When Dogs Cry Page 4

  Like always, Steve was pretty quick to come down once we arrived at his apartment. He was on the balcony, raised his head, and next thing, he was with us, keys in hand. Steve's never been late for a single thing in his life.

  He chucked his gear in the boot and we left.

  We took Cleveland Street which is always a bit choked, even on Sundays, and the radio was quiet as Steve drove. People cut him off and buses pulled out in front of him, but nothing moved him. He never blew the horn or yelled. To Steve, such things were irrelevant.

  It was good for me to be at the ground at Maroubra that day. It was good to watch Steve and his ways. Just like the words I'd been writing made me feel and see things differently, it also gave me a greater curiosity. I wanted to see the way people moved and spoke and the reactions they were given. Steve was a good person to take notice of.

  There was a rope fenced around the field and from where Sarah and I stood, I could see Steve approach the other members of his team. Every one of them looked his way and said something very briefly. Only one or two spoke with him longer. He stood at the edge of them and I could tell he wasn't close with them. With any of them. Yet, they liked him. They respected him. If he wanted it, he could have laughed with them and been the one that everyone listened to.

  But it meant nothing there.

  Not to Steve.

  In the game though, when he said he wanted the ball, he would get it. When something big was needed, Steve would do it. In the easy games the others would shine, but when things were hard, Steve was there, even if it was on his own.

  They got ready and there was a lot of shouting and carrying on from both dressing sheds and both teams ran out. Steve was the captain of his team, and like I thought he would, he spoke a lot more on the field. Never yelling. I could just always see him mentioning something to another player or telling him what he had to do. Each one listened.

  It was three o'clock when the game started.

  The crowd was pretty big, with most of them drinking beer or eating pies or both. Many of them shouted things out, often losing food or spit from their mouths.

  As was often the case, there was a brawl in the first few minutes, which Steve stayed right out of. There was a guy who leapt up and hit him around the throat, and everyone ran in. Punches collided with skin and fists were cut up on teeth.

  Steve only got up and walked away.

  He crouched down.

  He spat.

  Then he got up, took the penalty and ran twice as hard.

  They called his name incessantly.

  'Wolfe. Watch Wolfe.'

  They would send a few guys to take care of him every time, making sure to hurt him.

  Each time Steve returned to his feet and kept going.

  It made Sarah and me smile, as Steve sliced through them a few times and set up other people to score. By half-time, his team was well in front. It was late in the second half when the importance of the day occurred.

  The sky was heavy grey and it was about to rain.

  People were huddling now, in the cold.

  A slippery wind was sliding across the air.

  Kids kicked a ball and chased it behind us, with tomato sauce glued to the corner of their mouths, and scabs on their knees.

  Steve was lining up a shot at goal from as far out on the field as you could get, right where the opposition supporters stood.

  They mocked him.

  Swore at him.

  Told him he was useless.

  As he moved in to kick the goal, a can of beer was thrown at his head. Beer flew out of it and the can slapped my brother on the side of his face.

  He stopped.

  Mid-step.

  He froze.

  In no rush, he bent down, picked up the can and studied it. He turned to the group where it came from, who were quiet almost immediately, and without looking at them again, he gently placed the can on the ground, out of the way, and lined the kick up again.

  The crowd watched as Steve moved in and kicked the ball.

  It rose up and soared through the posts, and Steve turned to face the people at his side. He stared at them for a few seconds, then returned to the game, leaving the beer can, half-full, half-empty and half-hearted as it lay abandoned next to the sideline.

  As I watched the end of the incident, I couldn't help but notice that Steve's stare wasn't angry in any way. If anything, it was amused. He could have done anything he wanted. He could have said anything. He could have spat at them or hurled the can right back at them.

  But that was something they could have done just as easily.

  There was no way they could have walked in again, taken the shot, put it straight through the middle and then stare as if to say, 'Well? Have you got anything else for me?'

  That was how he beat them.

  That was how he won.

  He did the only thing they weren't capable of themselves.

  When I realised that, I smiled. I even laughed, which made Sarah laugh, and we were the only people laughing at the whole ground. For everyone else, the game went on.

  The game went on, the rain held off, and Steve's team won by a country mile.

  When it was over, he said his goodbyes and that maybe he'd go for a drink with the other players, though everyone knew he wouldn't. They knew. He knew. I knew. We were going home.

  There was more silence in the car than anything else, and I don't know about Steve or Sarah, but I couldn't stop thinking about the thrown beer can. I kept seeing the ball soar through the posts and the content stare on Steve's face. Even when Sarah reached for the dashboard and sang with the radio, it was the memory of that stare which spoke loudest through my mind. His face was the same now as he drove, and in some strange way, I think Steve was also thinking about it. I was even expecting him to smile, but he never did.

  Instead, we were all pretty quiet, until Steve dropped us home.

  'Thanks,' Sarah said.

  'No worries. Thanks for coming.'

  As I was about to get out of the car myself, Steve stopped me.

  He stopped me with 'Cam?'

  'Yeah?'

  He looked into the mirror and I could see his eyes as he talked to me.

  'Just hang on a minute.'

  This had never happened before so I was unsure of what to expect. Would he tell me what the stare had meant, or how it felt to make those people look so stupid? Would he give me a guide on how to be a winner?

  Of course not.

  Or, at least, not like that.

  His eyes were soft and honest as he spoke and it was strange for me to be feeling this way about Steven Wolfe.

  He said, 'When I was your age, there were these four other blokes who beat me up. They took me round the back of a building and beat me up for some reason I'll never know.' He stopped a moment and he wasn't emotional in any way. He wasn't telling me some sob story about how other kids hated him and this was why he'd turned out the way he did. He was just telling me something. 'When I was lyin' there, all crumpled up, I vowed that each one of them was going to get his share of what they all did to me. I went over it in my mind and thought about what I wanted to do. Every morning, every night; and when I was ready, I went to them, one by one, and beat the absolute crap out of them. By the time I'd got to three of them, the last one tried to make peace.' The eyes sharpened a little, remembering. 'I bashed him too, even better than the other three.'

  He stopped.

  He stopped talking and I waited for more, until I realised that was it, and I nodded to my brother.

  At the eyes in the mirror.

  For a moment, I wondered, Why is he telling me this?

  He didn't look proud or happy. Maybe just that same expression of contentment as before. Or maybe he was just glad he'd told somebody, because it sure didn't seem like he'd tell a whole load of people what he'd just told me. I couldn't be sure. As usual.

  Finally, when I got out of the car, I wondered if anyone knew my brother. I wondered if Sal knew h
im.

  I just knew that Steve was talking to me that day and it felt okay.

  No, it felt good.

  When he left, I waved to him but he was already halfway up the street. In the house, Octavia was sitting in our kitchen.

  Rube wasn't.

  They were as good as over.

  She looked beautiful.

  alley boys

  There must be thousands of alleys in here, in this city of my mind.

  Dark alleys everywhere.

  In each one of them there are people fighting, cutting each other down and placing punches and kicks to bodies that have already fallen.

  We go past each one, watching and learning that some people are beaten down for good, and that some get up and keep fighting . . .

  Finally, we arrive in an alley that's empty. It's alone and uncaring, and a slight breeze wades across the floor of it. It whispers to the rubbish, then picks it all up and moves it along.

  Just like I have been.

  Right now.

  By this dog.

  He skulks away as a group of young men enter the alley.

  Only their footsteps speak as they approach me and throw me immediately to the ground. They level their fists and feet at my face, and at my body.

  My ribcage shatters.

  My heart fights to stay in.

  I look to the dog, pleading for help, but nothing arrives.

  The help's already here.

  It's in the hands, the feet, the breath-covered voices of my attackers, and when they leave, they step over me and walk back up the alley as if nothing has happened.

  My blood runs.

  The road is cold.

  The dog shows up above me, looking down. He makes me think of all the other beaten down people in the alleys. All the winners. All the fighters. All the losers. And all the ones that refuse to lie down.

  He waits.

  He watches me.

  It takes a while, but I get to my feet.

  I look at him--a decision has to be made.

  Desire reaches through me.

  It fills me up.

  Spills over.

  It catches fire in my eyes and I look up through the alley. I start walking across the pain, deciding all the time. Choosing. Knowing.

  Telling the dog that I'll fight.

  With desire written in my eyes.

  6

  THREE WORDS:

  God damn Miffy.

  I wasn't really in the mood for walking him, especially when I had to wait around quite a while for Rube.

  At first, I sat in the kitchen with Octavia.

  She didn't look too impressed with things, considering she and Rube were supposed to be going out that afternoon. It must have slipped Rube's mind. At least, that was what I told her. Me though? I knew. Rube was away from her on purpose. I'd seen him do this before.

  Come in late.

  Argue.

  Tell them he doesn't need this garbage.

  It was a pretty good technique for Rube. He didn't mind being the villain.

  There were leftovers on offer, but Octavia didn't stay for them. I walked out with her and we remained on the front porch a while, talking, and even managing to laugh now and then.

  I took off my jacket and offered it to her. She accepted it, and soon after she said, 'It's warm, Cam.' She looked just past me. 'It's the warmest I've felt for a while . . .'

  In a way, I hoped she wasn't just talking about the jacket, but it was better not to think like that. When you think like that, you end up standing outside people's houses, waiting for something that never comes.

  Either which way, she gave it back when we walked down to the gate and I opened it for her.

  The moon was stuck to the sky and Octavia said, 'There's no point coming back really, is there?'

  'Why?' I replied.

  'Don't why me Cameron.' She looked away and glanced back. 'It's okay.' Even when she leaned onto the gate with her hands and her voice became unsteady, Octavia looked great, and I don't mean that in a dirty kind of way. I just mean that I liked her. I felt sorry for her, and for what Rube was doing to her. Her eyes smiled at me, for just a moment. One of those hurt smiles a person gives you, to let you know they're okay, even though they're far from it.

  After that, she left.

  When she was just past the gate, I asked, 'Octavia?'

  She turned around.

  'Y' gonna come back?'

  'Maybe,' she smiled. 'One day.'

  She walked along our street and it really did look like she was walking through a soul, and she was tough and lovely and okay. For a few seconds, I hated my brother Rube for what he was doing to her.

  Also, watching her walk slowly up our street, I remembered what Rube had said about her and him following me one day when I walked over to Glebe and stood outside Stephanie's house. I could clearly see the image of Octavia and Rube looking at me. Looking at me looking. She must have thought I was pathetic. A bit of a lonely bastard, as Rube put it. Maybe now, as she walked up the street, she knew how I felt.

  Somehow though, I understood that it was thoughts of Rube that filled her. Not thoughts of me. Maybe she was thinking of his hands on her, touching her, taking her. Having her. Maybe it was laughter she remembered, or the words of a conversation. I would never know.

  He came in late for dinner and the old man gave him a good serve for it, as well as for leaving Octavia out to dry. I made sure to keep out of it. All I did was walk out the door once Rube was finished eating, to get Miffy.

  It was cold outside and I wasn't in the mood.

  Not after that.

  The air was cold enough for us to wear our hoods indefinitely, and to watch the smoke pour from our mouths when we breathed.

  Smoke came from Miffy's mouth too, especially when he had a bit of a coughing fit. That was when we quickened the pace for home.

  Later, we watched TV.

  I looked over at my brother. He could sense it.

  'What?' he said.

  I was on the couch and Rube was in the worn-through chair.

  'Is Octavia gone?'

  He looked.

  First away. Then back at me.

  Yes.

  That was the answer and Rube knew he didn't have to say it. I knew he didn't have to say it.

  'There a new one?'

  Again, he didn't have to answer.

  'What's her name?'

  He waited a while, then said it. 'Julia . . . But relax, Cam--I haven't done anything yet.'

  I nodded.

  I nodded and swallowed and I wished hard that it didn't have to be this way, for Octavia. I couldn't have cared less about Rube at this point. I thought only of the poor girl, and I thought of a time a few years ago when Sarah got dumped by this one particular guy. I remembered how shattered she was, especially when she found out that there was another girl.

  Rube and I hated the guy who did that.

  We wanted to kill him.

  Rube especially.

  Now that guy was Rube.

  For a moment, I nearly mentioned it, but all I did was sit there stupidly and look at Rube's face, side-on. There was no remorse in him. Almost no trace of thought about what he was doing.

  Julia.

  I could only wonder what she'd be like.

  The only problem for Rube was that Octavia wanted to find out for sure, so she came over again during the week.

  They went out to the yard, and after a few minutes, she came back through the house on her own. When she saw me, she said, 'I'll see you Cameron,' and again, she gave me that courageous smile--the one I saw the other night. Only this time, her green eyes were soaked more definitely, the water rising higher, only just managing not to fall out. She gathered herself and we stood in the hall and she said one last time, 'I'll see you round.'

  'No you won't,' and I smiled back at her. We both knew that people didn't see Cameron Wolfe--at least not unless they walked through the streets of the city a lot.

  This time,
when she left, she told me not to come out, but secretly, I stood on the front porch and watched her disappear.

  'I'm sorry,' I whispered.

  I figured that was the last time I'd ever see Rube's girl Octavia.

  I was wrong.

  walk on

  I'm cold now.

  Jacketless.

  Somehow, I left my jacket in a back alley, and now I wander around with this dog, shivering as we walk.

  For the first time, I feel anger.

  'What is this?' I bark, but no answer is given. Only the sound of his paws and claws on the road find my ears. And his breath. His smoky breath.

  It feels like we're going nowhere--just rambling through the streets in the dark.

  My heart is bleeding.

  With aloneness.

  The blood lands on my feet and hits the ground.

  Pain from the alley overcomes me and I stumble.

  I fall.

  Now I'm sprawled out, motionless on the cold city floor.

  Bleeding.

  Falling apart.

  Soon the presence of the dog comes back to me. I feel him settle and lie down next to me. He rests his snout on my arm and I feel his breath on my skin.

  I open my eyes and get a look at him from the edge of my vision. He's asleep, but waiting.

  He's waiting for me to stand up and keep walking.

  7

  JULIA WAS, OF COURSE, AN ABSOLUTE SCRUBBER. THERE'S not a whole lot more I can say about her. A scrubber (in case you don't know) is a girl that might be described as kind of slutty or festy, yet still without being a complete prostitute or anything like that. She chews gum a lot. She might drink excessively and smoke for show. She'll call you a faggot, poofter or wanker with a lovely smirk on her face. She'll wear painted-on jeans and good cleavage and she won't care too much if her headlights are on. Jewellery: moderate to heavy, maybe with a nose ring or eyebrow ring for rebellious originality. Then there's the make-up. At times it's bucketed on, especially if there's a bit of acne involved on her face, although more often than not, a scrubber isn't too bad looking at all. She just has a tendency to make herself ugly, by what she says and what she does.

  And Julia?

  What can I say?

  She was beautiful. She was blonde.