Here Come the Dogs (11 page)

‘Got any on ya?'

A sly smile in return. ‘Course.'

Between trips to the bathroom and more beers, Aleks starts chatting to a man who is selling tickets to a meat raffle. The man, it turns out, is a chiropractor, whose wife beside him is Lebanese. Aleks tries to engage her in a conversation about Islam. He tells her about the Cross Mosque in Ohrid, how when it had been a church it was devastated by earthquakes again and again until the priest had a dream that, if Muslims and Christians could both worship there, it would never fall. ‘The man attached a crescent to the cross and the building has not fallen since. Can you believe that?'

The Lebanese woman tells him she is an atheist but her family is Maronite Christian. Aleks, confused, begins to talk in labyrinths. He taps his fingers on the tray of meat and tells them how you can't get good meat in Australia, that it's full of chemicals and not organic. ‘You can only find good meat in villages. The chicken tastes better in Macedonia. Tender, sweet. Bloody orgasmic. Not just meat, but the chillies, the bananas too.' He counts on his fingers. ‘The air itself, brother, the water!' Eventually he slams a beer on the table and says it's important to believe in God.

The wife smiles awkwardly and the man asks, ‘So how about a ticket in the meat raffle, mate?'

What happens after that is unclear, and unfolds in flashes.

When he comes to, he's floating in water, swallowing it, choking. He sees red and blue lights bobbing all around him and hears a man's voice yelling. He sees his Hilux, nose down, full of water. Then a wooden
fence with a Hilux-sized hole in it. Then a policeman holding up the gym bag. Aleks realises he is in a suburban swimming pool, up to his chest in water, and floating all around him are sausages and schnitzels and steaks. He begins to laugh, madly and with gusto. He doesn't stop laughing, even when they come to take him away.

18

A low, pale dusk.

Jimmy is at the window this time, watching through a chink in the curtains. He has a brick in his hand. He swears he can smell Hailee's moisturiser and shampoo through the glass. Her body itself some kind of unfairness. He examines her throat, her mid-sized breasts, tight under a T-shirt. She looks like she's going to take the shirt off. He leans closer. She's just adjusting the waistband of her gym pants. A glimpse of peach-coloured skin.

When he sees her leave the room, he heaves the brick as hard as he can through the window, like a shot-putter. The window explodes; there is a single shriek and the cascade of glass, but he is already walking away, fast. Fucken bitch. He rounds a corner, crosses a road and walks through the park before looking back. No one has followed him.

He buys a frozen pizza and an energy drink at the supermarket, a headache spiderwebbing on the inside of his skull. He's already forgotten the brick and Hailee. The streets are as silent as a field after a gunshot. Or before one. There seems to be dust everywhere today, but he's not sure where it blew in from. It's in the trees, in the grass, in the gutters. Enough to drown the world.

Be good to have housemates, ay? He rented the duplex for himself because he thought it would be good to have privacy, but he gets lonely. As soon as he opens the door, a beast leaps at him from the dark. He falls on his arse and scoots backwards instinctively. He puts up a hand to push it away but the beast nuzzles up and starts licking his nose.

‘What the fuck?'

Mercury Fire.

The dog licks his face and its alert eye strikes him as compassionate, wise. He wipes saliva off his face and and walks through the house, switching on lights. As each one goes on, it lights up a different feature of the house. The cream carpet, the rack of cassettes he is so proud of (arranged in alphabetical order), his crates of vinyl, the signed Immortal Technique poster and a framed Shem RDC sketch – everything as it should be. Then, in a carved wooden frame, there is the black-and-white photo of a young Ulysses Amosa astride a motorbike, the one he crashed on the sandy roads of Savai'i. Jimmy remembers how Ulysses used to carry him and Solomon around the block, one on each shoulder, until the pain in his bad knee became too much.

Mercury Fire follows at his heels the whole way, excited.

Jimmy hears music from the garage – A$AP Rocky, who he can't stand. The garage is spare but for raw concrete, a Malcolm X poster, a wardrobe and Solomon lying on a bench lifting the weights Jimmy never uses. His shirt is off, his arms still considerably muscled, his skin shining. Once lean and fatless, he now has a small but obvious gut. The expression on his face is one of fury. Jimmy watches with pleasure. This cunt.

Jimmy stares at the Malcolm X poster. It was a present from his biological father. It's Malcolm in his later years with that longer red beard, after he left the Nation of Islam. Jimmy knows that Solomon would say Malcolm X was his personal hero. What a joke. Malcolm X: a disciplined and pious man. Solomon Amosa: a hedonist, a libertine who had lost any sense of discipline to booze, women and MDMA years ago. Solomon told Jimmy that he reckons Malcolm was a great man because he changed and eventually realised the true Islam as one of acceptance and peace. But Jimmy always liked the early Malcolm more – angry,
militant, fuck the white man. When people die young, you don't get to see them become boring old fucks, lose their principles and become sellouts. We'd probably roll our eyes at Malcolm if he was still alive, that 2Pac woulda been a politician or doing Viagara ads or some shit. Better to die young, ay.

Solomon is grunting and breathing hard as he pushes the weights up, sweat lathering his skull. The bassline and 808 drums bounce around the raw concrete. On the last rep he looks dizzy and as though he is scared he'll get trapped under the bar. Jimmy doesn't move to help him. With one last yell Solomon pushes the bar up onto the rack. He sits up and swears, gulping for air. Jimmy's headache is gone now.

‘Hard workout, mate?'

Solomon turns around and sees Jimmy in the doorway. ‘How fucken long you been there?'

‘A while. Looked hard,' Jimmy smiles.

‘Not too bad. Been a while. You give it a go.'

‘Nah. Needa cook dinner.'

‘Of course not, ya gronk.'

Jimmy smiles again as Solomon dries his face on his shirt.

‘You heard that new Maundz?' Solomon says.

‘Nah. Not yet. Any good?'

‘Yeah, bro. Kills it. Mad wordplay.'

Solomon's smug now. Jimmy tries to keep up to date with everything. How did he miss it? ‘There's a new Drapht clip out, but. I seen that,' he says.

‘Oh, true? Didn't see it.' Even though Solomon doesn't like Drapht, he looks crestfallen. Got 'im.

‘You hungry?' says Jimmy.

Something is up. Solomon is unusually fidgety, almost nervous. He pats Mercury absentmindedly, but the dog ignores him and begins sniffing around the garbage bin. Jimmy lets him out into the backyard, puts the pizza in the microwave, sets up his Ipod and Action Bronson comes out the speakers.

‘Bro, I need to ask you a big favour,' says Solomon.

‘Yeh?'

‘I can't look after Mercury anymore. It's doing my farkin head in. Mum's on my case about it everyday. Reckon . . . reckon you could take care of him?'

Jimmy's resentment dissolves. He almost wants to hug his brother. He gets on his computer and googles ‘how to look after a greyhound'. Jimmy looks back at Solomon grinning and sees a vague look of shame on his brother's face turn to relief.

‘This is the best present I've ever got, bar none.' He punches Solomon on the arm. For a moment, whirling movements in his brain are halted, slowed down at least, and he looks through the window and can see Mercury Fire staring right back, head cocked to one side.

‘We gonna take over the world, Mercury Fire,' he yells out the window.

You always know when Solomon is about to leave – he looks for a mirror.

‘I broke up with Georgie today,' he says.

19

On the television,

live from Parliament House.

Damien Crawford.

He is immaculate

in a shark-grey suit

and smiling confidently.

He is talking about the plight of ordinary Australian families.

He says that we need to demand a better standard

of compassion and tolerance from ourselves,

that, as Australia becomes more and more part of the region,

we need a better level of understanding between each other.

Then he stares right at the camera,

right at me,

and says,

‘That is one thing we can all agree on.'

Only a week has passed,

but there is not a single mark on his face.

PART TWO

A red glow pulsed like a barbarous heart.

It emanated from a bark hut that stood on the edge of the limestone plains. A hand that gripped a hammer was black with smoke, and sweat ran down a blackened face. Embers whirled up from white-hot shapes that were being clanged into the wherewithal to create a Town – rakes, spades, tongs, bayonets, rifle barrels.

The fire in the forge burned on.

1

The answer

Allen Iverson retired today,

so I'm in my old 76ers jersey.

the maze braids, the cross braids,

the tatts,    the cool,    the crossover?

I bounce the ball hard, excited,

remembering game one in the finals against the Lakers.

Even though I'm a lot bigger,

I always wanted to play like A.I. –

Scarlett paints her nails coral red,

Forget that now.

All I care about is the court,

Phantom defenders –

Ball –

Body –

I lean against the hoop's supporting pole

with my forearm,

There's graff on it,

nicely mixed red stainer,

letters dripping down like blood.

‘ROZA' I think it says.

Melbourne boys always mixed dope stainer,

I hear a voice.

He's with a mate,

‘Who's this?'

Toby looks at his feet. ‘A friend.' He pronounces it
fwend.

Was he born that way?

‘What's your name, cuz?'

‘Muhammad. I wanna learn that shot,' says the boy with a surprisingly deep voice.

I squint at them.

It's not so hot today and there's a nice breeze.

Why not?

‘Orright. Warm up first. Otherwise you'll bust yaselves.'

I get em to run around the court

I stretch with them.

My muscles feel like rubber bands left in the sun.

‘All right. Layups. Both hands.'

They do that for a few minutes,

Muhammad's a natural –

‘Relax boys. It's just for fun. You boys need more bounce. You should get skipping ropes.'

I slap him on the back –

His house isn't far away.

I stand in the driveway and

as he turns into the govvo flat,

he waves but isn't smiling anymore.

Not a single plant in the yard,

but there are vines growing out of

a washing machine on the patio.

At home,

Working a late shift,

I ice my knees with a bag of frozen peas.

Then, as I shower,

I slowly turn the water from

and it swirls pink at my feet

hot – cold – hot – cold

Letting on

‘I heard like ninety per cent of rappers in NZ are Samoan.'

‘That's true,' she says.

‘I always dug Kiwi rappers.

King Kaps and Che Fu are all-time greats, I reckon.

What ever happened to Scribe? He was dope.'

‘He's around.'

‘My bro Jimmy never liked him,

cos of the accent thing.'

She rolls her eyes,

A constellation of light freckles

over shoulders, cheeks and nose.

She has small expanders in her earlobes,

a subtle nose ring and pristine fingernails.

She's wearing a white singlet

and a gold chain,

and as she twists to the side

I can see a tattoo on her ribs of a sailboat.

She watches me watching her.       We drink.

‘So tell me a story, Scheherazade,' I say at last.

‘Like what?'

‘Where'd you grow up?'

‘Well, until I was fifteen, South Aucks. Papatoetoe.'

‘Like David Dallas?'

She laughs easily. ‘Exactly. My parents owned a dairy. Not heaps of money, but pretty middle class. But my folks always stressed – said that the kids in South Aucks were a bad influence. So when they got enough cash, they moved me away from all my friends, to Parnell, insisted I go to a private school, which I hated. Wanted me to be a lawyer or doctor. Typical Asian father, you know? But then, I started winning portraiture
prizes, and he didn't seem to mind that. Nothing like success to change an Asian dad's mind, I guess. I picked up the tattoo gun at uni – practised it on friends, you know, then for a bit of money on the side, before I got properly registered. I always loved Samoan and Maori tattoos. Even attended some tattooing conventions, and met masters like Su'a Sulu'ape Alaiva'a Petelo.'

‘You said that like an expert. Sure you got no Islander blood?'

‘Nah. Mum's grandparents came from China during the goldrush. Dad's straight from Singapore. You ever been to Auckland?'

‘Nah.'

‘It's the best.'

‘So why'd you leave?'

‘Just . . . things. Became too much.'

‘Things do that. But why Oz?'

She eyes me warily and seems to decide on an answer.

‘I followed a woman here, I guess. Photographer from Sydney I met at a gig. As soon as we got here, I knew it was a mistake. She was so jealous.'

‘My ex was like that. Made me delete all my other exes on Facebook.'

‘Exactly. Same here. But like an idiot, I tried to make it work. One day, I decided I'd had enough. Moved here to the Town.'

‘Good move.'

‘I guess so. Not exactly the Australia I'd dreamed of. Boring, mediocre suburbia, quarter-acre blocks, roundabouts. I wanted red sands and rainforests and highways.'

I roll my eyes. ‘Roundabouts. Always the roundabouts. That's the least of our problems. Plus, it's bloody beautiful here, actually – the lake, the bushland.'

‘Jeez. Relax. Was just saying.'

I'm always talking shit about the City and the Town but hearing criticism from an outsider stings. It's like when I hear people paying out Jimmy – only I'm allow to do that. I let it go, though. ‘So, what were you were saying about your ex?'

She wrinkles her nose and continues. ‘The next few months were hell.
She called everyday, alternating between sweet, morose and threatening, before just stopping altogether.'

‘Did you love her?'

She grins but her eyes squint strangely. ‘Love? Nah. Never been in love.'

‘Me neither,' I say.