Here Come the Dogs by Omar Musa Page A

tough old bird.
    You have to be, growing up in Streatham.
    South London.’

    Jimmy whispers something about the rapper Roots Manuva to Solomon, who shushes him. The old lady continues.

    â€˜It’s not all luck,
    but that’s what has played the biggest part.

    That’s what I think I thought.

    I looked underneath the old plum tree
    and saw something against the fence.
    I didn’t want to touch it,
    then it made a sound.

    It looked like a bloody grey tennis ball.
    Then I realised,
    a tiny face was looking back at me.
    I thought it was a possum or a water rat at first.
    But it wasn’t.

    It was a little puppy,
    a bloody and broken little critter,
    with fur the colour of mercury.

    I scooped it up and squinted at the sky again.
    I saw an eagle with wings
    maybe as long as a man’s arms.
    Could’ve been a wedgetail.
    The little grey ball whimpered in me hands.
    It looked as if its leg was broken
    and it had one eye staring at me,
    bright as a button.

    The other had been scratched,
    maybe even torn out, by the eagle.

    Who’da known that pathetic lil thing –
    lil gift of the sky –
    would be a champion one day.

    I could hear the kids start their game again
    on the other side of the fence.

    I went inside and called a vet.’

    She is crying now and the brothers, one with his hand on Mercury’s head, the other on its twitching withers, don’t know where to look.

8

    â€˜Bro . . . I’m drunk as.’
    â€˜Me too, brother.’
    â€˜How the fuck we get here? This place is way too posh for us.’
    â€˜Aw, we’re celebrating, bro.’
    â€˜Celebrating what?’
    â€˜Buying the hound.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s right, ay.’
    The bar is brand new, the latest hotspot in town, with a line almost around the corner. Young chicks totter like fresh-born foals. The boys are smoking just outside the door. Solomon is handed an ID by a nervous teenager who mistakes him for a bouncer. All the staff wear waistcoats and the wall shows raw brick in places. Concrete and a rust wall. The couches are rich brocade and the curtains have a bullion fringe. Despite all attempts, it is a parade of vulgarity. Neon lights shine through Alizé and Patrón bottles behind the bar. Metro roidheads and wannabe footy players wear shirts printed with the names of foreign cities they’ll never visit and compare copycat tatts and gym muscles. Women with fake breasts and fake tans flick tousled hair over shoulders with manicured hands, waiting for someone toshake a bag of coke like a polaroid and lead them to the bathroom.
    â€˜Live by the bag, die by the bag’, says Aleks.
    A woman is yelling, ‘Where’s Caitlin? I’ve lost Caitlin,’ while men stand against the wall, observing her, hands crossed over genitals, bobbing their heads to the beat. Everyone’s eyes are elsewhere, on the door especially, to see if someone new comes in, each person ignoring exes, tracing hands around waists, heads thrown back with exaggerated laughter. A small, awkward dancefloor has formed, and the DJ switches from ambient tunes to old Ja Rule and TLC. Jimmy yells at him to play some Gang Starr. The DJ is a hip hop head from way back who does this lark on the side. He smiles tiredly and says, ‘Yeh, for sure, bro, a bit later.’
    Jimmy sprinkles some MDMA crystals into Solomon’s palm, and watches as Solomon licks them off discreetly. Georgie looks away. Aleks is toying with his keys, chatting to a scientist who has just been laid off in the latest round of government cuts. A man, by himself at the edge of the bar, watches them all. Jimmy begins to tell a story, his voice loud and slurring.
    â€˜You know how Sin One became so good at rapping? He ran away from his auntie’s place when she was on the heroin, bro; ran into the bush as far as he could. He was only six. He couldn’t read or write. He couldn’t even speak, did you know that? He was