Omar Musa: Here Come the Dogs

Jimmy does as the voice says. He’s parched, and when he speaks, it sounds like he has a mouth full of dead bees. ‘The golden people. What were they called?’

The voice doesn’t answer, and all Jimmy can hear is the engine and the wind before the voice speaks again. ‘The thing is, James, the golden people kept walking and along the way the elements tugged at them, their skin, their golden muscles, their bones. And they resisted. For a time. But they were hungry, and knew a thirst you and I hope never to feel. They began to sell pieces of themselves, bit by bit. First it was an eye, then an ear, then a tongue, a heart. Soon it was a free for all. Within no time, all that was left were golden voices on the wind. Turn right.’

Jimmy follows orders, sharply. There is silence and he drives onwards and onwards. The sweat drips down his nose and onto his lips. He hits something, hard, but doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he keeps the wheel steady. The voice speaks again.

‘The second thing you must know is the most important: the truth is not real. Sometimes all we have are questions and no answers. So we make up the answers.’

‘Stop talking to me in riddles. If you are who you say you are, then why can’t we meet in person, face to face?’

‘Because I had an accident.’

‘What kind?’

The voice coughs. ‘I was burned.’

‘How?’

There is a long pause and Jimmy waits patiently before the voice finally speaks again. ’I was living in an abandoned car, somewhere on the coast, could’ve been Port Macquarie, or maybe further north. It doesn’t matter. It was an old Holden, cleaned out by rust and scavengers looking for parts. Two side windows were shattered but somehow the driver’s side windows were intact, as were the seats and roof. During the day, I would walk along the beach. I would get high up on the cliffs and look for changes in the horizon. I saw schools of dolphins. One day I even saw a whale, although it could have been a submarine. Mostly, I just watched the restless sea. I soon began to notice the smallest variations in its moods. It’s the same with music, isn’t it? To a trained ear, the wrong snare on a beat becomes as obvious as the carcass of a dead elephant on a suburban street.’

‘What did you eat?’

‘I caught fish and prized shellfish off the rocks. I ate them raw with seawater. At night, I huddled in a blanket and listened to the thin fingers of rain drumming away on the roof. The rain would wiggle down the window in patterns, throwing shadows, like moving scripture, onto my lap. I swear I could read messages in them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Turn right.’ Jimmy does as he is ordered. The voice continues, as if it hasn’t heard the question. ‘On the dashboard, someone had pinned the photo of a young boy. He was skinny and wearing a Mickey Mouse jumper, staring straight at the camera. The boy seemed so full of longing my heart felt fit to burst. He looked like you, James. Since I had no photos of you, I began to imagine he was. I would tell him jokes, teach him recipes, tell him about my travels, my childhood. I apologised to him, James, I apologised for not being there. I told him I was ashamed.’

Jimmy can feel a bodily presence next to him in the car now. He can smell the sweat and breath of a man. The car is excruciatingly hot and he resists the urge to open his eyes or reach out to touch the man in the passenger seat, whose voice is now only half a metre from his ear. Instead, he drops the phone and takes his foot off the accelerator. The voice keeps talking, alive, present, close.

‘One night, when I was sleeping, I heard voices. I smelled petrol, I saw flames. There were men dancing around the car, laughing, shouting. I nearly died, James. They left me for dead. I don’t know how I got out of the car, but I did. I have burns on most of my body. I look like a fruit that has been peeled and left to harden. That kind of pain is. unbearable. My eyes don’t work, my legs. I am so ugly that I am glad I have no eyes to see. Nowadays, I just lie in bed and dream of rain. Not a light sprinkle, but something heavy and sweet and soulful, silver droplets, fat as coins or bullets. I raise my face and imagine the rain hitting me side on, from above, from below, turning this skin into thick mud that flowers can grow from. But it is a long, long time since any of us have seen rain, isn’t it?’

Jimmy can feel the car slowly coming to a halt.

‘So. That is the how . But you surprise me. You didn’t ask the most important question.’

‘Which is?’

‘ Why ?’

Jimmy clears his throat. ‘Why?’

The voice doesn’t reply. Jimmy lets the car stop. When he opens his eyes, he is facing the lake. He is alone in the car. The bonnet is steaming, as if it just passed through fresh rain.

* * *

He wakes up in hospital, a drip connected to his arm.

‘You’re badly dehydrated, mate. You should stay overnight,’ says a nurse.

‘Nah, nah, I can’t.’

‘You have to.’

‘I gotta feed my dog.’

‘Can you get someone else to do it?’

‘Nah. I have to. I have to. Please.’

She smiles softly. ‘I understand, mate. I can’t live without my dog for more than a couple of hours.’ She pats him on the hand. ‘You’re a nice bloke.’

At the bus interchange, Jimmy comes across a crime scene. The cops are pulling a tarp over a bloke and a woman is crying. A hand is stuck out from underneath the tarp and the cops are shooing people away. One of the younger cops looks scared. Jimmy watches from across the street. He’s never seen a dead person before, besides Ulysses Amosa, waxen and well dressed at the funeral. The arm that sticks out, resting palm up on the concrete, has a tattoo of a swallow on the wrist.

The evening goes from pink to purple to black as he walks home, the night full of shapes and shadows. Jimmy can smell tinder and see the moon through the powerlines, blind and lost. He stumbles forward, as if drunk. When he gets home, he’ll sleep for ages. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll go shopping. Stock the fridge.

In the light of a streetlamp, objects begin to appear: a car, a shopping trolley, a sofa, a jumble of sticks and leaves. He moves forward, as if through a fog, although he’s walked this street so many times before, too many. The Town is a maze, with a beast at its heart, like that ancient Greek story Ulysses Amosa used to read to the boys. Or maybe the Town is a thousand-roomed madhouse, built by a psycho, and somehow he’s meant to find his way out.

A final shape appears in front of him, magically, in the gutter. He runs to it.

He’s crouched in the gutter at first, patting the fine fur. He traces his right hand over the hound’s muscled legs, touches his paws, rubs his thumb on its nose — dry already. His hand rests on Mercury Fire’s belly, which is still vaguely warm, though it could be the sweat from his palm. He shifts his weight and his knees crack like buckshot. He cradles Mercury Fire in his lap then holds him to his chest. The body is almost completely stiff. Lights come threading through the darkness. He’s aware of car horns, and maybe even a person talking to him, but he doesn’t reply. At a certain point, he lies next to the dog, still holding him. Eventually he stands and carries him to his house. The door is open.

He gently places Mercury Fire on the couch and begins to brush him. He sniffs his fur, which is mostly odourless, but now has a tinge of dust. He tries to feed him some water, but it dribbles onto the couch, a spreading stain. He sends signals with his brain, messages of love, but there is no reply now.

He talks to him the whole night.

At dawn, he showers, dresses as if for church, and then takes the hound in a blanket down to the river. He has a shovel. He covers him with dirt, beneath a willow tree. In the morning light he sees a crow land nearby. He shoos the crows away, again and again. Jimmy cries for a long time.