In your narrowing dark hours
That more things move
Than blood in the heart.
Louise Bogan, Night
***
I am far from home and need directions but am afraid to ask. Rain has been falling
hard all night. I think about getting a taxi but remember I have no money.
An old man sings for money in a doorway, scraps of old clothes tied around his feet in place of shoes. My jacket is soaked through.
I walk for five minutes with my head down against
the wind before I pass anyone. He is tall and thin
and unsuitably dressed. His face
dark under a football cap and long hair. Without stopping
he turns and asks if I need
any help. I'm lost, I tell him. I'm looking for Smith Street.
He smiles before scanning the road for any sign of traffic
and half closes his eyes. I see the rain run down along
the contours of his throat. You're going in the direction for a start, he says. You wanna
head back that way. I can show you - I'm headed near there...People are
shouting and yelling down the street in another language. Garbage bags lie torn open
in the alley, bloated, blackened carcasses, scattering paper and pieces of old food
on the mottled pavement. He asks me my name. Noah, I say. Half-lying.
He tells me he tries to do at least one good deed a day, and pulls out a sugared donut
from a plastic bag. It's not safe to walk around here on your own, he says. Especially -
but cuts himself short and looks me up and down. I tell him I live in St.Albans -
it means nothing to him. Two middle-aged men under a pink and white umbrella dressed
in blue suits pass us. The taller one stops talking and looks me in the eye until he
vanishes behind us. I've been down 'ere three years, he says, since I come outta jail.
I take a water bottle I've filled with vodka and cordial and offer him some
to drink, uncertain what to feel. What happened, I ask him, and light a cigarette.
I killed the man who raped me, he says looking straight ahead. We turn a corner.
Cars roll by forcing plumes of white water from under their tires either
side of the black road. I see now how he limps, his left foot dragging slightly
behind him along the ground. Who was he? I ask. A gubba neighbour, he says,
looking down at me over his shoulder, taking the bottle from my hand. Seven years - It's not true what they say - No one gets out alive.
We cross a bridge over a river so dark it is invisible but for what it reflects. It is fast
and loud because of the rain. Are you Wurundjeri? I ask, for my sake, to show
him I'm not like the others. No, he says. I come from up north, Jagera Country, and shakes
my hand, pulling me into a half-embrace. There's Smith Street. It's late. I offer him
some cigarettes to show my gratitude, taking the crumpled packet carefully out of my pocket.
He smiles. If any cunt tries to start something, he says, turning back, tell 'em you're a mate of mine.
When I look back he's gone. The rain falls suddenly harder, and the gutters spew forth
black water. I stand with the rain and huge silence and feel tired. I know all this would go on,
though once I had believed time would cease. We are bred for slaughter, like the other animals.
Down the street a police car runs a stop sign lights flashing and no siren.
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