Fear of Wolves by Paul Robinson

A man stands in front of the liquor shop along Karanga Happy Road. Under the light, I notice the fierce tattoos on his face. When a young woman approaches the shop, he suddenly lowers his body, crouches like an animal on all fours. I’m thinking – shit, this bloke has stepped out of line on K road before. More than likely barked up a few trees.

I learnt about dogs, when they chased sheep on the farm, how they got a taste for blood. At school, I read about the way predatory wolves seduced their prey into a false sense of security, then devoured them. That’s the way of the world, where you can no longer lie in the grass watching the sinking sun. Unable to control fear, whispering to your kids about strangers, ‘don’t worry, he’s a friend of mine.’

I look back at the man; he’s swooping low and there’s some kind crazy in his grey eyes. The woman hesitates, looks down. She clutches a weathered, creamy bag to her chest. Surely, he’s not going to pounce on her? I imagine she’s got three young children at school, fills in her day cleaning and drinking nips of fortified sherry. Probably still buys her meat from the local butcher, and Braeburn apples for the kids from Mr. Tan at the corner shop.

I start off polite. “Scuse me, sir,” I say. The words fall on deaf ears.

“You live around here?“ I ask and still - there’s no reply.

I look at him again. He’s wearing green army fatigues. A tangled mat of coal black hair covers his head. As he leans forward, he brushes it with his hand. His fingers are gnarled and curled, curled up like he’s wincing with pain. Much like a wolf with a hawthorn embedded deeply in its paw. Trapped between pain and insecurity … he’s not looking for a bone or a fight. Maybe he’s seeking refuge under the rusting red veranda roof while the clouds are promising rain.

Meanwhile, the roads raging with young lads showing off their noisy Chevs and Ford Zephyrs. Across the street in an old Kerridge Odeon building with technicolor lights flashing: Girls! Girls! Girls! Next to the old theatre, a milk bar. It looks like a safe place to conduct business while a red light flickers further up the street.

The young woman streaks to safety. The man finally raises his head.

“I can feel the rain …I’m feeling ripe to surrender.”

Then he shrinks back into the doorway, listening to the roar of engines while the rain starts pissing down.