He listened.
The land beside him still sang.
On the train he read for a while, but in his stomach the nerves had begun. Like a kid with a windup toy.
Eventually, he put the book down.
There was really no point.
In everything he read, all he saw was my face, and my fists, and the jugular in my neck.
* * *
—
When he reached the city, late afternoon, he stood at the station and made the call. A phone booth near Platform Four.
“Hello, Henry here.” Clay could hear he was on a street somewhere; the close-up sound of traffic. “Hello?”
“I’m here, too.”
“Clay?” The voice came through tighter, faster, from the grip at the other end. “Are you home?”
“Not yet. Tonight.”
“When? What time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe seven. Maybe later.”
That would give him a few more hours.
“Hey—Clay?”
He waited.
“Good luck, okay?”
“Thanks. I’ll see you.”
He wished he was back in the eucalypts.
* * *
—
For a while he considered going most of the way on foot, but he caught the train and bus. On Poseidon Road, he got out one stop before he normally would, and the city was well into evening.
There was nothing now but cloud cover.
Sort of copper, mostly dark.
He walked and stopped, he leaned at the air, as if waiting for it to finish him off, only it wouldn’t—and quicker than he’d hoped, he stood at the mouth of Archer Street:
Relieved to have finally made it.
Terrified to be there.
* * *