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.