much air in there, either. Just the taste of beating heart. He was only able to glimpse him, too, for he was through that hallway like a streak. The great shame was that he couldn’t tell who it was.
Rory or me?
Henry or Clay?
It wasn’t Tommy, surely. Too big.
All he’d sensed was a moving body, and now a roar of delight from the kitchen.
“Achilles! You cheeky bastard!”
The fridge opened and shut, and that’s when Hector looked up. He thumped down onto the carpet and stretched his back legs in that shaky cat-like way. He wandered into the kitchen from the other side. The voice immediately changed.
“What the hell do you want, Hector, you heavy heap of shit? Jump on my bed again tonight and it’s all bloody over for you, I swear it.” The rustle of bread bags, the opening of jars. Then another laugh. “Good old Achilles, ay?” Of course, he didn’t get rid of him. Get Tommy to deal with it, he thought. Or even better, he’d just let me find him later. That’d be pure gold—and that was it.
As fast as he’d come in, there was another glimpse in the hallway, a slam of the front door, and he was gone.
* * *
—
As you might imagine, it took a while to recover from that.
Many heartbeats, many breaths.
His head sank, his thoughts gave thanks.
The goldfish butted the tank.
The bird watched him, then marched, end to end, like a colonel, and soon the return of the cat; Hector entered the lounge room, and sat, as if in audience. The Murderer was sure he could hear his pulse—the din of it, the friction. He could feel it himself in his wrists.
If nothing else, one thing now was certain.
He had to sit down.
In quick time he got a stronghold on the couch.
The cat licked its lips and pounced.
The Murderer looked back and saw him in full flight—a thick grey chunk of fur and stripes—and he braced himself and took it. For a moment, at least, he wondered; should he pat the cat or not? It didn’t matter to Hector—he was purring the house down, right there on his lap. He even started happy paws, he butchered the Murderer’s thighs. And now came someone else.
He almost couldn’t believe it.
They’re coming.
They’re coming.
The boys are coming, and here I am with the heaviest domesticated cat in history sitting on me. He might as well have been stranded under an anvil, and a purring one at that.
* * *