FroM ThE DESK OF :         Paul W Newman.
 

EXTRACT FROM:   The Suicide Forest

'The Phone Call'

He was just sitting there near the entrance to my apartment building, I could see him clearly enough under the street lamp. You wouldn’t exactly call it a smile but he appeared happy enough. I’d been walking for over an hour trying to tire myself out, the catnaps just weren’t cutting it and I badly needed a decent night’s sleep, not because I needed to get up early for work, I still had a few days off before returning, but I figured I should get back into some sort of routine, hence the night walk, stretch the legs a bit. The neighbourhood looks different at night – when you’re walking. People in cabs don’t know what they’re missing. You get the streets all to yourself – mostly – and besides, I wasn’t looking for conversation.

       He stood up when I was about ten paces away, his expression didn’t change, but that didn’t surprise me, I knew his sort well enough, I’d seen plenty of them in Japan. His little foxy face was looking right at me and it didn’t seem like he was going to move any time
soon, so I figured I should say something.
       ‘Are you lost, little guy,’ I said. ‘Haven’t seen you around here before.’
       He just padded up the three white steps to my building, turned and stood square in the doorway facing me. His genial expression gave nothing away.
       ‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out on your own?’ I said.
       He just cocked his head, stared, never made a sound. I looked up and down the street.
       Not a soul. No whistling. No calling. Nothing. I brushed past him and said over my shoulder,
       ‘Sorry, Buddy. But you’re on your own. Not my problem.’
       He obviously didn’t see it that way because he just followed me noiselessly up the stairs. When I put the key in the lock, he plonked down in the hallway and his little curled tail began to thump the carpet slowly.
       ‘Don’t take me for a soft touch,’ I said, and I reached down to ruffle his ear, which made the little tag on his collar rattle. ‘What have we got here,’ I angled the little metal disk to the light. ‘Kenzo, eh, and I’m guessing this must be your phone number? Okay, little guy, let’s get you inside and I’ll call your owner.’
       The key turned, the door swung inward, and in he strolled, not a bother on him.
       ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said, as if he needed telling. What wouldn’t I give to be that chilled. I ran the tap for ten seconds, then filled a cereal bowl with cold water and placed it on the kitchen tiles. He ducked straight in and as he lapped, I wrote the phone number on my hand. ‘Thirsty, eh? Me too. Mind if I join you?’
       A beer rattled from the fridge and I twisted the top off with a hiss, tipped a mouthful of suds and said, ‘Cheers,’ in his direction. The lapping stopped and he looked at me benignly before stooping again to the bowl and continuing noisily. I sat, clunked the bottle on the phone table, picked up the handset and dialled. While I waited with the urgent little purring of the bell in my ear, I considered the facts; Japanese breed of dog with a Japanese sounding name. The ringing stopped and a woman’s voice answered, a woman with a distinctly Asian accent. I’d put two and two together and come up with four, wasn’t I a clever boy.

       ‘Hello, I’m sorry to call you so late,’ I said. ‘But I thought you’d like to know, I have
your dog – Kenzo.’
       I took another swig while I waited for her to answer.
       ‘Who is this please?’
       I swallowed. ‘You don’t know me,’ I said. ‘Friends call me Murph.’
       There was a pause, then her voice, brittle, ‘Why you are calling me, please? I don’t think you a know me.’
       The lapping in the kitchen had stopped, I continued, ‘I know this must be confusing for you, and as I said, I apologise for calling at such a late hour.’
       ‘Not confusing,’ she said. ‘But why you are calling?’
       ‘Kenzo,’ I said. ‘I was out for a walk and when I came home, the little fella was just sitting there outside my door.’
       In my imagination; tumbleweed, crickets. ‘Look, I’m in Surry Hills, I’m more than happy to jump in a cab and bring him back to you tonight.’
       Not wanting to say I had diddly-squat to do and sleep wasn’t on the cards anyway.
       ‘Where abouts are you?’
       ‘Darlinghurst,’ she said, making it sound like two distinct words, then, ‘Ken – zo?’
       I swirled the beer, craned my neck toward the kitchen, ‘Yeah, like it’s no big deal, I can be there in no time. I don’t need a reward or anything, happy to be of service. I imagine you were worried sick.’
       Her tone turned icy, ‘Ken – zo. Why you are doing this?’
       ‘Excuse me, now I’m a little confused, I mean did he get out this evening, had you noticed he was gone?’
       The hell with it, I took a swig, held the handset away. When I returned it to my ear, I could hear her talking to someone in her native tongue, clipped sentences getting sharper and faster. I didn’t need an interpreter to realise she was angry. She raised her voice a couple of notches,
       ‘Why you are calling? You think this funny? You are cruel and stupid man.’
       My mouth opened but nothing came out. Like a truckie at a philosophy debate. Then.
       ‘Hang on a minute, Lady!’ I figured she was older than me. ‘I haven’t got a clue why you’re so pissed with me, pardon the French, but all I’m trying to do here is get your little dog back to you, is there something wrong with that?’
       Things were getting louder at her end, I could hear another voice, a young man, agitated. They were in an argument, talking over each other in angry, staccato tones, until I heard his voice shout, ‘Give me the phone.’
       I knew what was coming and I was ready.
       He said, ‘What the fuck are you playin’ at, buddy?’
       Nice. To the point. I took another swig, ‘I’m the guy that’s tryna do you a favour, I’ve got your dog, Kenzo an’. . .’
       ‘No, you don’t, shithead.’
       ‘What the fu. . .’
       ‘Buddy, get a life. Why are you ringing up old ladies and upsetting them?’
       I held both the phone and the bottle at arm’s length. I was far from okay with this, in fact, I was so far from okay with this, it would take the light from okay years to hit my butt. I pulled the phone in, sucked down a breath, spoke, ‘What in God’s name is your problem?’
       ‘I’ll tell you what my problem is. Kenzo’s dead, okay? D – E – D, dead, geddit?
       Kenzo was my grandma’s dog, she was out walking him six months ago when they both got cleaned up by a hit and run driver on William Street. My mother still hasn’t got over it so fuck you and your stupid, shit joke.’

       There was a click followed by a whirring sound and I dropped the phone back on its cradle as a colony of ants started tap dancing on my scalp. I hauled myself out of the chair and launched myself into the kitchen. There on the tiles, was the bowl of water, untouched, but no sign of the dog. I went room to room, checking under beds, inside cupboards, behind curtains, zip, nada. I swept again; he was nowhere to be found. I remember my grandmother once telling me that in Ireland, a phantom dog
       Is
       Called
       A
       Púca.