—
By April, the problems started.
The mule was enigmatic.
Or more so, purely stubborn.
He did love Tommy, I’m sure of it; he just happened to love Clay more. It was Clay he let check his feet. No one else could budge them. It was Clay, alone, who could quiet him.
A few nights in particular, very late, early morning, Achilles would bray up a storm. Even now I hear those sad-but-terrifying eey-ores—a mule-and-hinge-like crying—and between them, the other voices. There was Henry shouting “Shit, Tommy!” and me saying “Shut that mule up!” There was Rory calling “Get this fucking cat off me!” and Clay, just lying, silent.
“Clay! Wake up!”
Tommy was frantically pushing him, pulling him, till soon he got to his feet; he made his way to the kitchen. Through the window he saw Achilles, and the mule was under the clothesline; he cried like a rusty gate. He stood and reached his head up, his mouth thrown into the sky.
Clay watched, he couldn’t move; for a while he remained transfixed. But then Tommy had waited enough. As the rest of us surfaced, and the mule howled out and onwards, it was Clay who handled the sugar. He took the lid off, and the stuck-in spoon, and walked out back with Tommy.
“Here,” he said firmly, “cup them,” as they stood on the porch by the couch. It was dark but for mule and moonlight, and Tommy produced both palms.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m ready,” and Clay poured all of it out, a handful, a sandful, I’d seen it once before; and Achilles, he’d seen it, too. For a moment, he stopped, he looked at them, and he ambled his way across. Pigheaded and clearly delighted.
Hey, Achilles.
Hi, Clay.
That’s quite a noise you’re making there.
I know.
When Tommy met him, he held out his hands, and Achilles got in and sucked them—he hoovered into every corner.
The last time it happened was in May, and Tommy was finally resigned. He’d looked after every animal, all of them the same, and for Achilles we’d bought more grain, more hay, and cleaned the racing quarter out of carrots. When Rory asked who’d eaten the last apple, he knew it had gone to the mule.
On this occasion, a midnight southerly; it blew through the streets and suburbs. It brought with it sound from the trains. I’m sure that’s what set him going, actually, and the mule just couldn’t be quieted. Even when Tommy ran out to him, Achilles only shook him off; he brayed onwards at forty-five degrees, and above them, the clothesline spun.
“The sugar bowl?” Tommy asked Clay.
But that night he’d told him no.
Not yet.
No, this time, Clay walked down, and a peg was against his thigh, and all he did first was stand with him, then stretched, very slowly, upwards; he halted the turning clothesline. With his other hand, he reached even slower, and placed it on the face of the mule, on that dry and crackly brushland.
“It’s okay,” he told him, “it’s over—” but Clay knew better than anyone; there are some things that never stop. Even when Tommy ignored him, and came back out with the sugar bowl, and Achilles hoovered it up—the crystals around his nostrils—the mule was watching Clay.
Could he see the outline of his pocket?
Maybe, probably not.
One thing I know for certain, though, is that the mule was nowhere near stupid—Achilles always knew.
He knew that this was the Dunbar boy.
This was the one he needed.
* * *
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