Newt Run

  Ring; breakfast; powder

  The front door is thrown open and a second later J walks into the room. He's busy blowin on his hands, his big head shrouded in the hood of an oversized jacket.

  "You see that?" he asks, jerkin his thumb behind him.

  "See what?" I say.

  "That ring outside your door."

  "A ring?"

  "Yes. Don't you ever leave the house?"

  I stand up and walk ta the front. The air is cold enough ta sting but I haul it in and hold it as I stare at the ring a'blood on the pavement. In the center is a bird, or what used ta be a bird, a pigeon with its head torn off, the end a'its spine juttin from the gore that's all that's left a'its neck. One a'the bird's wings is broken, bent back at an angle that hurts ta look at, even if the thing is dead. There are a few scattered feathers lyin around that must a'been torn off while it went through its death throes, but if they were, all of them wound up inside the ring, and the ring is a perfect circle.

  "You think we should leave it or what?" J asks from the doorframe, his arms crossed over his wide chest.

  "I don't know."

  "I'm not inta this. At all. I mean, if the man feels strongly enough about his art ta take the heads off birds who am I ta say anythin, but why here?"

  "No idea. But I'm not gonna argue with him by gettin rid a'it. Not my job ta clean the pavement." I speak with a calm I don't feel; the rings've been croppin up all over town for months now, the greatest percentage a'them here in Northside. No one knows why, or who's makin them, but everyone's heard the rumours. The things are black omens, and windin up with one outside your door is as good as bein told ta watch your step.

  "Forget it. Let's get somethin ta eat," says J.

  "You walk by somethin like this and you're hungry?"

  "We all gotta eat C, same for me as for that sick fuck scrawlin the things. We're all slaves ta our appetites."

  I shake my head; there's no arguin with logic as solid as that, and I walk back inta the apartment ta grab my coat from the hook on the wall. On our way out we both give the ring a wide berth, although neither a'us is about ta admit that's what we're doin; J and I play casual so often that the act is flawless, somethin we move inta by force a'habit. By now we're both so good at it that we're almost able ta fool ourselves.

  Reachin the end a'the block, we pass through the tendrils a'steam issued from a faulty pipe in the gutter. At the corner, a stray dog is busy nosin for food in a garbage pile, the fur at its back rough and mangy, and raw, pink patches a'skin showin round its haunches. As we walk past, the dog looks up as if it's afraid we might steal its breakfast.

  Mano's is just ahead, a small cafe built inta the first floor of a gutted, three storey town house. As soon as I open the door I'm hit in the face by a blast a'hot, wet air: the place is a sauna. Beads a'water have made snail tracks along the off-white walls, and the ceilin is damp with condensation. As usual, it's near empty, just a couple old mine heads sittin at the counter nursin coffees, and J and I have our choice a'tables. We take one in the back and I undo my coat and throw it on the seat next ta me. J leaves his on, and starts inta blowin on his hands again, tryin ta warm up. It must be 30 degrees in here and the boy is still cold. I can't believe a body his size fails ta insulate, but the way he carries on it's like he's only ever an inch away from freezin.

  "You know it's hot in here right?" I ask. He ignores me, and calls out ta the kitchen. Terry pokes his head around the doorframe, his pale face drenched with sweat.

  "What?" he asks, as if we're botherin him by bein here or he's got somethin better ta do than serve us eggs.

  "Coffee," I say. "And two omelets."

  "Yeah, fine."

  Along with a couple mugs, Terry grabs the coffee pot from behind the counter. On his way over he stops ta top off the old miners, who nod at him.

  "C got a ring in front of his door," says J. Terry eyes me, archin his left brow.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "Best not wash it off," he tells me.

  "Why not?"

  "Best not ta is all."

  "Don't mess around with it," adds J.

  "Can't I even ask the question?"

  They ignore me.

  "Pipe broken again?" asks J instead.

  "You're a fuckin genius you know that?" says Terry. "What gave you that impression?"

  "The steam," says J, very straight.

  "Oh, the steam."

  "Why don't you get it fixed?"

  "Is he serious with this?" Terry asks me. I shrug.

  "I tried ta get it fixed," he says ta J, very patient, the way a teacher might explain the thing ta a child. "Several times. I'm on Bird ta replace it twice a week but all he gives me are excuses. Meanwhile it's like a fuckin rain forest in here."

  "It's not so bad," says J. Terry grunts.

  "I'll be back with the eggs in a minute," he says, and leaves us ta our coffees. J wraps his hands around his mug ta warm them, and then adds some cream and a large mound a'sugar. Meanwhile I'm already feelin the heat, and by the time Terry returns from the kitchen with our food, I'm nearly covered in sweat.

  "Hurry and finish that," I say ta J, noddin at the steamin omelet Terry sets down in front a'him. "We stay in here much longer I'll forget it's cold outside."

  "Breakfast should never be rushed," he says, but he eats it quick enough, and once he's done we get up and move ta the counter. By the sound of it Terry is in the back, hackin away at the broken pipe with a wrench or a hammer, and I set the cash down next ta the register. Lookin over at the two miners seated there, it's possible that a couple heads like them, old and worn-out and sodden as they are, might not be above stealin. Still, Terry knows I always pay my debts.

  "You see Terry gets that now," I say ta them, and the older a'the two salutes me with a single, wizened finger. The other one laughs shortly, and then falls inta a fit of coughin.

  J and I leave the cafe and within a minute my hair, damp from the steam bath in Mano's, is already beginnin ta freeze. J shivers inside his coat, brushin away beads a'condensation from his chest and arms.

  "If it wasn't for the coffee…" he mutters.

  "I told you ta take your coat off."

  By now the street is beginnin ta fill up, most a'the fruit stalls and bakeries already open. At one stand a boy is busy stackin a pile a'oranges on a milk crate while his boss looks on from the doorway, barely awake. A few laid-off heads are standin in the laneway next ta South Block, throwin dice, and just beyond them I clock R loungin on his own in front of a coffee stand. He catches my look and waves, his face breakin inta a nasty grin.

  "Shit," I mutter.

  "What?" asks J.

  "R."

  J grunts.

  "No choice I guess."

  We make our way over ta him. R slaps J's hand and leans in ta say somethin, too low for me ta catch it, as if he's got anythin ta say worth keepin a secret. Whatever it was, J laughs, but it comes out soundin forced, and R glances away. He finishes the last a'his coffee and throws the plastic cup onta the pile on the ground. The boy workin the stand frowns and spits.

  "Coffee?" he asks, swishin a blackened pot over the kerosene stove. Despite the cold, he's got the sleeves a'his jacket rolled up ta his elbows, his pale skin a trace-work a'old scars and burn marks.

  "Already had ours this morning," I tell him.

  The boy shrugs, and turns ta grab some rough sugar from a bag on the table. He throws a few finger-fulls into the pot and swirls it with an expert flick a'his wrist.

  "Well C," says R, smilin from under his wide, knit hat. "Where you headin this mornin?"

  "Where you think R?" I ask, very casual.

  "Where do I think?"

  "That's right."

  "Wouldn't want ta hazard a guess."

  "I see."

  "Wouldn't have the temerity."

  "The temerity."

  "That's right," he laughs. "That's right."

  "Cause I'm gettin ti
red a'you askin."

  He spreads his hands apart, tryin ta look innocent.

  "C, you're just too high-strung. That's your problem. Anyone ever tell you that?" he says, and J laughs, more naturally this time.

  "Come on motherfucker," I say, startin out. R offers his hand and J slaps it before followin after me.

  We take the path behind the tenements, the pavement growin worse by degrees until it gives up altogether, surrenderin ta a wide tract a'hard-packed dirt. At the side a'the path an old woman is grillin an ear a'corn over an open flame. She grins at us, her mouth almost entirely free a'teeth, and I wonder how she thinks she's gonna manage ta gum down that corn. Past the last tower the old trail begins ta climb, and we follow it inta the hills. Behind me, I can hear J mutterin ta himself.

  "If we used the lift like normal people instead a'this bullshit..."

  "You want ta explain ta the boy operatin it why we're headin ta the mines when we're not miners?" I ask, without turnin around.

  "I'm just sayin."

  "Yeah."

  "That's all."

  "Well don't."

  Gradually the slope begins ta level out as it merges with a narrow ridge. The wind is stronger up here, howlin through the hills, and cold enough ta cut the skin. On our left is a thick growth a'pines, and on the right the Northside valley. At this height we're well clear a'the tenements. From here they form a staggered roofscape a'tar paper and rusted pipes, a few loose coils a'steam driftin up ta die in the frigid air. Further on, the sun is breakin free of a high bank a'clouds.

  The ridge curves ta the left, and I can just make out Art, standin with his back ta a rough outcrop a'stone. As we approach, he waves at us and takes out a pack a'cigarettes. He sticks one in his mouth but can't get the thing lit for the wind. It isn't until J cups his hands around the lighter that the flame catches.

  "Thanks," mutters Art.

  "You got another one a'those?" asks J. Art hands him the pack.

  "You need one?" he says ta me

  "No."

  Art sniffs, and stamps a few times in the dirt, tryin ta warm his feet. He's wearin a thin red jacket that's much too light for the season, and I guess some sales girl's tits must a'talked him inta buyin it.

  "Had some trouble with the foreman," he announces.

  "Yeah?"

  "Nothin major. Just asked where I was headin. It's not a big thing, seein as I have ta make the rounds sometime, but it means he's watchin me…" He pauses, his small eyes dartin nervously.

  "And?"

  "And I think we need ta find another place ta meet."

  "Fuck," says J, around a mouthful a'smoke. "We said that from the start didn't we? That this outdoor shit was no good for anyone. It was you who told us ta meet out here. Said this was a bad idea, didn't I?"

  "It was fine," Art insists. "And it's better ta get the stuff out in the middle a'the day when everyone's busy."

  "Was fine."

  "That's right. All a'this is just gettin a little hot."

  He won't meet J's eyes, or mine, shiftin his weight back and forth on the balls a'his feet.

  "A little hot," says J. He flicks what's left a'his smoke onta the ground. Art shrugs. I take out the money and hand it ta him.

  "We'll find another place," I say. "Let me think on it."

  He nods and reaches inta his bag for the package.

  "You just let him think on it," says J, stickin his index finger inta Art's bony shoulder. Art clears the phlegm from the back of his throat and spits. J sucks on his front teeth, eyein him. I stuff the package under my coat and start back down the path the way we came.

  It sits in the center a'the table, a mount a'rust orange powder on a sheet a'wrinkled tin foil.

  "Seems like less than last week," says J.

  "I weighed it."

  J grunts, and sets inta rollin himself a smoke. I dip my finger in the powder and stick it in my mouth, the bitter, metallic taste spreadin quickly over my tongue, and that other flavour I can never place, organic, and nearly rotten.

  "You don't want any?" I ask J, for maybe the fiftieth time.

  "Don't need it," he responds. He puts the smoke in his mouth and lights it, leanin back in his seat. "Never thought I'd say this, but Art is right. We got ta start bein more careful. Things are gettin tight up there, have been for a while, and now with the Institute buyin up as much powder as they can get their hands on."

  "We'll find somewhere else ta meet. Stuff's too valuable ta give up on, and it's not even illegal. Anyway, what are a bunch a'scientists gonna do? Write a paper on us?"

  He shrugs.

  "Who knows? It's not like there's anyone ta stop them, not with things the way they are in the capital, and the cops."

  "It's fine," I say, dippin inta the powder again.

  "What do you think the Institute wants with so much powder anyway?"

  "No idea," I answer, not wantin ta get inta it. I've got some thoughts on the subject, but there's no sense talkin about it now. It'll all come out sooner or later. Everythin always does.

  Through the doorframe, I watch as Auld passes inta the kitchen.

  "So how do we get it out?" asks J.

  "We go at night."

  "You want ta go inta the mines at night?"

  "We've done it before."

  Auld looks at me across the room. In the dyin light, the line that cuts the right side a'his face is a deep, midnight purple.

  "We were stupid before," remarks J.

  "We're not stupid now?"

  Auld turns and walks out a'the kitchen. J leans forward, starin at me.

  "I know what you're thinkin," he says.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Look," he goes on. "I know how it is for you, but that was a long time ago. If you're still carryin that shit around, now's the time ta let it go."

  "Yeah," I say, walkin ta the kitchen. "You're right. You're a real fountain a'wisdom you know that?"

  "Where you goin?" he asks.

  "Ta make a sandwich," I say. "You want one?"

  He leans back in his chair.

  "Very kind," he says.