by Markus Zusak
He called out a forthright “Oi!”
And what else could I do?
There must have been good reason for unearthing the two animals, and I turned from under the clothesline—the tired old Hills Hoist, just like ours—and waited for what he would say; and he said it.
“Aren’t you forgetting something there, mate?”
He nodded to the dog bones and the snake.
* * *
—
And that was how I drove away.
In the back seat of my old station wagon that day were the skeletal remains of a dog, one typewriter, and the wiry boneline of a king brown snake.
About halfway, I pulled over. There was a place I knew—a small detour, with a bed and proper rest—but I decided not to take it. Instead, I lay in the car with the snake there at my neck. As I drifted off, I thought how before-the-beginnings are everywhere—because before and before so many things there was a boy in that old-backyard-of-a-town, and he’d kneeled on the ground when the snake had killed that dog, and the dog had killed that snake…but that’s all still to come.
No, for now, this is all you need:
I made it home the next day.
I made it back to the city, to Archer Street, where everything did begin, and went many and varied ways. The argument about just why in the hell I’d brought back the dog and the snake dissipated hours ago, and those who were to leave have left, and those to stay have stayed. Arguing upon return with Rory about the contents of the car’s back seat was the icing on the cake. Rory, of all the people. He, as much as anyone, knows who and why and what we are:
A family of ramshackle tragedy.
A comic book kapow of boys and blood and beasts.
We were born for relics like these.
In the middle of all the back-and-forth, Henry grinned, Tommy laughed, and both said, “Just like always.” The fourth of us was sleeping, and had slept the whole time I was gone.
As for my two girls, when they came in, they marveled at the bones and said, “Why’d you bring those home, Dad?”
Because he’s an idiot.
I caught Rory thinking it, immediately, but he’d never say it in front of my kids.
As for Claudia Dunbar—the former Claudia Kirkby—she shook her head and took my hand, and she was happy, she was so damn happy I could have broken down again. I’m sure it’s because I was glad.
Glad.
Glad is a stupid-seeming word, but I’m writing and telling you all of this purely and simply because that’s exactly how we are. I’m especially so because I love this kitchen now, and all its great and terrible history. I have to do it here. It’s fitting to do it here. I’m glad to hear my notes get slapped to the page.
In front of me, there’s the old TW.
Beyond it, a scratchy wooden tableland.
There are mismatched salt and pepper shakers, and a company of stubborn toast crumbs. The light from the hall is yellow, the light in here is white. I sit and think and hit here. I punch and punch away. Writing is always difficult, but easier with something to say:
Let me tell you about our brother.
The fourth Dunbar boy named Clay.
Everything happened to him.
We were all of us changed through him.
If before the beginning (in the writing, at least) was a typewriter, a dog, and a snake, the beginning itself—eleven years previously—was a murderer, a mule, and Clay. Even in beginnings, though, someone needs to go first, and on that day it could only be the Murderer. After all, he was the one who got everything moving forward, and all of us looking back. He did it by arriving. He arrived at six o’clock.
As it was, it was quite appropriate, too, another blistering February evening; the day had cooked the concrete, the sun still high, and aching. It was heat to be held and depended on, or, really, that had hold of him. In the history of all murderers everywhere, this was surely the most pathetic:
At five-foot-ten, he was average height.
At seventy-five kilos, a normal weight.
But make no mistake—he was a wasteland in a suit; he was bent-postured, he was broken. He leaned at the air as if waiting for it to finish him off, only it wouldn’t, not today, for this, fairly suddenly, didn’t feel like a time for murderers to be getting favors.
No, today he could sense it.
He could smell it.
He was immortal.
Which pretty much summed things up.
Trust the Murderer to be unkillable at the one moment he was better off dead.
* * *
—
For the longest time, then, ten minutes at least, he stood at the mouth of Archer Street, relieved to have finally made it, terrified to be there. The street didn’t seem much to care; its breeze was close but casual, its smoky scent was touchable. Cars were stubbed out rather than parked, and the power lines drooped from the weight of mute, hot and bothered pigeons. Around it, a city climbed and called:
Welcome back, Murderer.
The voice so warm, beside him.
You’re in a bit of strife here, I’d say….In fact, a bit of strife doesn’t even come close—you’re in desperate trouble.
And he knew it.
And soon the heat came nearer.
Archer Street began rising to the task now, almost rubbing its hands together, and the Murderer fairly caught alight. He could feel it escalating, somewhere inside his jacket, and with it came the questions:
Could he walk on and finish the beginning?
Could he really see it through?
For a last moment he took the luxury—the thrill of stillness—then swallowed, massaged his crown of thorny hair, and with grim decision, made his way up to number eighteen.
A man in a burning suit.
* * *
—
Of course, he was walking that day at five brothers.
Us Dunbar boys.
From oldest to youngest:
Me, Rory, Henry, Clayton, Thomas.
We would never be the same.
To be fair, though, neither would he—and to give you at least a small taste of what the Murderer was entering into, I should tell you what we were like:
Many considered us tearaways.
Barbarians.
Mostly they were right:
Our mother was dead.
Our father had fled.
We swore like bastards, fought like contenders, and punished each other at pool, at table tennis (always on third- or fourth-hand tables, and often set up on the lumpy grass of the backyard), at Monopoly, darts, football, cards, at everything we could get our hands on.
We had a piano no one played.
Our TV was serving a life sentence.
The couch was in for twenty.
Sometimes when our phone rang, one of us would walk out, jog along the porch and go next door; it was just old Mrs. Chilman—she’d bought a new bottle of tomato sauce and couldn’t get the wretched thing open. Then, whoever it was would come back in and let the front door slam, and life went on again.
Yes, for the five of us, life always went on:
It was something we beat into and out of each other, especially when things went completely right, or completely wrong. That was when we’d get out onto Archer Street in evening-afternoon. We’d walk at the city. The towers, the streets. The worried-looking trees. We’d take in the loudmouthed conversations hurled from pubs, houses, and unit blocks, so certain this was our place. We half expected to collect it all up and carry it home, tucked under our arms. It didn’t matter that we’d wake up the next day to find it gone again, on the loose, all buildings and bright light.
Oh—and one more thing.
Possibly most important.
In amongst a small roster of dysfunctional pets, we were the only people w
e knew of, in the end, to be in possession of a mule.
And what a mule he was.
* * *
—
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.
* * *
—
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?
&
nbsp; 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.”
Henry pocketed a hand.
A fistful of coins.
“Clay, here it is, we’ll see you up there.”
Two boys drove, the other ran.
Out the window: “Oi, Clay!”
He pushed on. He didn’t turn around, but he heard all right. The same thing, every time.
“Get daisies if you can, they were her favorite, remember?”
As if he didn’t know.
The car pulled out, blinker on. “And don’t get done on the price!”
Clay ran faster.
