Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

As Solomon walks across the court, Jimmy realises it is not Jarryd but his younger brother Jack.

Jarryd had been Solomon’s nemesis on the basketball court many years ago. He was explosive and cocky, just like Solomon. They said he could dunk over two shopping trolleys and was headed for a professional career. Solomon wanted his blood. A huge crowd had gathered to watch to two wunderkinds face off in the division one finals. Right from the start, Jarryd was having the better game, his six-foot-nine wingspan and vertical leap almost impossible to guard. Solomon gritted his teeth and defended him even closer and was soon forcing Jarryd to make a few errors. In one play, Jarryd went for a lazy fadeaway and Solomon stripped the ball from him and took it up the sideline as Jarryd chased him. Solomon wasn’t to know it was the last time they would ever face each other.

‘Fundamentals, Solomon, focus on the fundamentals!’ his coach yelled from the sideline. Solomon ignored him and went into streetball mode, imagining the blonde hardwood was blacktop. He waited for Jarryd to catch up and get into position in front of him. Then he began to dance. He faked right. Jarryd didn’t bite. He hesitated to the left and Jarryd went for it completely, swiping for the ball. Solomon’s mask dropped, and in a harsh whisper he said, ‘Be a man. Go on, cunt. Get me. Be a man.’ He then crossed it back swiftly, with authority, and felt a surge within himself when Jarryd stumbled, his ankles twisting and unsure. Solomon drove to the hoop, went in for the dunk and, just as he pushed off his left foot, heard a sound as loud as a gunshot and felt the tendon corkscrew up the back of his leg. His world burst into flames.

Now, almost ten years on, with Jarryd playing overseas, his younger brother Jack and Solomon bump fists. If he is wary of Solomon, he doesn’t show it. Jimmy is watching close, completely forgetting Scarlett’s presence. The kids ignore Solomon’s order to keep practising and gather around the side of the court, some sitting, some leaning on each other’s shoulders. Solomon is acutely aware of the audience. This is a test. A song is playing from the speakers — ‘Trillmatic’ by the A$AP Mob and Method Man, which is new but sounds like an early nineties song. It then drops into a Nas medley. The deadly, driving baseline of ‘N.Y. State of Mind’.

From the start, it’s clear that Jack is even more of a prodigy than his brother. He has the sleek moves of a big cat. Solomon doesn’t try anything fancy. A few drives, a couple of shots from the elbow, one particular no-look pass that gets oohs and ahhs from the sidelines. He looks slow and is beaten easily off the dribble. With the game on the line, someone flicks an alley-oop over his head and he jumps but doesn’t come close to touching it. Jack appears on the other end, hovering against the sunset, his hand cupping the ball then crushing it through the hoop. Solomon is shining with sweat.

He gets talked into a second game and this time he’s on Jack’s team. A few people complain but, after seeing that Solomon’s no longer a threat, no one argues too much. His teeth are bared, but not with aggression, just with simple, dumb pain and resilience. He’s warming now, though, enjoying playing distributor, second fiddle to Jack’s flash. The younger man’s razor movements are controlled and precise. The two seem to understand each other and are working together perfectly, separate parts in a mobile. Jimmy feels as if he is a witness to true beauty, an awakening, and Jack seems to feel it, too, having to say nothing, just communicating with his eyes. Solomon executes a pinpoint shovel pass between two defenders and Jack finishes the alley-oop smoothly.

Toby looks proud and Muhammad looks disappointed.

‘Oi! Get back to doing those drills!’

Jack claps him on the back. ‘Shit, cuzzo. You still got those moves.’

‘Nah, man. Has-been. Useless.’ Solomon sounds defeated.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Jack nods at the kids. Solomon slowly nods back. Jack approaches the kids.

‘You listen to this bloke. He was the meanest baller I ever saw. Used to torture my bro, no bullshit. He’ll teach you a lot.’

Toby asks, ‘Why didn’t you go pro, Solomon? Like Jarryd?’

The atmosphere becomes awkward. ‘Dunno. Injury. nah, guess I didn’t have it in me.’

Jimmy can see the look in Solomon’s eyes is one of realisation — didn’t love the game as much as I felt sorry for myself, kid.

* * *

Lightning outside but no rain or thunder, the sky perfectly clear.

Jimmy is lying on his bed, feeling flimsy, a photograph developing in a bath of chemicals. He’s about to fall asleep when his phone rings. Private number.

‘James.’ It’s a man’s voice, distant.

‘Who is this?’

There’s no reply, just something like the sound of wind moaning over a gravesite or a limestone plane. Then there’s complete silence, as if the line has gone dead. Jimmy’s about to hang up, but then the man on the other end clears his throat.

‘Who is this?’ says Jimmy again.

‘James, I’m worried about you. About your future. You have a great honour, but also a great hatred. You think the worst of the world. I know you long to be taken seriously — we all do. But wilfully bearing the burden of hate is no way to live.’

Jimmy recognises the voice. It’s his father’s. But it has a peculiar quality to it, as if filtered through water. It’s deeper and more formal than he remembers it. He does not reply and waits for the voice to continue. There’s a click and it does.

‘If they get recognised, mistakes are an important part of life; they enable us to change. Change in all its forms is unavoidable — peaceful change, violent change, inevitable change, change that cannot be expected at all. I was once standing on a plain facing a mountain. It was full of headless statues. The sky was black, no stars, no clouds, no moon, but I could see everything somehow. Everything was different shades of black. Then I saw a black river moving over the mountain towards me. It was moving very slowly and could only have been a few inches high. In hindsight, I think that river was the river of history. It was perfect and without ripple; it was like glass, and turned the whole plain into a mirror. But there was nothing to reflect in the sky. I heard a moaning and realised the statues were not headless at all. They were living humans; they were every person I had ever met. And we were all trying to move, but the river was up to our ankles, and it was tar.’

The line goes silent again. It sounds like the previous message had been recorded and then played down the phone line. Jimmy laughs. ‘Look man. I have work tomorrow. This shit isn’t funny, ay. Whoever this is —’

‘You know who it is.’ For the first time, it doesn’t sound like a prerecorded message.

Jimmy runs his index finger over his lips, eyes downcast. ‘Well, yeah, if it is, I don’t wanna talk to ya.’

‘I would have thought you’d want to talk to me more than anyone else.’ Jimmy is silent.

‘Tell me, James, do you know how to cook?’

Jimmy’s caught off guard. ‘Um. Nah, normally I just eat takeaway or microwave meals.’

‘Next time we talk, I’ll teach you how to cook a curry.’

Jimmy snorts. ‘Yeh, right —’

The line goes dead.

A shear of sunlight comes through the window, caroms off a mirror and falls onto Solomon’s skin. Scarlett puts her hand on his shoulder and feels a shock of heat and sweat. He doesn’t move. Outside, a kid wheels by on a bike, crushing the scattered casuarina seeds and plums on the pavement. The day is already white hot. A man across the street is buffing a full-colour graff piece. A labyrinth of interwoven pastel letters. Each roll of paint erases them. A woman is hosing down the driveway of her new house, despite the water restrictions. Scarlett switches on her laptop and puts on the acoustic version of ‘You Know Who You Are’ by Oddisee. She turns it down low.