Bridge of Clay

He trusted Rory to look after Hector.

“Here,” he said quickly, “hold him.”

For both Rory and Hector there was shock, and not a small amount of distrust. As they eyed each other closely, Tommy raced in through the house, and soon came running back round.

* * *

—

We stood and we looked at Clay.

And Tommy was running down after him.

“Clay!” he screamed. “Hey, Clay!”

And of course he was taking Achilles—and the mule, amazingly, was running. He was running! You could hear the hollowing hoofbeats, as the boy ran him down the street; and Clay had turned to meet them, and looked at the boy and the beast.

There wasn’t even a moment.

Not a second of hesitation.

It was how it was meant to be, and his hand came out for the reins.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

It was quiet but all of us heard, and he turned and he walked and took him, as full morning had come to hit Archer Street—and we all went downwards to Tommy. We watched as they left us behind.

In there, out in the suburbs-world, a boy walked the streets with a mule. They set out for a bridge in Silver, and took the darkest waters with them.

Once—and I write this at least ALMOST for the last few times—in the tide of Dunbar past, there was a woman who told us she would die, and the world ended that night, in that kitchen. There were boys on the floor, they were burning; and the sun came up the next morning.

All of us woke up early.

Our dreams were like flight, like turbulence.

By six o’clock, even Henry and Rory were mostly awake; our notorious sleeper-inners.

It was March, and awash with leftovers from summer, and we stood together, in the hallway—skinny arms and anchored shoulders. We stood but we were stuck there. We wondered what to do.

Our dad came out and tried; a hand on each of our necks.

An attempt at some sort of comfort.

The problem was, when he walked away, we saw him take hold of the curtains, and one hand on the piano; he hung on, his body was shaking. The sun was warm and wavy, and we were quiet in the hall, behind him.

He assured us he was okay.

When he turned and came to face us, though, his aqua eyes were lightless.

* * *

—

As for us:

Henry, Clay, and I were in singlets and old shorts.

Rory and Tommy wore just underwear.