When Dogs Cry Read Free Page B

Never. Steve was more specific.
    â€˜Is Mum still workin’ herself into the ground?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Dad got plenty of work?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Sarah still goin’ out, getting smashed, and comin’ home reeking of club and smoke and cocktails?’
    â€˜Nah, she’s off that now. Always workin’ overtime shifts. She’s okay.’
    â€˜Rube still Mr Excitement? One girl after another? One fight after another?’
    â€˜Nah, there’s no-one game enough to fight him any more.’ Rube is without doubt one of the best fighters in this part of the city. He’s proved it. Countless times. ‘You’re right about the girls, though,’ I continued.
    â€˜Of course,’ he nodded, and that’s when things always get a little edgy—when it comes to the question of me.
    What could he possibly ask?
    â€˜Still got no mates Cameron?’
    â€˜Still completely alone Cameron?’
    â€˜Still wanderin’ the streets Cameron?’
    â€˜Still got your hands at work under the sheets Cameron?’
    No.
    Every time, he avoids it, just like the night I’m talking about.
    He asked, ‘And you?’ A breath. ‘Survivin’?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘Always.’
    After that there was more silence, till I asked him who he was playing against this weekend.
    As I told you earlier, Steve decided to have one last year of football. At the start of the season, he was begged to go back by his old team. They begged hardand, finally, he gave in, and they haven’t lost a game yet. That was Steve.
    That Monday night, I still had my words in my pocket, because I’d decided to carry them everywhere with me. They were still on that crumpled piece of paper, and often I would check that they were still there. For a moment, at Steve’s table, I imagined myself telling him about it. I saw myself, heard myself, felt myself explaining how it made me feel like I was worth it, like I was just
okay.
I said nothing though. Absolutely nothing, even as I thought,
I guess that’s what we all crave once in a while. Okayness. Alrightness.
It was a vision of looking inside a mirror and not wanting, not needing, because everything was there . . .
    With the words in my hands, that was how I felt.
    I nodded.
    At the prospect of it.
    â€˜What?’ Steve asked me.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Fair enough.’
    The phone rang.
    Steve: ‘Hello.’
    The other end: ‘Yeah, it’s me.’
    â€˜Who the hell’s
me
?’
    It was Rube.
    Steve knew it.
    I knew it.
    Even though I was a good distance from the phone, I could tell it was Rube, because he talks loud, especially on the phone.
    â€˜Is Cameron there?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Are y’s goin’ up the oval?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ at which point Steve looked over and I nodded. ‘Yes, we are,’ he answered.
    â€˜I’ll be up there in ten minutes.’
    â€˜Right. Bye.’
    â€˜Bye.’
    Secretly, I think I preferred it when it was only Steve and me who went. Rube was always brilliant, always starting something and mucking around, but with Steve and me, I enjoyed the quiet intensity of it. We might never have said a word—and I might have only kicked the ball back hard and straight, and let the dirt and smell of it thump onto my chest—but I loved the feeling of it, and the idea that I was part of something unspoken and true.
    Not that I never had moments like that with Rube. I had plenty of great moments with Rube. I guess it’s just that with Steve, you really have to earn things like that. You’d wait forever if you wanted one for free. Like I’ve said before, for other reasons, that’s Steve.
    On the way down to the ground floor a few minutes later, he said, ‘I’m still sore from yesterday’s game. I got belted in the ribs about five times.’
    At Steve’s games it was