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.
* * *
—
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.
* * *
—
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.
“You miserable piece-a shit,” said Henry (the moneymaker, the friendly one) at Clay’s side. As he struggled, he loped and laughed. His smile swerved off his face; he caught it in his palm. At times like these, he communicated with Clay through tried and tested insults. “You’re nothing,” he said, “you’re soft.” He was hurting but had to talk on. “You’re soft as a two-minute egg, boy. Makes me sick to watch you run like this.”
It also wasn’t long before another tradition was observed.
Tommy, the youngest, the pet collector, lost one of his shoes.
“Shit, Tommy, I thought I told you to tie ’em up better. Come on, Clay, you’re weak, you’re ridiculous. How ’bout havin’ a bloody go?”
They reached the sixth floor and Clay dumped Tommy sideways and tackled the mouth on his right. They landed on the musty tiles, Clay half smiled, the other two laughed, and they all shrugged off the sweat. In the struggle, Clay got Henry in a headlock. He picked him up and ran him round.
“You really need a shower, mate.” Typical Henry. We always said that to do Henry in we’d have to kill his mouth twice. “That’s shockin’, that is.” He could feel the wire in Clay’s arm as it wrung his smart-mouth neck.
To interrupt, Tommy, thoroughly thirteen, took a running jump and brought all three of them down, arms and legs, boys and floor. Around them, Rosy leapt and landed; her tail was up, her body forward. Black legs. White paws. She barked but they fought on.
When it was over, they lay on their backs; there was a window on this, the top floor of the stairwell, and grubby light, and rising-falling chests. The air was heavy. Tons of it, heaping from their lungs. Henry gulped it good and hard, but his mouth showed true heart.
“Tommy, you little bastard.” He looked over and grinned. “I think you just saved my life, kid.”
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” and he motioned now to Clay, who was already up on an elbow. His other hand down in his pocket. “I don’t get why we put up with this lunatic.”
“Me neither.”
But they did.
For starters, he was a Dunbar boy, and with Clay you wanted to know.
* * *
—
What was it, though?
What was there to know when it came to Clayton, our brother?
Questions had followed him for years now, like why did he smile but never laugh?
Why did he fight but never to win?
Why did he like it so much on our roof?
Why did he run not for a satisfaction, but a discomfort—some sort of gateway to pain and suffering, and always putting up with it?
Not one of those inquiries, however, was his favorite.
They were warm-up questions.
Nothing more.
* * *
—
After lying on their backs, they did three more sets, Rosy cleaning up the stray shoe on the way.
“Oi, Tommy.”
“Yeah?”
“Put ’em on tighter next time, right?”
“Sure, Henry.”
“Double knots, or I’ll cutcha in half.”
“Okay, Henry.”
At the bottom, he gave him a slap on the shoulder—the signal to get on Clay’s back again—and they ran the stairs and came down in the lift. (Cheating in some people’s minds, but actually much harder: it shortened the recovery.) After the last climb, Henry, Tommy, and Rosy took one more ride down, but Clay was taking the stairs. Outside, they walked over to Henry’s iron slab of a car and went through the old routine: “Rosy, get out of the front seat.” She sat there at the wheel, her ears perfect triangles. She looked ready to adjust the radio. “Come on, Tommy, get her out of there, do us a favor.”
“Here, girl, stop muckin’ round.”