Here Come the Dogs (12 page)

2

A rectangle of sky, seamless and cyanic.

A bird hangs against the lidless sun, turns, wheels and turns back before disappearing. Half an hour later, a reef of water-coloured clouds drifts across, then a distant plane, like a fugitive, carving the blue in half with its contrails.

Aleks looks down.

The remand yard is full of men in jailhouse greens, squared off behind chain links and razor wire with barbs as long as an arrow's fletching, sharp enough to chop a line of coke. Past that is the high wall, a century old, patrolled by armoured guards trained to shoot out a man's brainstem if necessary. All around is a murmur, the intermittent thud of ball and boot, the march of pacing feet. Most of the men are in river-like lines, walking briskly as if they have somewhere to be, trying to burn off energy before they head back into their cells.

It is his second day inside. Aleks is at a slight remove from the rest, people he knows from the outside, who are sweating and gritting their teeth against the sun and the exertion of boxing, sit-ups and push-ups, an effort as much about forgetting as penitence. One of them, a raw, bent-nosed petrol station robber, walks over and hunkers down. ‘Hot as fark.'

‘Bloody oath.' Aleks draws a vague swirl in the dust at his feet with the tip of his index finger. He doesn't look up.

‘Chemtrails,' the man says, looking at the white lines dissolving in the sky. ‘Government uses that shit to control us, ay. Like crop dusting'

‘Yeah, probably,' says Aleks. The silence sits.

The man is desperate for conversation. ‘Heard about the terrorists' yard? Crazy cunts. Training like the army in there. Muscly as clouds.'

‘None of my business.'

‘Yair, they're gonna make it our business, but. Wanna kill the infidel, they reckon. Gonna get us all one day.'

‘If they don't, something else will, brother,' says Aleks.

‘That's one way of looking at it.' The man laughs and looks over the yard. ‘First-prize shithole. Number one. Least you get a good feed here, but.'

‘Not holding my breath.'

‘Nah, serious! They feed us well, bro. Lessens the chance of a riot. Heard what's going on out there in Shellfish Bay?'

‘Nah. What's up?' Aleks is interested for the first time.

‘A riot. Abos, Aussies, Lebs, Sudis, Islanders. No one getting along. Hard to tell what the fuck happened. You're not in here long, anyway, ay?'

Aleks wants to ask more about the riots but instead replies, ‘Nah. Not too long.' Thank god for Mr Chuckles.

‘Been in before, haven't ya?'

‘How do you know that?' Aleks says, still not looking up.

‘Dunno. Just sorta . . . ya, know?' The man spits aside nervously. ‘Heaps of people been in before. That's all.'

Aleks turns his moonface to the man and grins, remembering a quote from a movie. ‘You're right. I have been in before. But this time I'm innocent.'

The man guffaws and slaps him on the back, then stands and claps dust off his knees. ‘Aren't we all, ay? Aren't we all. You're a good cunt, bro. You'll be right.'

Aleks had not been afraid when he arrived at the jail and stepped from the paddy wagon. A tiny cold burn of nervousness at first, a little
dampness in the armpits as he was processed and strip-searched. He'd walked high shouldered through the dank, dismal hallway, alert, aware of the ambiguous shapes and voices bouncing off the paint, flitting among the bars of light that filtered in through the roof. An unnamable thrill had run in him as he walked through dark, light, dark, light. Then he'd thought,
This place is ugly.
It has been designed to be hideously ugly. He'd thought of the goodbye, the lie to his daughter that he was going to the Gold Coast for two months for work, her disturbing eyes.

An inmate with a Swastika tattoo strides past in the yard at a distance and nods. Aleks nods back grimly, then looks away. Crouching and standing and smoking discreetly, the inmates are all arranged in attitudes of conspiracy, desperation or malevolence in their listless faces. He studies them, wondering which of this shifting hive could resolve into the shape of an attacker. He cracks his knuckles then erases what he has drawn in the dust.

He claps the dirt off his knees and stands up. Two men are now having a push-up competition. The sun warms Aleks' face and he smiles to himself. In his first day in the remand yard, prisoners began calling out to him, words that moved and clung together in an unrecognisable mass, like bees, before solidifying into two words: ‘Mr Janeski.' And the truth was, as much dirt as he'd done, he'd also done a lot of favours on the street.

He spies a tall, dark figure, alone on the other side of the yard – his cellmate, the Sudanese man.
Did he say his name was Gabe?
He had been very abrupt.
Fuck him.

Aleks had met Gabe the night before, after being ushered into the cell by a massive, dough-faced guard. The cell was old stone, smelling of sweat and Ajax. He placed his stuff in the cupboard before realising there were eyes on him. A very tall black man was lying on his side on the bottom bunk, limbs gathered together loosely like driftwood. Yellowed eyes. Aleks realised he'd never met a Sudanese person before. He offered his hand. ‘Aleks.'

The man took it gingerly and his voice seemed to rumble up from his belly. ‘Gabriel. Gabe.' Then silence.

After a moment, Aleks said, ‘It'll make it easier if we get along, brother.'

Silence and eyes.

‘No worries,' said Aleks, turning back to his belongings. ‘No worries, at all.'

Two months, just two months. It could be a hell of a lot worse.

Aleks had been to jail once before, in Macedonia.

That cascade of events had started on a brisk day in September, in the town square. The wind was fleet-footed, as if it knew that winter was at its heels. Aleks was discussing chestnut-picking with his friends when a man approached and showed him a Yugoslavian pistol with a silencer.

Aleks was only fifteen and had been back in Macedonia for six months, on his father's insistence, and already he was in trouble because of two incidents. One was a fight, where he had beaten a schoolmate badly for making fun of his Aussie-accented Macedonian. The second was graffiti. To get his mind off such things, Aleks walked through the cool gullies and hills – the silent tapestry of trees. There was nothing as beautiful to him as autumn in Ohrid as the leaves were changing colour. Chestnut trees had been planted on either side of a gully and the nuts rolled down to a certain area where they could be collected and then sold for a good price. As breath smoked out his mouth and he told his friends about the chestnuts, he thought of Jimmy and Solomon. He knew neither of them had ever seen snow.

The man's black eyes had an extinguished quality, and the lower half of his face was disguised by a thick beard. He showed them a gun at waist level. It was light, a Zastava M70, easily concealed. The boys admired it and Aleks got a thrill out of holding the silencer, which was as thick as a ballerina's wrist. Aleks handed it back and the man disappeared into the market. Minutes later they heard screaming, and he came back past them over the cobblestones, not looking at them, the front of his shirt bloody as if he'd just slaughtered a pig.

With NATO in town and a peaceful image to uphold, authorities rounded up all local troublemakers and criminals and put them in a big holding cell, especially those who'd been seen in the town square. In the three days inside, Aleks was unfed and thirsty. He was pissed on, made to admit he was a homosexual, forced to walk on hands and knees by the private interrogation company.

All he could remember now was the smell of dozens of bodies, killers and crims, the freezing cold wind that wrapped around his bones like a tongue. And the terror.

3

Relationship and Communication Relationship and Communication Relationship and Communication.

Jimmy mouths the words like a mantra as he puts in eye drops. He hears a drumroll of feet and Mercury Fire bounds in from the other room, turning in circles, jumping up and down. Jimmy holds his shoulders and nuzzles his forehead into the dog's snout, letting the paws pad on his belly. For a moment, man and dog are welded into something misshapen but brand new. Jimmy then says the mantra backwards, grinning into his dog's face.

‘CommunicationandRelationshipCommunicationandRelationship CommunicationandRelationship.'

He lets Mercury into the backyard. ‘Lucky I've got one, ay,' he says aloud, sitting on the stairs and tossing a ball to the far fence. There is a fierce determination in the dog's limbs. His speed and agility have Jimmy shaking his head in wonder. They repeat the activity for twenty minutes before the hound seems to get bored and overheated. Panting, it squats down on the unmown grass to take a shit. Jimmy wraps a plastic bag around his hand, picks up the cigar of turd and sniffs it. The dog watches him with his head cocked. Jimmy talks to him, telling him not
to poo on the floor of the house, as he pours water into an empty ice cream tub. The dog drinks, sloshing it onto the concrete.

He's taken two days off to get used to the hound. Can't believe fucken Solomon kept the poor bloody thing locked up in a flat with their mum, leaving it alone on hot days while he went out chasing women. Jimmy thinks of something he read on the internet. Must've been hard to even get the dog onto the third level. Greyhounds hate stairs.

For the rest of the afternoon Mercury sleeps, so Jimmy cleans the already spotless house, then falls into an internet spiral. He watches a Tom Thum beatboxing video, a B. Two DJing video, Joe New's rappertag, then finds some rare Prowla songs. Hearing the chopped samples reminds him of when he first got into Aussie hip hop and a wave of inspiration hits him. He begins to make a beat on the MPC, but he can't find the right drums. He wonders where Plutonic Lab or M-Phazes get theirs from. After a frustrating hour, he gives up.

He goes back to the computer and scrolls through pictures of his favourite pornstars. At the moment, his favourites are Kayden Kross, Nikki Benz, Christie Mack, Stoya, Rachel Starr and Lisa Ann (in that order). He once even got a response from Christie Mack on Twitter. He's rearranged the list every few weeks since he was fifteen. He stops on one picture and stares at it for a whole minute, imagining that his body has become particulate and is floating through the screen to where Kayden Kross is lying, enamelled fingernail pulling her glossy lower lip down, blonde hair in a perfect swirl. For some reason, today it doesn't turn him on. He bends about his jellied dick for half a minute then has an idea. He types ‘how to pick up a stripper' into Google and finds a blog that gives instructions.

1) Find out her real name

2) Befriend the bouncers

3) Don't look at their tits or pussies when you get a lap dance: look them in the eyes.

He takes note.

He's about to have a nap when he gets a call from Aleks in jail, who asks him if he can take Mila out to play somewhere. He beams at the
responsibility. Aleks had asked him, not Solomon.

‘I'll take her out with Mercury Fire, bra, no worries.'

‘Is it safe around kids?' Aleks sounds distant.

‘Of course, bro. Greyhounds are awesome around kids. In fact —' He's about to launch into a spiel of his newly acquired knowledge but Aleks says, ‘Gotta go,' and the line falls silent. Jimmy looks at his phone and smiles.

That afternoon Mercury Fire shits on the carpet and Jimmy steps in it, the turd squelching between his toes. Jimmy yells and hops on one foot, admonishing the dog, dragging him by the collar and rubbing his nose in his mess. Then he remembers the mantra and he adopts a conciliatory tone as he repeats ‘relationship and communication' again and again, switching delivery and emphasis on syllables like a rapper experimenting with flow. The dog looks betrayed and stares sadly, but Jimmy keeps speaking to him in a soothing, calm tone and the dog is frisky again in no time. Jimmy puts the radio on as he cleans the carpet. A voice says that there have been race riots somewhere down the coast. He recognises the name of the commentator from somewhere – Damien Crawford. ‘In these times of disorder, we need to name people for what they are – thugs.' Jimmy's paying no attention, though, fascinated by the way Mercury is chewing on a rubber bone. ‘You've still got the spirit of a puppy, ay, boy?' he says. The dog looks up and right at him, as if he understood.

He then sets off on the bus from the Town to the City. He walks confidently and with purpose, avoiding the travel agency. He goes to a hardware shop and buys some lengths of PVC pipe, PVC cement, a hacksaw, a hand-drill, and all manner of wood screws, hitch pins and fittings. As he walks back to the bus interchange with his precarious load, Jimmy sees a door open at the community centre where Solomon used to attend b-boy battles. Tables are laden with delicious-looking cakes and curries and he mistakes it for a market or a food fair. Jimmy hasn't eaten anything the whole day. He leaves his load outside the door but, once inside, he realises that it's a local Muslim community's Friday prayers.

He starts for the door but a man gestures vigorously for him to sit down. He pours Jimmy cardamom tea and serves him a piled plate of saffron rice and curry. There are splinters of cinnamon throughout the yellow rice and it smells delicious. The man's name, it turns out, is Amjad. He looks familiar to Jimmy somehow. He says that he is a cabbie, and begins to talk about Australia.

‘This place is biting . . . ah, eating me. Being away from my family. These Aussies, they talk so much, always talking. So lazy, but they get paid so much. This one bastard ask me – which boat you come on? I tell him I come on a plane. I am doctor back in Pakistan. I tell him you think I wanna be here? Driving you around? That bastard left his phone in the cab. He call me, says where is the phone? I tell him, you'll find it on the bottom of the lake, so get some scuba. I threw it in the lake. My cousin tells me he is a cabbie in New Zealand. People are kind, money is shit. Here, the people are arseholes, but the money is good. What a choice.'

Another man sits down and begins to talk to Jimmy about God, about attending next Friday's prayers. Jimmy makes an excuse, picks up his stuff and leaves.

He finds that buses have stopped running and has to pay sixty bucks for a cab from the City to the Town.

The next day he wakes up early remembering he has to pick up Mila at twelve. He cuts the PVC into various lengths and begins to make a baby gate so that Mercury Fire can't get into the living room and mess up the carpet or sofa while he is out. He puts some albums in his CD player – Kings Konekted, Jehst, Fluent Form, Fraksha. He raps along to the albums as he saws, trims, glues and fits the gate, using detailed instructions he found on the internet. A few hours and several albums later, he stands back, dusting his hands off. He coaxes Mercury Fire into the hallway to see it. Mercury observes it momentarily then leaps over it in one bound.

The weather has turned strange.

Still no rain, no clouds, but the sky has been changing colours all day, from wine dark to lemon light and back every hour.

Jimmy knocks on Aleks' door and Sonya answers. Usually she has a smile for him, but today she's out of it, her eyes almost closed and her mouth ajar. He tells her that Aleks wants him to take Mila out and she nods, but he could swear she's sleepwalking.

Having the hound makes hanging with an anklebiter easier. Mila does most of the talking, patting Mercury, her hands fitting between his pointed hipbones. She's a bloody sharp one, heaps like Jana. Jimmy wonders whatever happened to Jana's girlfriend from all those years ago, whose neck Aleks had snatched the bead from. Maybe she went back to Malaysia.

Jimmy pushes his floppy hair back and wipes his hand on his shorts. The park is strangely bare, but for a single tree that stands far off, its branches against the sky like cracks on a plate. A few youngsters in the cricket nets – what a shit sport, ay. Mila throws a tennis ball towards the tree and Mercury Fire goes bounding after it. He retrieves it and drops it at their feet, panting, pink tongue out.

‘What do you do, Uncle Jimmy?'

‘I work in an office.'

‘My dad's never worked in an office. I don't think, anyway.'

Jimmy smiles. ‘Nah, different strokes for different folks.'

Mila mouths the words a few times, as if making sure she will remember to use the expression later. Like father, like daughter. Aleks has a keen talent for mimicry and at times gives off the impression that he had a far greater education than he ever actually had. Much of his vocabulary he cannot spell. In a life of rupture – back and forth between living in Macedonia and Australia several times in his teens – this talent, combined with quick-wittedness, has served him well.

‘Look at Mercury, Uncle Jimmy! He found something . . . Does your dad work in an office, too?'

‘My dad? He was . . . He's a chef.'

She seems uninterested. ‘When's my dad coming back?'

‘Soon. He's working. Your dad is a hard worker – everything he does, Mila, he does it for you.'

She smiles broadly then looks thoughtful. ‘Are you a hard worker, Uncle Jimmy?'

‘Yes. Yes, I am,' he says with more force than necessary.

He looks up and can see a man sitting cross-legged in a flower garden across the road. His face is in shadow. The man is very well dressed, even wearing gloves, watching Jimmy throw the ball to Mila. A bus passes, and when Jimmy looks again, the man is no longer there.