When Dogs Cry (8 page)

It's hot and heavy and sends itself through me.

I run for the dog and chase him across the streets and through the howling wind. At first, he looks back for me but soon realises I'm with him.

He takes me.

Sweeps me.

Until we're running towards the train line, almost stripping the road as we go, and I see it. I see it in the distance when we hit the tracks. I see a train flickering and I lengthen my stride till we're alongside it.

Running.

Bargaining with fatigue
—
telling it to have me later if I can only keep going now.

Keep going.

Keep going, and . . .

I see them.

I see him making his way through the train until he's there, with his soul at his shoulder, whispering to him.

She turns and he holds her by the shirt.

The train goes faster.

It reaches beyond us until it's gone and I slow to a stop and bend down, allowing my hands to fall to my knees.

The dog's still with me and I look over as if to say,
If there's more of this on the way home, I like it.

‘O
I
,' R
UBE SAID TO ME WHEN
I
MADE IT IN THAT NIGHT.
‘What the hell happened to you? You're a bit late aren't y'?'

‘I know,' I nodded.

‘There's soup in the pot,' Mrs Wolfe cut in.

I lifted the lid off it, which is usually the worst thing you can ever do. It clears the kitchen though, which was pretty useful that night, considering. I wasn't really in the mood to be answering questions, especially from Rube. What was I going to tell him? ‘Ah, you know mate. I was just out with your old girlfriend. You don't mind do y'?' No way.

The soup took a few minutes and I sat and ate it alone.

As I ate, I started coming to terms with what had happened. I mean, it's not every day something like
that
happens to you, and when it does, you can't help but struggle to believe it.

Her voice kept arriving in me.

‘Cameron?'

‘Cameron?'

After hearing it a few times, I turned around to find Sarah talking to me as well.

‘You okay?' she asked.

I smiled at her. ‘Of course,' and we washed up.

Later, Rube and I went over and collected Miffy, walking him till he started wheezing again.

‘He sounds bloody terrible. Maybe he's got the flu or somethin',' Rube suggested. ‘Or the clap.'

‘What's the clap?'

‘I'm not sure. I think it's some kind of sex disease.'

‘Well I don't think he's got that.'

When we took him back over to Keith he said Miffy got fur balls a lot, which made sense, since that dog seemed to be made up of ninety per cent fur; a couple per cent flesh; a few per cent bones; and one or two per cent barking, whingeing and carrying on. Mostly fur, though. Worse than a cat.

We gave him a last pat and left.

On our front porch I asked Rube how this Julia girl was going.

‘Scrubber,' I imagined him announcing, but knew he wouldn't.

‘Ah, not bad, y' know,' he replied. ‘She's not the best but she's not the worst either. No complaints really.' It didn't take long for a girl to go from brilliant to run-of-the-mill with Rube.

‘Fair enough.'

For a moment, I almost asked how Octavia rated, but I wasn't interested in her the way Rube was, so there was no point. It wasn't important. For me, it was the way that thoughts of her could reach deeper inside me that was important. I just couldn't stop thinking about her, as I convinced myself about everything that had happened.

Her appearance on the street in Glebe.

Her question.

The train.

All of it.

We sat there a while on the worn-out couch Dad put out there a few summers ago and watched the traffic amble by.

‘What are youse starin' at?' a scrubberish sort of girl snapped at us as she idled past on the footpath.

‘Nothin',' Rube answered, and we could only laugh a while as she swore at us for no reason and continued walking.

My thoughts turned inward.

In each passing moment, Octavia found a way further inside me. Even when Rube started talking again, I was back on the train, pushing my way through the humans, the sweat and the suits.

‘Are we workin' with Dad this Saturday?' Rube stamped out my thoughts.

‘I'm pretty sure we are,' I said, and Rube got up and went inside. I stayed on the porch a fair while longer. I thought about the next night, and standing outside Octavia's house.

I didn't sleep that night.

The sheets stuck to me and I turned and got tangled in them. At one point, I even got up and just sat in the kitchen. It was past two in the morning then, and when Mrs Wolfe got up to go to the toilet, she came to see who was there.

‘Hey,' I whispered.

‘What are you doing?' she asked.

‘I couldn't sleep.'

‘Well go back to bed soon, all right?'

I sat there a small while longer, with the talkback radio show talking and arguing with itself at the kitchen table. Octavia filled me that whole night. It made me wonder if she was sitting in her own kitchen, thinking of me.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Either way, I was going there the next day, and the hours were disappearing slower than I thought possible.

I returned to bed and waited. When the sun came up, I got up with it, and gradually, the day passed me by. School was the usual concoction of jokes, complete bastards, shoves and a laugh here and there.

For a few anxious seconds in the afternoon, I wasn't sure what Octavia's last name was and feared I might not be able to look her up in the phone book. I was relieved when I remembered. It was Ash. Octavia Ash. When I got the address, I looked the street up on the map and found it to be about a ten minute walk from the station, as long as I didn't get lost.

Before I went, I jumped the fence and gave Miffy a pat
for a while. In a way, I was nervous. Nervous as hell. I thought of everything that might go wrong. Train derailment. Not being able to find the right house. Standing outside the
wrong
house. I covered all of it in my mind as I patted the ball of fluff that had rolled over and somehow smiled as I rubbed his stomach.

‘Wish me luck Miffy,' I said softly as I got up to leave, but all he did was prop himself up and give me a look of
Don't you stop patting me you lazy bastard.
I jumped the fence anyway though, went through the house and left. I left a note saying I might go to Steve's that night so no-one would worry too much. (The odds were that I might end up there in any case.)

I was wearing the sort of thing I always wear. Old jeans, my black spray jacket, a jersey and my old shoes.

Before I left, I went to the bathroom and tried to keep my hair from sticking up, but that's like trying to defy gravity. That hair sticks up no matter what. Thick like dog's fur, and always slightly messy. There's just never a lot I can do about it.
Besides,
I thought,
I should just try to be like I was yesterday. If I was good enough yesterday I should be good enough today.

It was settled. I was going.

I let the front door slam shut behind me and the fly screen rattle. It was as if each door was kicking me out of the old life I'd lived in that house. I was being thrown out into the world, new. The broken, leaning gate creaked open, let me out, and I gently placed it shut. I was gone, and from down the street, maybe fifty yards away, I looked back for a second at the house where I
lived. It wasn't the same any more. It never would be. I kept walking.

The traffic on the street waded past me, and at one point, when it all got blocked, a passenger from a cab spat out the window and it landed near my feet.

‘Christ,' the guy said. ‘Sorry mate.'

All I did was smile and say, ‘No worries.' I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not today. I'd picked up the scent of a different life, and nothing was going to get me off it. I would hunt it down. I would find its place inside me. I would find it, taste it, devour it. The guy could have spat in my face and I would have wiped it off and kept walking.

There would be no distractions.

No regrets.

It was still afternoon when I made it down to Central Station, bought my ticket and headed for the underground. Platform Twenty-five.

Standing there, I waited at the back of the platform till I felt the cold wind of the train pushing through the tunnel. It surrounded my ears until the roar entered me and slowed to a dull, limping sigh.

It was an old train.

A scabby one.

In the last carriage, downstairs, there was an old man with a radio, listening to jazz music. He smiled at me (a very rare event on any form of public transport), and I knew that things would have to go right today. I felt like I'd earned it.

My thoughts veered with the train.

My heart held itself back.

When Hurstville came, I stood up and made my way out, and to my amazement, I found Octavia's street without any problems. Usually when it comes to directions I'm an absolute shocker.

I walked.

I looked at each house, trying to guess which one was number thirteen Howell Street.

When I made it, I found the house to be nearly as small as where I lived, and red brick. It was getting dark, and I stood there, waiting and hoping, hands in pockets. There was a fence and a gate, and a close-cut lawn with a path. I began wondering if she'd come out.

People came from the station.

They walked past me.

Finally, when the same darkness as the previous day overcame the street, I turned away from the house and faced the road, half-sitting, half-leaning on the fence. A few minutes later, she came.

I could barely hear the front door open or her footsteps coming towards me, but there was no mistaking the feeling of her behind me when she stopped and stood within reaching distance. I could feel her and imagine her heartbeat . . .

I shiver even now as I remember the feeling of her cool hands on my neck, and the touch of her voice on my skin.

‘Hi Cameron,' she said, and I turned around to face her. ‘Thanks for coming.'

‘It's okay,' I spoke. My voice was dry and cracked open.

I smiled then, I remember, and my heart swam in its own blood. There was no holding back any more. In my mind, I had gone over moments like this a thousand times, and now that I was truly in one, there was no way I could blow it. I wouldn't allow myself.

I went along the fence and into the gate, and when I made it over to Octavia, I picked up her hand and held it in mine.

I raised her hand to my mouth and kissed it. I kissed her fingers and her wrist as gently as my clumsy lips could, and when I looked at her face, I could tell this had never happened to her before. I think she'd only been taken forcefully, and my gentleness must have surprised her.

Her eyes widened.

The expression on her face came that little bit closer.

Her mouth merged into a smile.

‘Come on,' she said, leading me out the gate. ‘We don't have long tonight,' and, close to touching, we moved onto the path.

We walked down the street to an old park where I searched myself for things to say.

Nothing came.

All I could think of was utter crap like the weather and all that sort of thing, but I wasn't going to reduce myself to that. She still smiled at me though, telling me silently that it was okay not to talk. It was okay not to win her over with stories or compliments or anything else I could say just to say
something.
She just walked and smiled, happier in silence.

In the park, we sat for a long time.

I offered her my jacket and helped her put it on, but after that, there was nothing.

No words.

No anything.

I don't know what else I expected, because I had absolutely no idea how to confront this. I had no idea how to act around a girl, because to me, what she wanted was completely shrouded in mystery. I didn't really have a clue. All I knew was that I wanted her. That was the simple part. But actually knowing what to do? How in the hell could I ever come close to coping with that? Can you tell me?

My problem came, I think, from being inside aloneness for so long. I always watched girls from afar, hardly getting close enough to smell them. Of course I
wanted
them, but even though I was miserable about not actually having them, it was also kind of a relief. There was no pressure. No discomfort. In a way, it was easier just to imagine what it would be like, rather than confronting the reality of it. I could create ideal situations, and ways that I would act to win them over.

You can do anything when it's not real.

When it
is
real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground, and that night, in the park, I had never felt so real. I'd never felt so lacking in control. It seemed to be the way it was, and the way it always would be.

Before, life was about getting girls (or hoping to).

Not about getting to know them.

Now, it was much different.

Now, it was about
one
girl, and working out what to do.

I thought for a while, trying to climb through my mind to the elusive breakthrough of what to do. Thoughts pinned me down, leaving me there, to think about it. In the end, I tried convincing myself that everything would turn out all right. Nothing turns on its own, though.

All right,
I told myself, trying to pull myself together. I even started listing the things I'd actually done right.

I'd chased her down on the train the day before.

I'd spoken to her and said I'd stand outside her house.

God, I'd even kissed her hand.

Now though, I had to talk, and I had nothing to say.