Bridge of Clay(4)

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—

The animal in question was named Achilles, and there was a backstory longer than a country mile as to how he ended up in our suburban backyard in one of the racing quarters of the city. On one hand it involved the abandoned stables and practice track behind our house, an outdated council bylaw, and a sad old fat man with bad spelling. On the other it was our dead mother, our fled father, and the youngest, Tommy Dunbar.

    At the time, not everyone in the house was even consulted; the mule’s arrival was controversial. After at least one heated argument, with Rory— (“Oi, Tommy, what’s goin’ on ’ere?”

“What?”

“What-a-y’ mean what, are you shitting me? There’s a donkey in the backyard!”

“He’s not a donkey, he’s a mule.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A donkey’s a donkey, a mule’s a cross between—”

“I don’t care if it’s a quarter horse crossed with a Shetland bloody pony! What’s it doin’ under the clothesline?”

“He’s eating the grass.”

“I can see that!”)

—we somehow managed to keep him.

Or more to the point, the mule stayed.

As was the case with the majority of Tommy’s pets, too, there were a few problems when it came to Achilles. Most notably, the mule had ambitions; with the rear fly screen dead and gone, he was known to walk into the house when the back door was ajar, let alone left fully open. It happened at least once a week, and at least once a week I blew a gasket. It sounded something like this: “Je-sus Christ!” As a blasphemer I was pretty rampant in those days, well known for splitting the Jesus and emphasizing the Christ. “If I’ve told you bastards once, I’ve told you a hundred Goddamn times! Shut the back door!”

And so on.



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—

Which brings us once more to the Murderer, and how could he have possibly known?

He could have guessed that when he got here, none of us might be home. He could have known he’d have to decide between using his old key and waiting on the front porch—to ask his single question, to make his proposition.

    It was human derision he expected, even invited, sure.

But nothing like this.

What a broadside:

The hurtful little house, the onslaught of silence.

And that burglar, that pickpocket, of a mule.

At somewhere near quarter past six, he went footstep for footstep with Archer Street, and the beast of burden blinked.



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—

And so it was.

The first pair of eyes the Murderer met inside belonged to Achilles, and Achilles was not to be trifled with. Achilles was in the kitchen, a few steps from the back door, in front of the fridge, with his customary what-the-hell-you-lookin’-at look parked on his long, lopsided face. Flare-nostriled, he was even chewing a bit. Nonchalant. In control. If he was minding the beer he was doing a bloody good job.

Well?

At this point, Achilles seemed to be doing all the talking.

First the city, now the mule.

In theory, it made at least some semblance of sense. If something of the equine species might turn up anywhere in this city, it would be here; the stables, the practice track, the distant voice of race callers.

But a mule?

The shock was indescribable, and the surroundings certainly didn’t help. This kitchen was a geography and climate all of its own: Overcast walls.

Parched floor.

A coastline of dirty dishes stretching toward the sink.

And then the heat, the heat.

Even the mule’s vigilant belligerence eased momentarily in consideration of this terrible, heavyweight heat. It was worse in here than outside, and that was an achievement not to be sniffed at.

    Still, it didn’t take Achilles long to be back on task, or was the Murderer so dehydrated he was hallucinating? Of all the kitchens in all the world. He thought fleetingly of shoving his knuckles into his eyes, to wring the vision out, but it was futile.

This was real.

He was sure this animal—this grey, patchy, ginger, light brown, thatch-faced, wide-eyed, fat-nostriled, casual bastard of a mule—was standing steadfast, on the cracked flooring, victorious, making one thing known, and irrefutably clear: A murderer should probably do many things, but he should never, under any circumstances, come home.





Across town, while the Murderer met the mule, there was Clay, and Clay was warming up. Truth be told, Clay was always warming up. At that moment he was in an old apartment block, with stairs at his feet, a boy on his back, and a storm cloud in his chest. His short dark hair was flat on his head, and there was fire in each eye.

Running next to him, on his right, was another boy—a blond one, a year older—struggling to keep up, but pushing him all the same. On his left was a sprinting border collie, which made it Henry and Clay, Tommy and Rosy, doing what they always did: One of them talked.

One of them trained.

One of them hung on for dear life.

Even the dog was giving her all.

For this training method, they had a key, they’d paid a friend; it guaranteed entry to the building. Ten dollars for a stuffed lump of concrete. Not bad. They ran.