by Cate Kennedy
‘What’s wrong?’ he says. No alarm there, just the tone of someone whose energy is spent, facing more unwelcome work. Someone with no interest in small talk. She can hear what it costs him to even broach that silence.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing.’ She sees the blue eyelid pulled over the staring dead eye of a chicken, a roll of rippling yellow fat where the dog has held the body down with one paw and ripped upwards with those teeth. The dog’s fervour turned to revulsion, pawing at the carcass tied to him. She hears the cargo train bang through the station at 3.20 a.m., the sound rolling up the creek bed, metal striking metal.
She’s sure she can hear the dog barking too, echoing and distant, a rhythmic, maddening bark. She strains her ears. Bloody Jake. Must have slipped his chain.
She slides out of bed and walks to the back door, feeling new webs break across her face and arms; freshly repaired webs, looping like a trapeze from wall to wall, untiring and remorseless.
But the dog is there; a dark shape curled nose to tail, sound asleep at the other end of the porch. Helen sits on the arm of the couch and raises her foot in her hand. Hardly broken the skin, really. Just that single puncture on the heel where one curved tooth’s penetrated, red and raised. Itching now.
It’s only after she has returned to bed and listened again to that distant metronomic barking that it occurs to her that it’s no dog she can hear, but her husband’s breathing, faint next to her and sunk into his pillow, catching with a small sound each time he exhales.
It follows her into sleep, that flat insistent rhythm. It’s like someone resolutely and patiently striking the same match, over and over, ready to stoop and set a stubble field alight.
Acknowledgements
For the sheer pleasure of their talent, thank you to Peter Temple, Tim Winton, Paddy O’Reilly, Kate Grenville, Carrie Tiffany, Peter Carey and so many others.
For their enthusiastic response to my early attempts, thanks to the Sisters in Crime.
For the cup of tea placed thoughtfully at my elbow, thanks to Dave Dore.
The Stories
What Thou and I Did, Till We Loved won The Age Short Story Competition, 2001 (published in The Age)
A Pitch Too High for the Human Ear won third prize in the University of Canberra Short Story Competition, 1997 (published in Behind the Front Fence, Five Mile Press, 2004)
Habit won The Age Short Story Competition, 2000 (published in The Age, and in On The Edge, Five Mile Press, 2005)
Flotsam won the University of Canberra Short Story Competition, 2002 (published in Island, and in Secret Lives, Five Mile Press, 2003)
Cold Snap won the HQ/Sceptre Short Story Prize, 2001 (published in HQ)
Resize was shortlisted in the HQ/HarperCollins Short Story Competition, 1996 (published in Enter, HarperCollins, 1997)
The Testosterone Club was a prizewinner in the Scarlet Stiletto Awards, 1995
Angel was highly commended in the University of Canberra Short Story Competition, 1997
The Light of Coincidence won the Herald Sun/Rotary Short Story Competition, 1996 (published in the Herald Sun)
Soundtrack won second prize in the University of Canberra Short Story Competition, 2002
Direct Action won second prize in the Glen Eira Short Story Award, 2002 (published in Meanjin)
The Correct Names of Things won the University of Canberra Short Story Competition, 1997 (published in Redoubt)
Wheelbarrow Thief was shortlisted in the HQ/HarperCollins Short Story Competition, 1996 (published in Enter, HarperCollins, 1997)
Sea Burial was broadcast on ABC Radio National (in a slightly different form) and included on their double CD of Australian Stories
Dark Roots, Seizure and Kill or Cure are all new, previously unpublished stories
