Bridge of Clay Page 3

He hit the hill.

  * * *

  —

  In the beginning it was me who trained him, then Rory, and if I did it with an old-school brand of foolish integrity, Rory bludgeoned but never broke him. As for Henry, he’d made a scheme of it—he did it for the cash, but also because he loved it, which we’ll witness soon enough.

  From the outset, it was straightforward, yet stupefying:

  We could tell him what to do.

  He would do it.

  We could torture him.

  He’d endure it.

  Henry could boot him out of the car because he’d seen a few mates walking home in the rain, and Clay would get out, he’d break into a jog. Then, when they drove past and shouted “Stop bludging!” out the window, he’d run faster. Tommy, guilty as all buggery, would look out the back, and Clay watching till the car dropped out of sight. He’d see the bad haircut getting smaller and smaller, and that was how it was:

  It might have looked like we were training him.

  But really, we weren’t even close.

  Through time the words became less and less, the methods more and more. We all knew what he wanted, but not what he was going to do with it.

  What the hell was Clay Dunbar training for?

  * * *

  —

  At six-thirty, tulips at his feet, he leaned forward, into the cemetery fence. It was nice and high, this place; Clay liked it. He watched the sun, grazing amongst the skyscrapers.

  Cities.

  This city.

  Down there, the traffic was herded home. The lights changed. The Murderer came.

  “Excuse me?”

  Nothing. He tightened his grip on the fence.

  “Young man?”

  He looked over now and an old woman was pointing, sipping her lips. They must have been tasty.

  “Would you mind?” She had shapeless eyes, a tired dress, and she was wearing stockings. The heat meant nothing to her. “Would you mind if I asked for one of those flowers?”

  Clay looked into the deep wrinkle, a long streak above her eyes. He handed her a tulip.

  “Thank you, thank you, young man. For my William.”

  The boy nodded and followed her through the open gate; he navigated the graves. When he got there he crouched he stood he folded his arms he faced the evening sun. He had no idea how long it took for Henry and Tommy to be either side, and the dog, tongue out, at the epitaphs. Each boy stood, slouched yet stiff, hands in pockets. If the dog had pockets, she’d have had her paws in them, too, for sure. All attention was then given to the gravestone and the flowers in front of it, wilting before their eyes.

  “No daisies?”

  Clay looked over.

  Henry shrugged. “Okay, Tommy.”

  “What?”

  “Hand it over, it’s his turn.”

  Clay held out his hand. He knew what to do.

  He took the Mr. Sheen and sprayed the metal plate. Next he was handed the arm of a grey T-shirt and gave the memorial a good rub, a good wipe.

  “You missed a bit.”

  “Where?”

  “Are you blind, Tommy, right there, in the corner, look there, are your eyes painted on?”

  Clay watched them speak, then gave it a circular polish, and now the sleeve was black; the city’s dirty mouth. All three of them were in singlets and old shorts. All three of them tightened their jaws. Henry gave Tommy a wink. “Good work, Clay, time to go, huh? Don’t want to be late for the main event.”

  Tommy and the dog followed first, always the same.

  Then Clay.

  When he joined them, Henry said, “Good cemeteries make good neighbors.” Honestly, his crap was endless.

  Tommy said, “I hate coming here, you know that, don’t you?”

  And Clay?

  Clay—who was the quiet one, or the smiler—only turned, one last time, and stared across the sunlit district of statues, crosses, and gravestones.

  They looked like runners-up trophies.

  Every last one.

  Back at 18 Archer Street, relations were at a stalemate in the kitchen.

  The Murderer backed slowly away, into the rest of the house. Its silence was something awesome—an enormous playground for the guilt to wreak havoc, to work him over—but it was also a deception. The fridge hummed, the mule breathed, and there were more animals in there, too. Now that he’d reversed into the hallway, he could sense the movement. Was the Murderer being sniffed out and hunted down?

  Not likely.

  No, the animals didn’t remotely pose a threat; it was the two eldest of us he feared most.

  I was the responsible one:

  The long-standing breadwinner.

  Rory was the invincible one:

  The human ball and chain.

  * * *

  —

  Around six-thirty, Rory was across the street, leaning against a telegraph pole, smiling wry and rueful, smiling just for laughs; the world was filthy, and so was he. After a short search, he pulled a long strand of girls’ hair from his mouth. Whoever she was, she was out there somewhere, she lay open-legged in Rory’s head. A girl we’ll never know, or see.

  A moment earlier, he’d run into a girl we did know, a girl named Carey Novac. It was just beyond her driveway.

  She smelt like horse, she’d called out hi.

  She’d jumped off her old bike.

  She had good-green eyes and auburn hair—miles of it down her back—and she gave him a message, for Clay. It had to do with a book; one of three important to everything. “Tell him I’m still loving Buonarroti, okay?”

  Rory was taken aback, but didn’t move. Only his mouth. “Borna-who?”

  The girl laughed on her way to the garage. “Just tell him, okay?” But then she took pity, she tilted back, all freckly-armed and sure. There was a kind of generosity to her, of heat and sweat and life. “You know,” she said, “Michelangelo?”

  “What?” Now he was even more confused. The girl’s mad, he thought. Sweet but totally mad. Who gives a shit about Michelangelo?

  But somehow the thought endured.

  He found that pole, he leaned a while, then crossed the road for home. Rory was a bit on the hungry side.

  * * *

  —

  As for me, I was in there, out there, trapped in traffic.

  Around, in front, and behind, thousands of cars were all lined up, all pointed the way of assorted homes. A steady wave of heat came through the window of my station wagon (the one I still own), and there was an endless cavalcade of billboards, shopfronts and people portions. With every movement, the city plowed inside, but there was also my signature smell of wood, wool and varnish.

  I let my forearm poke from the car.

  My body felt like lumber.

  Both my hands were sticky with glue and turpentine, and all I wanted was to get home. I could have a shower then, and organize dinner, and maybe read, or watch an old movie.

  That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

  Just get home and relax?

  Not a Goddamn chance.

  On days like these, Henry had rules.

  First, there had to be beer.

  Second, it had to be cold.

  For those reasons, he left Tommy, Clay, and Rosy at the cemetery and would meet them later, at Bernborough Park.

  (Bernborough Park, for those unfamiliar with this neighborhood, is an old athletics field. Back then it was a crumbling grandstand, and a good car park’s worth of broken glass. It was also the venue of Clay’s most infamous training days.)

  Before Henry got in the car, though, he felt it necessary to give Tommy some last-minute instructions. Rosy listened, too:

  “If I’m late getting down there, tell ’em to hold their horses, right?”
/>
  “Sure, Henry.”

  “And tell them to have their money ready.”

  “Sure, Henry.”

  “Are you right with the ‘Sure bloody Henrys,’ Tommy?”

  “I’m right.”

  “Keep going like this and I’ll put you out there in front of him as well. Do you want that?”

  “No thanks, Henry.”

  “Don’t blame you, kid.” A short smile at the end of a playful, well-exercised mind. He slapped Tommy’s ear, soft and sure, then grabbed ahold of Clay. “And you—do me a favor.” He gripped his face, a hand each side. “Don’t leave these two bastards behind.”

  * * *

  —

  In the post-car wave of dust, the dog looked at Tommy.

  Tommy looked at Clay.

  Clay looked at neither one.

  As he checked his pocket, there was so much in him that wanted to—to break again, into a run—but with the city splayed out in front of them, and the graveyard by their backs, he took two steps at Rosy, and tucked her under his arm.

  He stood and the dog was smiling.

  Her eyes like wheat and gold.

  She laughed at the world below.

  * * *

  —

  They were on Entreaty Avenue—the great hill he’d just ascended—when finally he put her down. They trod the rotten frangipanis, onto Poseidon Road: the racing quarter’s headquarters. A rusted mile of shops.

  While Tommy was aching for the pet store, Clay would die for other places; of streets, and monuments of her.

  Lonhro, he thought.

  Bobby’s Lane.

  The cobblestone Peter Pan Square.

  She had auburn hair and good-green eyes, and was apprenticed to Ennis McAndrew. Her favorite horse was Matador. Her favorite race was always the Cox Plate. Her favorite winner of that race was the mighty Kingston Town, a good three decades before. (The best stuff happens before we’re born.)

  The book she read was The Quarryman.

  One of three important to everything.

  * * *

  —

  In the heat of Poseidon Road, the boys and the dog turned eastwards, and soon, it loomed: the athletics track.

  They walked till they blended beside it, and in through a gap in the fence.

  On the straight, in the sun, they waited.

  Within minutes, the usual crowd appeared—boy vultures on a sports field carcass; the lanes were awash with weeds. The red Tartan Track peeled from the surface. Its infield had grown to a jungle.

  “Look,” said Tommy, and pointed.

  More and more boys were arriving, from all directions of their peak pubescent glory. Even from a distance you could see their sunburn smiles, and count the suburban scars. You could also sense their odor: the smell of never quite men.

  For a while, from the outside lane, Clay watched them. Drinking, scratching armpits. Throwing bottles. A few kicked at bedsores on the track—till soon enough, he’d seen enough.

  He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and walked to the shade of the grandstand.

  Its darkness ate him up.

  For the Murderer, it was an embarrassing consolation to find the rest of them in the lounge room—what we often referred to as Tommy’s roster of shithead pets. And then, of course, the names. Some would say sublime, others again, ridiculous. He saw the goldfish first.

  He’d followed a sideways glance, over toward the window, where the tank was on a stand, and the fish lunged forward and reeled itself back, butting the sheet of glass.

  Its scales were like plumage.

  Its tail a golden rake.

  AGAMEMNON.

  A peeling sticker along the bottom announced him in green marker pen in crowded, boyish lettering. The Murderer knew the name.

  Next, on the eroded couch, asleep between the remote and a dirty sock, was a big grey brute of a cat: a tabby with giant black paws and a tail like an exclamation mark, who went by the name of Hector.

  On many counts, Hector was the most despised animal in the house, and today, even in such heat, he was curled up like a furry fat C, except for his tail, which was stuck into him like a shaggy sword. When he changed positions, fur flew off him in droves, but he slept on, undiminished, and purring. Someone need only go near him to set the motor running. Even murderers. Hector was never very discerning.

  Last, on top of the bookshelf, sat a long, large birdcage.

  Inside it was a pigeon, waiting sternly still but happy.

  The door was completely open.

  Once or twice, when he stood and walked, his purple head bobbed with great economy, he moved in perfect rhythm. That was what the pigeon did, each and every day, as he waited to perch on Tommy.

  These days we called him Telly.

  Or T.

  But never, no matter the occasion, his full, infuriating name:

  Telemachus.

  God, how we hated Tommy for those names.

  The single reason he got away with it was that we all understood:

  That kid knew what he was doing.

  * * *

  —

  A few steps in now, the Murderer looked.

  This appeared to be the lot:

  One cat, one bird, one goldfish, one murderer.

  And the mule, of course, in the kitchen.

  A pretty undangerous bunch.

  In the weird light, in the hung heat, and amongst the other articles of the lounge room—a used and abused old laptop, the coffee-stained couch arms, the schoolbooks in cairns on the carpet—the Murderer felt it loom, just behind his back. The only thing it didn’t do was say boo:

  The piano.

  The piano.

  Christ, he thought, the piano.

  Wooden, walnut and upright, it stood in the corner with its mouth closed and a sea of dust on top:

  Deep and calm, sensationally sad.

  A piano, that was all.

  If it seems innocuous enough, think again, for his left foot began to twitch. His heart ached with such force that he could have burst back out the front door.

  What a time for first feet on the porch.

  * * *

  —

  There was key, there was door, there was Rory, and not a moment to straighten up. Any words the Murderer might have prepared had vanished from his throat, and there wasn’t much air in there, either. Just the taste of beating heart. He was only able to glimpse him, too, for he was through that hallway like a streak. The great shame was that he couldn’t tell who it was.

  Rory or me?

  Henry or Clay?

  It wasn’t Tommy, surely. Too big.

  All he’d sensed was a moving body, and now a roar of delight from the kitchen.

  “Achilles! You cheeky bastard!”

  The fridge opened and shut, and that’s when Hector looked up. He thumped down onto the carpet and stretched his back legs in that shaky cat-like way. He wandered into the kitchen from the other side. The voice immediately changed.

  “What the hell do you want, Hector, you heavy heap of shit? Jump on my bed again tonight and it’s all bloody over for you, I swear it.” The rustle of bread bags, the opening of jars. Then another laugh. “Good old Achilles, ay?” Of course, he didn’t get rid of him. Get Tommy to deal with it, he thought. Or even better, he’d just let me find him later. That’d be pure gold—and that was it.

  As fast as he’d come in, there was another glimpse in the hallway, a slam of the front door, and he was gone.

  * * *

  —

  As you might imagine, it took a while to recover from that.

  Many heartbeats, many breaths.

  His head sank, his thoughts gave thanks.

  The goldfish butted the tank.

  The bird wa
tched him, then marched, end to end, like a colonel, and soon the return of the cat; Hector entered the lounge room, and sat, as if in audience. The Murderer was sure he could hear his pulse—the din of it, the friction. He could feel it himself in his wrists.

  If nothing else, one thing now was certain.

  He had to sit down.

  In quick time he got a stronghold on the couch.

  The cat licked its lips and pounced.

  The Murderer looked back and saw him in full flight—a thick grey chunk of fur and stripes—and he braced himself and took it. For a moment, at least, he wondered; should he pat the cat or not? It didn’t matter to Hector—he was purring the house down, right there on his lap. He even started happy paws, he butchered the Murderer’s thighs. And now came someone else.

  He almost couldn’t believe it.

  They’re coming.

  They’re coming.

  The boys are coming, and here I am with the heaviest domesticated cat in history sitting on me. He might as well have been stranded under an anvil, and a purring one at that.

  * * *

  —

  This time it was Henry, wiping hair from his eyes and walking purposefully to the kitchen. For him it was a lot less hilarious, but certainly no more urgent:

  “Yeah, good one, Achilles, thanks for the memories—Matthew’s sure to blow another stack tonight.”

  Would I ever!

  Next he opened the fridge, and this time there were some manners. “Can you just move your head there, please, mate? Thanks.”

  He clinked, reaching and lifting, throwing beer cans into a cooler—and soon he was on his way again, bound for Bernborough Park, and the Murderer, again, remained.

  What was going on here?

  Could no one intuit the killer?

  No, it wasn’t going to be that easy, and now he was left, this time crushed on the couch, to contemplate the term of his natural invisibility. He was caught—somewhere between the relief of its mercy and the shame of its impotence—and he sat there, simple and still. Around him, a cyclone of loose cat hair whirled in the evening light. The goldfish resumed its war with the glass, and the pigeon hit full stride.