Chapter Text
According to the car’s console, Buster’s destination was on his right. He could see a rolling grass incline dotted with trees and coiling shrubs, but more importantly than that, it was furrowed with crooked tracks of chewed-up muck left by Miss Crawly’s rental car. He followed her example, the engine growling as he hit rickety ground, the rooftop whipped by low tree branches. Then, without warning, the appearance of a hastily assembled NO TRESPASSING sign warned the end of the road.
Buster cried out in surprise, hit the brakes and put the car into park, the momentum flinging him into the steering wheel. He shook himself off then wound down the window and looked out, ears perked with interest. Coiled with barbed wire, and supported by a line of (he hoped) empty oil drums, the intent of the sign was clear: Clay Calloway really didn’t want any visitors.
But it was nothing a little climbing couldn’t solve.
After hopping out of the car, Buster easily made the leap up and over the wooden frame. He was then brought face-to-face with his next obstacle: a sprawling carpet of thickets.
There was only one thing for it.
If he couldn’t go around the plants, he would have to go through them...
Buster found a weak point. A break in the leaves where the branches were angled enough in either direction for him to squeeze into the next available space.
Being on the smaller side did sometimes have its advantages.
His pulse instinctively picked up as he left behind the safety of open space for the confines of the undergrowth. Stray, sharp twigs pricked at his ears and face, the air rough with the taste of damp soil. The branches gathered ever-closer, forcing him to duck and crawl with his ears as flat to his head as he could get them. He didn’t even want to think about the state his suit would be in by the end. It wouldn’t do to meet the Clay Calloway covered in mud and grass and with his clothes full of holes. Not when he was propositioning him a place on the biggest show of his career. Maybe even of both of their careers; clearly Mr Calloway had never performed for Mr Crystal in Redshore before. It had been Gunter’s absent-minded name-dropping that had bought Crystal’s attention.
An involuntary shiver crept up Buster’s spine. Going back now was not an option. Not without the star he had promised.
A glimmer of sunlight permeated the shrubs at their furthest point. Buster quickened his pace, arms up protectively. In a few quick strides, lashing, sharp leaves were replaced with a searing bright light. Buster spat the grass from his mouth and did what he could to tidy up his fur, arrested by the sudden appearance of Clay Calloway’s impressive estate.
Tall, iron bars surrounded the perimeter of an immense red-roofed and white-painted mansion. It overlooked a glittering lake, cosseted by a forest of fir trees and the hulk of a mountain on the other side. Buster rushed to the wrought iron gates and stood on his tiptoes to see through the gaps. There was somebody there, as luck would have it.
Mr Calloway himself.
He was resting at the roots of an old tree and tending to a motorcycle, bathed in shade and intently focused. Cats - big or small - usually had better than average hearing; at school, Buster and his friends had learnt to bandy their conversations around the angling of their teacher’s ears. An old, but keen serval, they had very rarely succeeded at not being caught.
‘Mr Calloway,’ Buster called cheerfully.
Clay lifted his head. The heavy scowl that had set his features as he worked did not lift with it.
‘Go away!’
Buster stretched to see better. ‘No, please - I - I - I just want to talk to you for one minute! That’s all!’
Not-hearing on purpose this time, Clay returned to his task. The valley was so quiet Buster could pick out the gentle clinking of his tools as he sorted and exchanged them. Disappointed, but not defeated, Buster glanced around for an alternative way in. Once Clay heard him out, he would change his mind. He would see the potential of Out of This World - not just as an amazing show, but as his chance to take a much-needed step back into the limelight.
The bars on the perimeter fence were widely-spaced. It would be a squeeze, but Buster was sure he would fit between them if he tried. He approached, using a lip in the bricks to bring himself high enough to reach.
‘One minute of your time, Mr Calloway,’ he persisted as he stretched upwards, ‘that’s all I ask!’
‘No!’ he heard Clay shout. ‘Stay off the fence!’
He was up on his feet, swiping at the air in temper, but it was Buster’s turn not to listen.
He grabbed hold of the bars and felt the shock before he understood it. Muscles tight around his bones, nerves strung out in agony, he collapsed into darkness to the distant sound of birdsong and fraught shouting. He tried to sit up and instead fell into himself. Leaden, and sinking now, down, down, down, into stunning, profound silence...
Clay sprinted for the fence, slipping through the gates before they had fully withdrawn. His approach was swift, but cautious. He kept his paws up, trembling all over.
‘I’ve killed him,’ he said aloud. ‘Ruby, I think I’ve killed him.’
He dropped to his knees, watching for even the most imperceptible of movements. Koalas were tiny, tinier than he had ever known having never met one before. If this one was breathing at all, it was too shallow to see, especially under his stiff blue suit and crisp shirt.
Ruby would know what to do. She would have picked him up already, cradled him, checked him over, found a way to read for life signs. Called the right animals. Found someone to help. But if all of his years of solitude had taught Clay anything, it was that there were few things anyone could do for him that he couldn’t already do for himself.
Swallowing to unstick his throat, Clay curled a claw under the koala’s chin, which coaxed a frown and a soft, pained moan out of him. Even comatose, he was likely in unimaginable pain. There were enough volts in that fence to fell a rhino. Clay had made sure of it.
‘Stupid,’ he commented under his breath.
Partly at the koala, partly at himself. Years and years had gone by without a single disturbance. Then in just over two weeks, he had not only had to fend off his own lawyers, but an old, goggle-eyed lizard, and whoever this guy was supposed to be. He really ought to have put up a sign, but the first one at the valley’s entrance and the untended-to terrain was supposed to be deterrent enough.
Sighing, Clay very carefully scooped the koala up in his paws. His head lolled, his entire body limp with unconsciousness. For a moment, Clay pondered the pros and cons of just leaving his unwanted guest out where he had fallen to wake up in his own time and walk the injury off.
The thought was immediately chased up by one of Ruby’s disapproving frowns.
Of course she wasn’t there. Not in front of him, not at his side, but always, always on his mind... That was the only place she lived now. Between his indecisions, and in the sadness around the edges of every birthday, milestone, and holiday.
No… Ruby wouldn’t see someone in need left without help.
So Clay couldn’t either.
Buster blinked to clear his vision. Tried to sit up, which nudged his brain against the walls of his skull, so he flopped down again, his skin bruise-tender. He hissed, cringing at how sore his hands were. There were bandages wrapped around his palms which didn’t make sense, but then nothing else did either. The darkness of the room, its charcoal smell, the rich, russet and accented green tones of its furniture. Nothing was familiar, and for all his heartbeat was a dull, quick, thump-thump-thumping at his ribs, he was too hurt-sick and exhausted to move.
Involuntarily, he thought of Mr Crystal. The sharp white of his teeth, the ease with which his claws had shredded through the leather top of his desk.
Practice flesh.
Buster swallowed, but not quickly enough to stop the whimper that trembled out of him. A sudden movement at his back caught his ears. He tried to turn around, but went stiff at the pain. Whoever was there uttered a gruff, thoughtful hum which was a little too close to a growl, and Buster flinched in anticipation.
‘So you’re finally awake.’
Not Mr Crystal’s voice. Stunned, Buster used the cushion at his back as leverage to turn himself around. And came face-to-face with Clay Calloway. His eyes were sharp and unkind, and in avoidance of being looked at, he turned inward again, towards the fireplace. The logs crackled softly, the fine hairs of his mane touched by the firelight.
‘W-What time is it?’ Buster asked. ‘What day?’
‘The same day you nearly killed yourself outside of my house,’ Clay responded gruffly.
The memory struck in him like a match. Buster remembered his attempt to climb the fence. Then nothing after that. He looked down at his hands. They hurt too much to lay in his lap, so he was stuck awkwardly holding them out, not sure of what to say or what to do. If this was Clay Calloway’s house, hours after he had initially arrived, then he had already overstayed his welcome. The time to mention what he had come to talk about was running dangerously thin.
‘A-Actually, Mr Calloway, I - I came here to ask you for a favour...’
Clay growled a laugh. ‘A bit late for that, don’t you think?’
‘I’m putting on a show for Mr Crystal,’ Buster persisted, ‘y-you know, the Jimmy Crystal. He owns a - a theatre in -’
‘Redshore City,’ Clay filled in, turning his chair so that they could see eye-to-eye. ‘Yes. I know of him.’
Taking his interest as encouragement, Buster scooted closer, ignoring his aches. ‘Well… The show,’ he said, ‘it’s called Out Of This World , and Mr Crystal - he’s a big fan of yours. He loves your songs. We all do.’
Clay flexed his claws, digging them into the fabric of his armchair. Buster shivered at the noise of the impression, and the rest of his spiel tumbled out of him, clumsy, and jittery, and all-underconfident.
‘S-So… we thought it’d be a - a fantastic idea if you could play one of your songs to close the show, and -’
‘Not on your life.’
Buster cringed at the accuracy of his slight. ‘Please, Mr Calloway - you - you don’t realise how much it would mean to have you in our show -’
‘Enough.’
A growl chased the word out, and Buster withdrew, ears drooping, heart quivering, his bandaged, useless hands all he had to protect himself with. Clay looked away, scowling, before easing out of his chair to approach.
‘Here,’ he muttered. ‘Your friend left this on my property.’
He dropped Miss Crawly’s lost glass eye onto Buster’s lap, then motioned to leave.
‘And I want you gone in the morning.’
He crossed the room in only a few strides, slamming the door after himself. The sound pulled at Buster’s already frayed nerves, quick, sharp breaths his only answer for a while in the pocket of quiet he had been left in. Feeling weak, and awash with disappointment, Buster sank against the sofa cushion at his back.
On a logical level, he knew he was not in front of Mr Crystal. He was far, far from his office, out of his sights, and safer than he might ever be in Redshore. Yet Clay Calloway was twice Jimmy’s size. Had claws just as sharp, and the teeth to match.
And Buster was all alone with him.
In a house purposely built to be as far away from civilisation as possible.
His heartbeat picked up again, his blood thinning; he was seriously starting to wish he had accepted Ash’s plea to join him. But after seeing the state Miss Crawly had returned to them in, Buster couldn’t justify putting Ash in the way of the same danger. She was headstrong - mature beyond her years - but still a teenager. However tenuous, he had a duty of care towards all of the kids he employed at the theatre. Even Ash, despite her independence, and even though she was only on-loan to him until they were done in Redshore.
Buster closed his eyes tight. Focused on the gentle crackling of the fireplace until all of his lurching, panicky feelings were smoothed out. It was then that he realised he had been clenching his fists. His palms were raw with pain when he uncurled his fingers.
A residual aching bruised him further. A reminder that liked to press its knuckles into the left side of his chest whenever he was frightened or hurt: that the one person he wished could be there, never could be.
Not anymore.
When his dad had died, it was like a crater had eaten into the world under his feet. Life continued on in a ceaseless, mindless orbit, and the only thing he heard from those circling the outskirts whilst he scrambled for a way out was how sorry they were.
Terrified, and vengeful, sinking further into the pit’s darkest centre, the last thing he wanted to hear was sorry. The only person in the world he ever wanted was suddenly, irrevocably lost to him, the reminder alone enough to push him off-axis again and again, days of imbalance tripping into weeks, and then months, and finally years, whereby after clumsy, painful, numbing practice, he learnt how to scale the sides of the crater.
The climb got easier over time.
So routine that it was almost mundane.
And then he would lose his footing, and he would be in the basin all over again. Wallowing. Mentally back in the apartment he grew up in with its synthetic cherry car-wash-soap smell, taunted by nostalgic television fuzz and the sound of his dad’s soft laughter, muffled, like it was coming from another room. A room he was perpetually on the wrong side of.
Slinking down from the bed Clay had made for him, Buster bypassed the low coffee table with its offering of a mug of water, and dragged himself to the green-draped windows. The sky was full of stars, the moon’s reflection rippling out on the lake’s surface. Cold air from outside diffused through the glass. Buster shivered, finally realising with a brush against the fur on his arms that his blazer was missing. And his bowtie. A tentative exploration of his neck said as much.
He examined the bandages Clay had neatly wrapped around his palms. Overwhelming proof of the gentleness in him.
Buster turned in search of a clock, and found instead photographs on a nearby console table. Far too small, and his fingers still in too much pain to take the frames in hand, Buster approached on his tiptoes and settled for observing them from below.
Clay featured in one of them, and a lioness in both. The ease with which they fit together in the shared picture spoke of true companionship. She was caught mid-laugh, her chin ducked and her small, rounded ears pulled back, eyes closed in demure surprise. Clay had an arm wrapped protectively around her back. He was looking down into her face, warmed through with love. To him, she was the surprise.
Somewhere out of the whirlwind of their first few hours in Redshore, Buster recalled Ash’s concern about Clay’s whereabouts. Her comment that after his wife had died, nobody had seen or heard from him since.
How the loss had forced him into seclusion...
A knock disturbed the fog he had cocooned himself in. Hurting too much to leave it, Buster wrapped himself tighter in his blankets. The knock persisted. Got louder, and heavier, and then the yelling started.
‘Buster! Hey! Are you in there?’ More knocking. A short, considering pause. ‘If you don’t answer, I’m gonna break down the door.’ Another brief silence. ‘Not by myself, obviously, but I’ll - I’ll call someone!’
The threat on the door’s life was enough to stir Buster out of bed. He brought the blankets with him, trudging out of his dad’s bedroom, down the hall, around the corner, and into the main area. An island bar separated the living room from the kitchen. That was as far as Buster got. He fell against the chipped veneer, his ear fluff a good cushion against the splinters in the worn panels.
‘I know you’re here,’ came Eddie’s voice again through the door, softer this time. ‘Please say something. So I know you’re...’ He couldn’t finish the sentence. Uttered only a taut, ‘Oh, my God...’
‘I’m fine,’ Buster managed.
His tone was heavy with the effort of having to speak, and Eddie didn’t disguise his relieved annoyance in return.
‘Then could you let me in? Do you know how long I’ve been out here? I’ve been worried sick!’ He said the rest through his teeth. ‘And that creepy fox down the hall keeps staring at me.’
‘The door’s open , Eddie.’
‘Oh.’ After trying the handle, Eddie stood there, unamused, as the door creaked ajar. He cast a cautious glance behind himself, then rushed inside. ‘I didn’t think to try, ‘cause, you know, most normal folks? They have security systems and alarms.’
Buster waved away his concern, heading for the sofa as Eddie reached to pull the chain lock into place.
‘Most normal folks don’t have security systems, Eddie. My dad never locked the door when he went out. I don’t even know where the key is.’
He clambered onto the sofa, then dropped onto his side, the blanket a hood around his ears. Just saying the word dad had put a knot in his throat. He coughed to dislodge it.
Eddie wandered cautiously into the living room. Aware he was out of place, and yet persisting anyway.
‘Kinda dark in here.’ He shifted his gaze to the TV. ‘Want me to turn that on for you?’
Not daring to speak in case his voice cracked under the weight of his own sadness, Buster shook his head.
‘OK. That’s fine.’ Eddie took up the seat beside him. ‘We can just sit here or whatever if that’s what you want.’
Buster glared at him via the reflection in the television screen. He was kicking his legs off-beat to the dripping of the kitchen tap, his arms casually crossed on the exposed wool at his stomach. His eyes betrayed his anxiety; he was examining every inch of the furniture. Frantic in thought about what he should say, probably. If he was not so afraid of the dam breaking, of all his rage, and fear, and hopelessness pouring out of him in the sound of his voice, Buster would tell him that all he wanted to hear was nothing.
He didn’t want apologies. He didn’t want to be in company. He wanted to go to bed so he could force himself back to sleep. That was the only state of being he could be in where it didn’t matter if his dad was dead. Time would pass anyway, and he didn’t have to experience any of it.
Just as he was thinking about how to phrase the request, Eddie stretched, and sat up straighter.
‘The theatre was the first place I went, by the way. Miss Crawly has everyone rehearsing.’ He chuckled softly. ‘She was actually pretty good at it. Giving directions, I mean. I watched for a little while. Just until she was free. Looks pretty good. The show.’
An acknowledging nod was all Buster gave.
‘Yeah. I’ve been there every day for the past two weeks. I thought if you were gonna be anywhere, it’d be there, but Miss Crawly - she kept saying you were busy in your office? And she wouldn’t let me go up to see you? And you weren’t answering your phone, so… I figured I’d try here instead.’ Eddie tilted his head in query. ‘Did I get lucky, or have you been here the whole time?’
Buster clenched his fists and pressed them to his eyes. The truth was he had been at work ever since. Cycled to the theatre from the hospital about as fast as he’d cycled when he’d received the call. The night slowed then erased the traffic, the blurry, spotlight glow of the streetlamps his only company. He couldn’t go home, not without his dad, and so it was Miss Crawly who woke him up the next morning, continuing the tradition of her bustling into his office to check in for the day.
Only on this, their first, unrehearsed run of a status-quo changing scene, she didn’t find him in his usual chair because he was still in the bottom drawer of his desk, which, fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how one looked at it), was the perfect space for an animal of his size to fit into. Dead to the world, he hadn’t anticipated her arrival; he was usually up and working hours before she got there.
After tidying his hair and straightening his suit, Buster encountered her minutes later in front of her own desk.
Surprise!
So easily bought with the lie that she must have missed him, just didn’t see him on account of her missing eye and him being so short; easy mistake. No hard feelings. And yes, everything was fine, thank you very much, Miss Crawly. Very sad news indeed. But the show must go on. Time to open the doors. There were rehearsals to prepare for, flyers to make, posters to design, set pieces to construct, ticket prices to count up, spreadsheets to fill in, cast and crew to be paid, and he didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone, not for anything.
Each day docked his usually rigid and much-needed sleep routine by a couple of hours, until he wasn’t sleeping at all, and barely eating, and by the end of the week, after the funeral, he didn’t so much as spring out of his desk drawer as fall out of it. Miss Crawly plodded her way to him in her usual fashion, not noticing he was on the floor until she had already stood on one of his ears. She panicked. Apologised. Helped him up whilst he laughed it off; if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t even felt it.
After his umpteenth coffee in however many hours - pulse already thudding aloud in his head - they had front row seats to a test run of the music being composed for the big show. The whole band was there. Buster’s ears flicked, tic-like, and his hands were clammy and shaking. He clasped them together and ducked his head to read over notes he hadn’t yet written.
The cellists positioned their bows. A delicate wrist movement angled the composer’s baton and set off the first few notes of the piano, tugging a sadness up into Buster’s throat along with it.
He turned his head, shivering. Asked them - no, more like slurred at them to stop, but the rest of the strings were leaning in, and then the drums were rumbling, and he couldn’t breathe properly, and he was pretty sure he was going to be sick, so to the tune of the first song dying out and the composer and Miss Crawly panic-asking what was wrong, he fled up the aisle and out of the main doors.
He scrambled into his office like it was the only place left in the building with oxygen. After closing the door, he slumped against it, heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs.
Miss Crawly eventually came looking. Caught him curled up under his desk, hyperventilating in favour of crying.
I - I - I don’t know what’s - he remembered trying to say, I’m... I’m...
And her steady, easy response. You need to rest, Mr Moon...
Yes. Maybe he should take a rest day. Just one. She could manage things on her own for that long, right? Only one day.
‘Eddie,’ Buster said, now well into day three, ‘Can you please leave?’
His ears turned at the sound of Buster’s voice. ‘But I only just got here.’
‘Eddie…’
‘At least let me make you something to eat.’
He didn’t wait for an answer. In the time it took Buster to sit up, he was already in the kitchen, carving at the shadows with the light from the refrigerator. Eddie pressed the door shut as quickly as he’d opened it. There was nothing in there he could shove into a microwave, fill up with hot water, or leave unattended in the oven; Buster’s dad had always liked to cook. He bought ingredients, not meals. Or at least he had done. Just over two weeks ago.
‘How about take out?’ Eddie offered nervously. ‘My treat.’
Buster bundled himself up again and rolled over. ‘Eddie, please...’
A laugh bubbled out of him as he wandered back into the living room, his phone already in hand. ‘Well, you have to eat something.’ He sobered again. ‘Buster, you look awful. Here.’ He waved his phone. ‘Let me help.’
‘Do you know how you can help?’ Buster snapped, sitting up again so that he could look him in the face. ‘By leaving, like I asked.’
He pulled his blankets around himself tighter and nestled into the chair cushions, not wanting to see Eddie’s answering expression. Not because he didn’t care, but because he couldn’t, because there was already so much hurting inside of him that there wasn’t room for anything else.
‘Fine,’ Eddie said, his voice low enough to break.
Buster angled his ears, listening for the sound of his retreating footsteps. He held in the urge to cry as though it were his breath, his throat clawed and his chest raked with it, sore as an open wound. Eddie’s footfalls did come, but they drew closer, not further away. The sofa cushions sank under his weight. Buster drew his arms around his head, his first sob a gasping for air.
‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Eddie attempted, like he was talking to a child. ‘It’ll be alright.’ He dared a pat to Buster’s back, withdrawing again when he flinched. ‘I...’ He uttered a lost sound. ‘I’ll be here, okay? I’ll just... I’ll be right here… I promise…’
Not tired enough to sleep, Buster waited at the bay window for dawn to warm the sky. The blanket Clay had given him was wrapped around his shoulders.
He often wondered about a life in which he and Eddie hadn’t stayed friends. How perhaps a darkening of his tone, a different choice of words, or the flashing of his then sharper, unfiled claws might have chased Eddie from his dad’s apartment for good.
Remind me never to make you angry, he had once joked when they were college-aged, and a play fight had turned into an accidental mauling of Eddie’s arm.
Eddie was a good friend and always had been, even if their lives had taken two very different paths since the opening of The New Moon Theatre under his Nana’s investment. But that day he had invaded Buster’s dad’s apartment could have put an end to their friendship had Buster not been in such a desperate, albeit reluctant need for his company, and had Eddie not been so emotionally resilient.
It certainly wasn’t the last time he had made an attempt at comfort only for Buster to ward him off. There were no easy answers for grief. The reassuring presence of a friend could be much-needed one day, or intolerable the next.
Some emotions… They were just too ugly to share.
The grass was still dew-dappled when Clay made his appearance, the sky a bright, early-morning blue. He was still wearing the flannel, jeans, and red-corduroy jacket combo Buster had met him in. Stalking across his meticulously tended-to garden, his profile was impressive. He kept his head lowered, a regal power to his stride.
Buster leapt from the window and set about finding a way outside, pleased that Calloway - whether he had built the place himself, or merely been involved in its design - favoured a simplistic architectural sense. Large, entrance doors lit up the chequered hallway outside of the living room, inviting Buster out onto the porch and down the stairs into the garden.
Clay was out of sight, so whilst Buster waited for him to reappear, he admired the array of flowers, bushes, and expertly shaped hedges that made up the courtyard’s colourful boundary. A light perfume tinged the morning breeze, roughened by the scent of the wild grass, trimmed neat right down to the lip of the lake. The water was still, fresh-smelling, and shimmering with sunlight. Impossibly large plant pots brimming with roses were dotted around the rest of the estate. Buster stood next to one with the awareness that it was so big he could probably curl up and sleep in it, if not for all of the thorns, of course.
The soft press of a boot in mud perked Buster’s ears right up. Clay saw him out of the corner of his eye, but continued on towards the security gates as though he hadn’t. Tool box in hand, and pieces of a painted, wooden sign under his arm, he swayed his tail, clearly already irritated.
Buster had been exposed to grumpy customers from a young age. Many of his summer vacations were spent at his dad’s various car-washing jobs, until he had been able to afford a portacabin office at his own chosen intersection. From the office floor, colouring in, or entertaining himself with games of pretend with sponges and soap suds out on the tarmac, Buster had watched his father turn negative encounters into positive ones time and time again with his relentless optimism, and his own brand of goofy, light-hearted humour.
Kill ‘em with kindness, he had imparted one day, after a particularly brutal shouting-down-to over whether the scratch in someone’s paint job had been there before or after his washing of the car. Smile, and the world will smile back!
‘Mr Calloway!’ Buster called, waving as he ran for him. ‘Good morning!’
He huffed a growl in greeting.
‘Do you need any help? Can I get that for you?’
‘Just stay out from under my feet,’ Clay rumbled. ‘Wouldn’t want to step on you.’
‘No worries. I’ll be careful.’
Buster skirted around Clay’s swaying walk. He had to run just to keep up, and all the while his mind whirred with several possible conversation openers.
‘The gates are over there,’ said Clay, beating him to it. He pointed with his toolbox, one claw lifted in the aimed-for direction. ‘Should open for you just fine.’
‘W-Well, before I go, Mr Calloway, I really ought to thank you for inviting me into your home.’
‘Hmph.’ He stooped to put down the tool box. ‘Hardly invited. Should’ve left you out there. I would’ve been within my rights. But… the last thing I need is more of you turning up.’
He dropped the pieces of the sign with a clatter, the white paint spelling out another warning complete with finely painted white bolts to emphasise the point: BEWARE ELECTRIC FENCE.
‘Ah,’ Buster sounded, ‘but you didn’t leave me out there. And I… I really appreciate it.’
‘Pass me that hammer.’
Clay gestured to the toolbox. He was already driving the sign’s pointed stake into the grass, but still had to nail the front down.
‘Yes, sir,’ Buster said, doing exactly as he had been told.
The ache in his hands was not so bad anymore. Gripping and grasping was no problem. It was the weight of the thing pressing the bandage fibres against his tender skin that plucked a nauseating sweat to the back of his neck. Nevertheless, he dragged the hammer over, its prongs trowelling through the grass. Clay snatched it from him, the nails he needed already between his teeth.
‘M-Mr Calloway,’ Buster attempted, ‘if you don’t mind my asking, when was the last time you performed?’
‘I do mind you asking.’
‘Huh. Well, you know, my dad always used to say, “Learn a skill and you’ll never forget it!”’
Clay put his back to Buster, knelt in front of his sign, and set about hammering. The noise was no deterrent. Buster raised his voice, circling around so that Clay would still see him.
‘Sure, you might be a little rusty at first, but once you start doing -’
Clay threw down the hammer so that Buster had to dart aside to avoid it.
‘Mallet,’ he demanded, paw out ready.
‘Sure,’ Buster said. He located the mallet. ‘So the thing is, you don’t have to be afraid,’ he went on as he hauled it over, ‘there’ll be time to rehearse, and the cast - you’ll - you’ll love them. I just know it.’
With the mallet in hand, Clay stood up, this time approaching the sign from behind so that, again, Buster was out of his sights. As he whacked at the stake, securing it into the earth, Buster walked rings around him, lost in his own convincing.
‘First we have the lovely Rosita. She’s our main star, and - and Ash! Oh, you have to meet Ash. She’s a fantastic singer, even better songwriter; and speaking of singing, wait until you hear Meena. A-And Johnny; you know there’s not a thing that kid can’t do. Gunter - what amazing stage presence! And a - an idea machine! You won’t meet another guy like him! H-honestly, th-this is gonna be the greatest show I have ever made!’
Clay was done with the mallet. He threw it with force into the toolbox.
‘Whoa,’ Buster chirped, arms drawn in, chest heaving with the adrenaline of nearly being hit a second time.
He didn’t hold it against Calloway, since he seemed to at least be listening. Perhaps he was even more interested than he was letting on.
‘And when you see the sets,’ Buster persisted, not wanting to be distracted, ‘and the -’
‘Turn on that tap for me,’ Clay muttered.
‘Tap?’ Buster repeated. ‘Uh, sure.’
He trotted over quickly, determined to keep his train of thought. Turned the spigot. ‘So, anyway -’
His ears fell in surprise at the sight of Clay aiming the hose at him. The water jet hit like a swinging pole. Knocked him right off his feet, propelling him in a backwards tumble down the embankment towards the lake. As he rolled to a stop in a bay of dry silt, aching all over, he heard Clay’s raucous laughter.
Up on all fours, Buster shook out his fur and pawed the sand from his mouth. This was it. His only chance. He couldn’t back down now.
Dusting off his clothes, Buster trotted up the bank, managing to catch Clay mid-wander towards the next pot of roses, hose still in hand.
‘I promise,’ he said, a little breathless, ‘this is going to be the most wonderful - I mean, fantastic show ever. A-And the ending? Oh, boy. I mean, i-it’s gonna end with you, and your song -’
Leaning down to his eye-level, Clay shut him up with a low, threatening growl. The sound slunk between Buster’s bones. Optimism and good-humour was one thing, but there were some animals not worth pushing past the point of irritation. It was Clay in front of him, tail twitching, eyes hard, but all Buster could see was the raking of Mr Crystal’s claws over his desk, the pinprick rage in his eyes, his raised hackles.
‘You don’t wanna do the show,’ Buster conceded.
Clay righted himself. Shrugged. ‘Besides… Lost my singing voice, so…’
He aimed the hose at the plant pot, drenching the soil beneath the flower heads.
‘I… I know the feeling,’ Buster said. He rubbed at the wet fur on his face, blinked the water out of his eyes. ‘I saw the photographs. I-In your living room. Of you, and your wife -’
‘Okay,’ Clay said, shutting off the hose with the trigger under the nozzle, ‘we’re not talkin’ about my Ruby.’
Buster put up his hands in surrender. ‘We don’t have to. I - I get it, you know? When the only person you ever performed for…’
He scattered the thought with a shake of his head, trying to find a better way of putting it. Clay’s eyes were on him, watching his every move, so he talked and gesticulated to the grass, rigid with discomfort.
‘I don’t just mean on the stage,’ he managed, fighting to keep his tone even. ‘I mean your whole life. When they’re gone, everything feels so… Well, what’s the point, right? They’re never going to see anything you do, not anymore. Everyday is just… Wishing you could go back. And the way it hurts… Nothing else hurts like that.’
He looked at his hands, the bandages wet through and coming away at the edges. Clay’s shadow expanded over him. Buster eyed him warily, his attention split between the hose, the way his claw curled around the trigger, and his severe expression.
‘Feels like I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure out how to get back.’
Buster cleared his throat. ‘Well, you - you can’t. Those times… Your Ruby… She’s gone... But the world around you - ’ He spread out his arms in welcome, although there was no accompanying smile. ‘That’s all still happening.’
‘And the happiest times of my life aren’t in it anymore.’ Clay threw the hose aside. ‘I guess that’s just too bad, huh?’
Head bowed, he trudged across the grass and towards his house.
Although he made no move to follow, Buster’s heart ached for him. He sat down on the grass, and in absence of the comfort he yearned for the most, he waited for the sun to warm his fur.