Bridge of Clay(11)
“Clay.” She was fading. “…It’s time.”
But he didn’t want to open his eyes.
* * *
—
In the meantime, a bucktoothed kid they called Ferret was out, and Rory, as always, was in. Whenever he showed up for old times’ sake, that was how it went.
He walked down the tunnel and entered the depressing dressing room, and even Starkey stopped showboating with the girl. Rory held a finger up, hard against his lips. He gave Tommy an almost unfriendly rummage of the hair, and stood now, over Clay. He examined him, smiling, casually, with his priceless, scrap-metal eyes.
“Oi, Clay.” He couldn’t resist. “Still mixed up in this bullshit, huh?”
And Clay smiled back, he had to.
He smiled but didn’t look up.
* * *
—
“Ready, boys?”
Henry, stopwatch in hand, let them know.
As Clay stood up, Tommy asked him; all just part of the ritual.
He pointed casually toward his pocket.
“You want me to mind it for you, Clay?”
Clay said nothing but told him.
The answer was always the same.
He didn’t even shake his head.
* * *
—
From there, they left the graffiti behind.
They walked back out the tunnel.
They shaped up to the light.
In the arena were approximately two dozen idiots, half each side, to clap them out. Idiots clapping idiots, it was tremendous. It was what this mob did best.
“Come on, boys!”
The voices were warm. Clapping hands.
“Run hard, Clay! Dig ’em in, son!”
The yellow light persisted behind the grandstand.
“Don’t kill ’im, Rory!”
“Hit him hard, Starkers, y’ ugly bastard!”
Laughter. Starkey stopped.
“Oi.” He pointed a finger and quoted the movies. “Maybe I’ll practice on you first.” Ugly bastard he didn’t mind one bit, but he couldn’t abide Starkers. He looked behind and saw his girl venture to the firewood seats in the grandstand. She had no business with the rest of this riffraff; surely one was bad enough. He shuffled his big frame to catch up.
Briefly they were all on the straight, but soon the dressing room boys drifted away. The first three would be Seldom, Maguire, and Tinker: two with agility and strength, and one brick outhouse to smother him.
The pair at the 200 would be Schwartz and Starkey, of which one was a perfect gentleman, and one a certified beast. The thing with Schwartz, though, was that while he was completely, emphatically fair, he’d be devastating in the contest. Afterwards, he’d be all white-tooth smiles and pats on the back. But at the discus net, he’d hit him like a train.
* * *
—
The gamblers were now on the move as well.
They spilled upwards, to the highest row of the grandstand, to see out past the infield.
The boys on track were prepared: They punched the meat of their quadriceps.
They stretched and slapped their arms.
At the 100 mark, they stood a lane apart. They had great aura, their legs were alight. The falling sun behind.
At the 200, Schwartz was moving his head, side to side. Blond hair, blond eyebrows, focused eyes. Next to him, Starkey spat on the track. The whiskers on his face were dirty and alert, perpendicular to his cheeks. His hair was like a doormat. Again, he stared and spat.
“Hey,” Schwartz said, but he didn’t take his eyes from the 100. “We might land in that in a sec.”
“So?”
Then, lastly, down on the straight, maybe fifty meters from the end, Rory stood, quite easily, as if moments like these were reasonable; it was how they were meant to be.
Finally, the noise of an engine: The car door sound like a stapler.
He tried to fend it away, but the Murderer’s pulse churned that little bit extra, most notably at the neck. He was almost desperate enough to ask Achilles to wish him luck, but at long last the mule looked a little vulnerable himself; he sniffed, and shifted a hoof.
Footsteps on the porch now.
The keyhole entered and turned.
I instantly smelt the smoke.
In the doorway, a long list of blasphemy fell silently from my mouth. A magician’s hanky of shock and horror, it was followed by miles of indecision, and a pair of bloodless hands. What do I do? What the hell do I do?
How long did I stand there?
How many times did I consider turning and walking back out?
In the kitchen (as I learned much later), the Murderer stood quietly up. He breathed the sultry air. He looked gratefully at the mule: Don’t even think about leaving me now.
“Three…two…one…now.”
The stopwatch clicked, and Clay was on his way.
Lately they always did it like this; Henry loved how skiers were sent down the mountain on TV, and adopted the same method here.
As usual, Clay had started the countdown a distance from the line. He was impassive, blank-faced, and his barefoot feet felt great. They hit the line nicely for the now. Only when he started to run did he feel a pair of tears, bitten and burning, swell inside his eyes. Only then did his fists tighten; he was ready for it now, this idiots’ brigade, this terrifically teenaged world. He would never see it or be it again.