Bridge of Clay(10)

“Jesus.” Henry smiled from his crouching stance. “And remember, boys, no mind-changing, either, or messing with the chalk—”

He saw something.

Someone.

They’d missed each other by minutes, back home in the kitchen, but now he saw him—hard and unmistakable, of dark-rust hair, and scrap-metal eyes, and chewing a piece of gum. Henry was utterly delighted.

“What’s up?” A collective question, a chorus. “What is it? What’s—” and Henry nodded upwards, to coincide with the voice, which landed amongst the chalk.

    “Gentlemen—”

And for just a moment, each boy wore an oh-shit look that was utterly priceless, then all burst into action.

Everyone changed their bets.





All right, that’s it.

He’d had enough.

Grim and guilty and regretful as he was, the Murderer had come to a point; we could despise him, but we wouldn’t ignore him. Then again, his next move also felt like good manners—that since he’d entered the house without permission, he really should have warned us: He extracted Hector from his lap.

He walked toward the piano.

Rather than open the lid to the keys (no way could he face doing that), he exposed the strings from above, and what he found was possibly worse—for lying there, inside, were two charcoal-colored books, on an old blue woolen dress. In a pocket was one of its buttons, and beneath the dress what he’d gone there for: a packet of cigarettes.

Slowly, he took it out.

His body folded up.

He fought hard to lift and straighten.

It took an effort to close the piano again, and walk back into the kitchen. He fished a lighter from out of the cutlery drawer, and stood before Achilles.

“Bugger it.”

For the first time, he dared to speak. He’d realized now that the mule wasn’t fit for attack, and so the Murderer lit up, and made his way toward the sink.

“I might as well do the dishes while I’m at it.”





Inside, the walls of the dressing room were sad with graffiti—the kind of amateur work that was nothing short of embarrassing. Clay sat barefoot, he ignored it. In front of him, Tommy was picking knots of grass from Rosy’s stomach, but the border collie soon came over. He clamped a hand down gently on her snout.

“Dunbar.”

As expected, there were six other boys, each in his own small region of the graffiti. Five of them talked and joked with each other. One paraded a girl: the animal-boy named Starkey.

“Hey, Dunbar.”

“What?”

“Not you, Tommy, y’ bloody nitwit.”

Clay looked up.

“Here.” Starkey lobbed a roll of masking tape, hitting him in the chest. When it landed on the floor, Rosy scooped it up and held it in her jaws. Clay watched her wrestle it, as Starkey ranted on.

“I just don’t want you having any excuses when I tidy you up out there, that’s all. That, and I’ve got vivid memories of you pulling that sticky tape shit when we were younger. And there’s a lot of broken glass out there. Wouldn’t want you hurting your pretty little feet.”

“Did you say vivid?” asked Tommy.

“A thug can’t have vocab? I said nitwit, too, and that applied brilliantly to the likes of you.” Starkey and the girl enjoyed that one, and Clay couldn’t help quite liking her. He watched her lipstick and grimy grin. He also liked her bra strap, flopping over her shoulder the way it did. He didn’t mind the way they touched and sort of smudged each other, either—her crotch on his thigh, a leg each side. It was a curiosity, but nothing more. First, she was no Carey Novac. Second, this was nothing personal. To those outside, the boys in here were cogs in a beautiful machinery; a tainted entertainment. To Clay, they were colleagues of a particular design. How much could they damage him? How much could he survive?



* * *



—

    He knew it was soon they’d be walking out, so now he leaned back, he closed his eyes, he imagined Carey beside him; the heat and light of her arms. In her face the freckles were pinpricks—so deep and red, but minuscule—like a diagram, or even better, a schoolkid’s connect-the-dots sheet. In her lap was the pale-covered book they shared, with its bronze and fractured lettering: THE QUARRYMAN.

Under the title it said, Everything you’ve ever wanted to know about Michelangelo Buonarroti—an infinite quarry of greatness. Inside, at the very front, was the torn-off line of a missing page; the one with the author’s biography. The bookmark was a recent betting slip:

    Royal Hennessey, Race 5

#2—Matador

Win only: $1



Soon, she stood, then leaned at him.

She smiled in that interested way she had, like facing front-on at everything. She came closer and began; she put her bottom lip on his top one, and held the book between them. “He knew right then that this was the world, and all it was was a vision.”

As she quoted a favorite page, her mouth kept touching his—three times, four times, make it five—and now just slightly away:

    “Saturday?”

A nod, for on Saturday night, just over three more days, they’d meet in reality, in his other favorite, forgotten field. A place called The Surrounds. There, in that place, they’d lie awake. Her hair could itch him for hours. But never would he move it, or adjust.