Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

Solomon squeezes Scarlett’s hand under the table.

‘So how’s Aleks?’ says Grace.

‘Who’s that?’ says Scarlett.

Grace looks horrified. ‘Aleks is Solomon’s best mate. Shame on you Solomona.’ She turns back to Scarlett and shares the gossip in a stage whisper. ‘Aleks is in jail. He’s having a rough trot. This one hasn’t even visited him yet.’

Solomon coughs into his fist. ‘I need a ciggie. Order me the duck laksa, okay?’

He leaves and they can see him pacing on the street, blowing smoke out hurriedly. Grace shakes her head. ‘Samoan men. Useless with their emotions. It was difficult for me to understand as a palagi, until I realised there are some things that we’re not meant to understand. What do you see in that boy, anyway?’

‘Dunno.’ Scarlett looks at him bunching his dreds up and says, ‘Actually, he looks just like my ex boyfriend. First thing I noticed about him.’ She puts a hand to her mouth, seemingly horrified, but Grace nods.

‘I know what you mean. After Ulysses passed, I kept dating men who looked just like him. No one was the same, though. Are you still in touch with your ex?’

Scarlett shakes her head and looks away. ‘So. Aleks.’

‘Aleks is a good boy, a real sweetheart, in a way. A bit of a contradiction, really. Used to cop it hard as a kid. But every morning, he’d be up the stairs to our place, poking his moonface around the door. He’d help me with washing, with shopping. He used to say, “It’s better to conduct business on an empty stomach — it makes a businessman work harder.”’ They laugh. ‘I’d give him a two-dollar coin, and say he’d make a fine businessman once day. Now look. Him, those sons of mine. ’ She looks despondent, then brightens. ‘Maybe you can help Solomona a bit.’

Scarlett shakes her head. ‘I’m not his saviour, Grace. I’m not his —’ She cuts herself short, again realising she may have put her foot in it. This time, Grace looks slightly offended and sips her laksa in silence. Solomon returns.

‘Hope you haven’t been talking about me.’

* * *

Before they know it, it’s nighttime. Grace politely declines drinks and leaves. Fairy lights are strung through the centre of town like neon kelp. Scarlett and Solomon end up at a steamy salsa club, surrounded by Latin Americans doing complicated, sensuous dance moves. Neither of them knows the music, but they start to dance. At first she leans away from the synthetic edge of his cologne; as they move, she can smell his sweat beneath it, and sees his mask falling away, just briefly, his eyes open and dark; then he seems to catch himself and the reserve builds up, then the charm.

She invites him back anyway.

* * *

‘This isn’t a porno, Solomon.’

‘But last time —’

‘That’s what I wanted then. But not now. Slow down,’ she whispers into his shoulder.

Music plays softly, Dwele and J Dilla’s ‘Dime Piece’. They kiss each other’s scars as they make love, seeking them out in the dark, by touch. There’s usually a stillness in his eyes, an unwavering knowingness, but tonight he’s trembling all over, almost shuddering, and his eyes are needy and warm-blooded, terrified and terrifying.

They lie breathing and the biro sketches flap on the wall. He looks to the side and sees that she has packets of medication beneath a desk lamp. He is going to ask her about them, when she says, ‘So what do you think you’ll do with this basketball thing?’

‘Dunno yet.’

‘You’ve never applied yourself to anything, have you?’ she says tentatively.

He’s thoughtful. ‘Nah. Not for a long time.’

‘You can’t carry on with all that macho bullshit if you’re gonna be teaching kids, Solomon.’

‘I know. I know.’ He sucks in a breath. ‘It’s just frustrating. The injury —’

‘That’s in the past.’

He rolls over and faces her. ‘Yeh. I guess it’s not just the injury. It was this huge kind of. feeling of betrayal. It’s stupid. I felt like Dad betrayed me, by dying, then Mum stopped sending the money back to Dad’s village after he died. And then shame at feeling all that. At my body. But this team. It’s a chance to be proud again, maybe.’

‘It is.’ She laces her little finger in his. ‘Maybe you can get funding for it? Shouldn’t be so hard. A local business could sponsor the jerseys.’

‘Now you’re thinking.’ He reaches over and holds up a DVD. ‘I could never get into this. Kinda boring.’

‘You don’t like The Wire ? Shit, boy. You coulda been the one.’

They smile.

The next day in the remand yard, Aleks falls in step with Clint, who is pacing back and forth, smoking. There are high winds, so strong that the men almost lean into the wind diagonally. The fellas behind them are talking about selling the Bupe medicine they have scored from the prison doctor and managed to regurgitate. A skinny bloke is moving swiftly among the pacing feet, picking ciggie butts off the ground to scrounge himself some tobacco.

‘Ah, you’re back, mate,’ says Clint.

‘So. What’s the job?’

‘You strapped for cash?

Aleks keeps his face straight. ‘Nah, just wondering, brother.’

They continue struggling against the wind as Clint speaks. ‘Janeski, you’re straight-edged, you’re a businessman. I know you wouldn’t fuck it up. If you want work, I got a cousin up in Sydney with the rock.’

Aleks nods and they quicken their pace. ‘I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.’

The smell of a barbecue floats to them from one of the other yards, who must’ve spent their buy-up on it. He can’t tell which. Aleks looks through the fence and can see that they’ve been cycled next to the Viet yard. There is an almost military formation around a certain man, who is immaculately put together, hair parted and shining, looking both bookish and stylish. He has his hand to his chin and his nails are trimmed. Aleks wonders if he has known war. He’s quite young, so maybe he came in a boat as a baby. Aleks and Clint stride past.

‘So what else is new, mate?’ says Clint.

‘Dunno. Been thinking I might go back to Macedonia.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Well, you’ll need money for tickets.’

Toby hasn’t worn the jersey the last few days.

I finally ask him about it.

‘I lost it,’ he says.

‘Lost it?’ Some of the kids look around at the sound of my raised voice.

‘Yeh.’ Then he repeats it, like a mantra. ‘Lost it. Lost it.’

I look away, spit, then turn to him and grab him by the shoulders. ‘You’ve got to take more care with other people’s. with your shit.’ It takes all my effort not to slap him.

‘Fuck you, cunt,’ he says and runs away.

I can’t help myself and my voice explodes out of me. ‘Fuck you, too, ya ungrateful little shit.’ He’s already around the corner. I’m almost shaking and even shooting hoops can’t get my mind off him. The other kids watch me as I shoot for a while then slope away. As I’m walking home, Muhammad jumps out from behind a bush, and I throw my fists up straight away. Seeing who it is, I awkwardly rub my hands together then let them hang by my side.

‘Mr Amosa.’

‘Solomon.’

‘Solomon. Don’t be too angry at Toby.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not his fault. His mum gave the jersey to his stepdad.’

‘What? Why? It’s way too small for a grown man.’

Muhammad shrugs and he looks down.

He knows more,

but I don’t press him.

I think of Jimmy’s dad, The Prince,

and stories Mum told me about him.

The torment in those sort of homes