Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

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.

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.