Free Wild Cat Falling by Mudrooroo Page A

pocket. Not bad, the bits I read of it. Not about anything much except a sort of senseless onward dying. Like life.
    I take it out and dip into it again.
    â€œNo, no. We could start all over again perhaps.”
    â€œThat should be easy.”
    â€œIt’s the start that’s difficult.”
    â€œYou can start from anything.”
    â€œYes, but you have to decide.”
    â€œTrue. . . .”
    Hell, don’t say there’s a sermon wrapped up in this somewhere! Maybe not . . .
    â€œThat’s the idea, let’s ask each other questions.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, at least there’s that?”
    â€œThat much less misery.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œWell? If we gave thanks for our mercies?”
    â€œWhat is terrible is to have thought.”
    â€œBut did that ever happen to us?”
    â€œWhere are all these corpses from?”
    â€œThese skeletons.”
    â€œTell me that.”
    â€œTrue. . . .”
    Good stuff this. Not even pretending to make sense but making it. Eyes read on and mind looks through some backroom window at a miserable boy on a sagging bed stacked with shabby paper-backs. Chair, wardrobe, rickety table, suitcase spilling out unwashed clothes, empty tins in dusty corners, empty bowl on a mass of half burned papers in a blackened fireplace, glossy black cockroach scuttling over a pink nude in an open magazine, dust particles floating like tiny worlds in a beam of sunlight from a window, lean cat silhouetted for a moment against the light. Three hungry days. No coin and tomorrow the rent. . . .
    Brrrh . . . brrrh . . . alarm noises shatter his sleep. He slaps at the clock and yawns, his mind slowly absorbing the fact that it is time for action.
    Cold hands tidy dishevelled clothes, pull on muddy boots and long black duffle coat, pocket a screw-driver and a cosh.
    His feet move reluctantly down the dark passageway and out the front door. He’s got to go through with it now. Got to get coin and some new threads. Nothing to worry about. Cased the joint yesterday. Should be a pushover.
    Raining and the night is moonless, starless, bleak.
    The best kind of night for a bust. Drops fall on his face, the trees sough and rock in a reeling jive. A lull and the trees seem to wait. Next number starts with a frantic rush and the dance goes on, moan of wind sax, drumming of striking teeming rain, flapping and twisting of wild demon shapes.
    The youth moves quietly, hood pulled up over his head, raindrops on eyelashes turning the street lights into rainbow shining gems. Running water splashes over his boot tops, soaks his socks and clamps his jeans damply to long native shanks.
    Swell night, real dark and everything fresh like new from the rain. Real beautiful in a way, all aheave with the storm. Real crazy-mad night for a night cat, too numb to feel the cold. He feels belonging in this dark, not like in the day, outcast and naked. Nigger- nigger-go-away-day.
    Avenue ends at the shopping centre and not a soul about. Faint light through a plate glass window. He peers inside, making out counter and stacked shelves. Grouse night. Everything’s grouse, except how the hell to reach the back of this place.
    He remembers a narrow alley and makes around to it, keeping close to the darker side. Loitering with intent! Hands feel out a six foot corrugated iron gate and clutch the top. Edge hurts but is too blunt to cut. One foot on block and padlock. He heaves up and straddles. Gate creaks. He drops, sinks into soft mud and crouches, listening with panting breath. Nothing but the rain and the wind. Desert boots ruined, but otherwise everything going fine. Hard for him to make out the selected shop from this side. He peers through a small window towards a faint light — no one there. Store-room stacked with cardboard cartons, faintly lit through panelled glass door of the front shop.
    He feels round the small window and finds that the putty is rotting and flaking off. If the