Bridge of Clay(8)

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 watched 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.