Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

and bunches her hair with them,

then bites me,

almost to collarbone.

She says ‘Solomon’

and I say ‘Scarlett’,

at exactly the same time.

We turn to steam.

My breathing rights

and I turn away,

like I always do,

always have,

waiting for something

that this time,

I don’t hear.

The moon outside

the size of a bullethole.

We have sex again

and this time our skin stays cold,

and after several minutes,

she pushes me away.

She leaves soon after,

silently,

but I can still feel her eyes on me,

as if she is watching me

through a bullet hole moon.

* * *

I head fake an imaginary defender,

spin down the sideline

and launch the ball from deep.

I didn’t judge the angle properly,

so the ball hits the side of the backboard

and comes straight back to me.

The whole backboard shudders.

Who is Scarlett?

What is this?

Mercury is chasing something

down near the train tracks.

More noise complaints Mum reckons.

I think of the greyhound killer in Wollongong

with the bolt gun.

The kid’s there again,

back against the fence.

He’s not smiling this time,

just watching,

eyes full of longing.

I ignore him,

and practise a Dirk Nowitzki fadeaway,

one-footed,

kicking out with the other for better balance,

narrating my moves in my head.

‘There’s ten seconds left on the clock.

Amosa’s got the ball,

the crowd is on its feet.

He’s sizing up Jarryd Hooper,

biding his time,

fakes left, spins right,

he shoots. ’

A train clacks past

and I make sure to put on

a little show for the passengers,

launching the ball from deep.

Splash.

‘HE SCORES! AMOSA WINS THE GAME!’

I reach down and pinch my ankle.

The scar tissue is still thick.

I grimace,

remembering the gruesome surgery,

not being able to walk,

the constant pain.

A text from Georgie –

I see you moved on pretty fucken quickly.

Delete.

Bounce, bounce.

Flick.

Forty minutes later,

the boy is still there.

I sigh,

pass the ball to him

and he jumps up.

He starts shooting,

sometimes hitting the backboard,

sometimes airballing it.

His shot is flat and has no arc.

He’s clumsy but springylean –

a bit of strength

for someone his age.

I take the ball and wordlessly show him

how to hold it,

the straight extension of the arm,

the flick of wrist.

He nods and I pass the ball back.

He nails the next shot.

Finally I talk to him.

His name is Toby.

Aleks is early. He likes to be early.

He’s in the carpark of Macca’s, eating chicken nuggets, waving at little bush flies with his spare hand. He dips the nuggets in barbecue sauce and feeds them into the side of his mouth, chewing slowly. Then a cheeseburger and large fries. On the radio, a man with a nasal voice is talking about a new pop song. Why do Aussie radio DJs always have the most bogan names? he wonders. ‘G’day, listeners! It’s Midday Madness with Kelly and Simmo on 103.7.’ Aleks changes station and finds himself nodding along to a shock jock. He sips his Coke down to the ice. In front of him is a hedge blooming with wrappers and crushed cups. Beyond that, shimmering in the heat, is outer suburbia, that great maze of hidden monsters and freaks.

Some petrolheads are hanging out on the bonnet of a Supra, incongruously eating soft-serve cones, their biceps weighty but ineffective machinery. They all wear black singlets, snap-pants and gold chains, a baseline bleeding from the boot. One throws French Fries to pigeons. Another throws rocks to frighten them away.

Aleks rolls the blue bead between forefinger and thumb.

Wil turns up and climbs into Aleks’ passenger seat. He’s a well-built Fijian lad with a red kiss tattooed on his neck, just above his ex-girlfriend’s name. Dumb cunt. He’s got a new tattoo on the other side, the postcode of the Town, crusty and flaking. He’s a big boy, obsessed with MMA, but Aleks knows that he lacks balls. If it came down to it, this motherfucker would wilt like baby spinach in hot butter. Between mouthfuls of a burger, he talks about his newborn, also called Will, but the extra ‘L’ is crucial. Wil’s real name is Wilfred — something he is deeply embarrassed about and tries to keep a secret. Aleks only knows cos he once saw his passport. He wonders if Wil can speak Fijian and why he didn’t call his baby something completely different if he hates his own name so much. He concludes that people are mysteries.

‘She’s driving me crazy, bro, seriously. Wants this, wants that. New clothes, perfumes. You’re farkin kidding me! Sending me bankrupt.’ Wilfred spits out a pickle in disgust.

‘Ah, you gotta give it to em sometimes, brother. Show em you care, you know? Love is one and the same as loyalty,’ says Aleks. The unspoken corollary is that it must be proved, again and again, through gifts, vocal affirmation, extreme violence.

‘Yeah, but I’ve got this new place now, ay? Landlord is a cocksucker, bro, I’m telling ya. Nice bloke, but a cocksucker. Puts the rent up all the time, bro. You’re farkin kidding me.’ He keeps talking and Aleks fades out. He’s thinking about Sonya, at home, catatonic from Xanax. He wishes he could tell the boys, but has too much pride for that. Her problem had started long ago, when she had given birth to Mila. She suffered from severe post-natal depression, and hadn’t been the same since. Maybe he should ask a woman what to do. But who? He doesn’t know that many, besides the ones in his family, and he doesn’t want them to know either. No, a long holiday would give her time to recover, get back to how she used to be.

Wil is now talking about a new video game. Aleks has never liked video games or computers. For nerds and fat cunts, he reckons. Better to be outdoors. And violence on a screen could never equate to the real thing. Wil is gesticulating expansively and is wearing a childish grin. Aleks decides that he might be soft, but he is good-hearted. Dumb and good-hearted — a terrible combo.

A white guy, Dave, pulls up next to them in a Holden driven by another man. Dave has the lean look of a starving mongrel, and when he smiles, it’s sardonic and without kindness. Yellow teeth, oily skin, no sense of loyalty, no honour, no culture — Aleks can’t stand him, thinks he is trash. Aleks can tell that Dave is thinking exactly the same about Aleks, that he is unworthy of Australia, a stain that can’t be removed, a necessary evil. At least the cunt fears me, thinks Aleks.

Aleks and Wil climb into Dave’s car. The driver is Dave’s brother, a good-looking white boy, who says nothing. Wil talks the whole time, still munching a burger, spraying flecks of cheese and meat patty everywhere. Aleks cringes when Kelly and Simmo introduce a new song on the radio. In the song, a man sings about meeting the woman of his dreams, then losing her in unexplained circumstances. He sings of searching the earth for her but never finding her, only signs of her presence: in shopfronts, in clouds, in trees.

The men arrive at the house. It has a simple facade, paint peeling, fibreglass roof. There’s a tyre swing, an oleander bush, some broken gnomes and an old hose in the front yard. The door is unlocked and they enter without knocking.

It’s filthy inside. The floor is hard to see beneath the food wrappers and pizza boxes, bottles and chicken bones. A half-dismantled Harley Davidson sits in one corner, surrounded by parts. Two small children are sitting on the floor, stupefied. They barely look up when the door opens, and Aleks can smell them from the doorway. A man is lying on the couch and starts when he sees the men enter. He has long black hair and a sweaty singlet.