Bridge of Clay(125)

Like before she was kind and immaculate, but quickly overrun with concern. Her hair, and this light, they were lethal.

“Clay?” she said, and stepped closer. She was beautiful even when sad. “God, Clay, you look so thin.”

It took all of his will not to hug her again, to be held in the warmth of her doorway—but he didn’t, he couldn’t allow himself. He could talk to her and that was all.

“I’ll do what you said in your letter,” he said. “I’ll live the way I have to—I’ll go out and finish the bridge.”

    His voice was as dry as the riverbed, and Abbey had done things well. She didn’t ask what he meant by the bridge, or for anything else he might tell her.

He’d opened his mouth to speak again, but then wavered, and welled in the eyes. In fury, he wiped the tears away—and Abbey Hanley took a risk, and a gamble; she bet double and to hell with the worry, or her place in this whole mess, or what was right. She did what she’d done once before: She kissed a pair of her fingers, but placed them across, on his cheek.

He wanted to tell her about Penny then, and Michael, and all that had happened to all of us—and all that had happened to him. Yes, he wanted to tell her everything, but this time he just shook her hand; then caught the lift and ran.





And so, once again, it was.

After he’d met Abbey Hanley with Carey, and she’d torn the first page of The Quarryman out, they could never know what it would mean. At first it was one more yardstick; the start of another beginning, as months flowed in and by them.

In spring, they both came back:

Matador and Queen of Hearts.

In summer, the ache of waiting, given Carey had been forewarned: She would have to cut the dead wood out, and Clay would make her commit. Clay would make a plan.



* * *



—

In between, as you might guess, the one constant—the thing they loved most—was the book of Michelangelo, whom she lovingly called the sculptor, or the artist, or his favorite: the fourth Buonarroti.

They lay down at The Surrounds.

They read there, chapter for chapter.

They brought flashlights, and batteries for backup.

To protect the fading mattress, she brought a giant sheet of plastic, and when they left they made the bed with it, they tucked the whole thing in. Walking home, she’d link her arm through. Their hips would touch between them.



* * *



—

    By November, history was repeated.

Queen of Hearts was just too good.

Matador tried his heart out, when they’d raced twice more and he’d faded. But there was one chance still to come; a final Group One was to be run in the city, early December, and Ennis McAndrew was building him. He’d said he’d faded because he still wasn’t ready; this was the one he wanted. It had a strange name—not a plate or guineas, a cup or a stakes—but a race called the Saint Anne’s Parade. It would be Matador’s last ever run. Race Five at Royal Hennessey. December 11.



* * *



—

On the day, they did what she liked to do.

They put a dollar on Matador in the fifth.

She asked an arse-scratcher to put the money on.

He did it but told them, laughingly: “You know he’s got bloody no hope, don’tcha? He’s up against Queen of Hearts.”

“So?”

“So he’s never going to win.”

“They said that about Kingston Town.”

“Matador’s no Kingston Town.”

But now she beat him up a bit. “What am I even talkin’ to you for? How many wins have you had lately?”

He laughed again. “Not many.” He ran a hand down his cheekfuls of whiskers.

“That’s what I thought. You’re not even sharp enough to lie about it. But, hey”—she grinned—“thanks for putting the bet on, okay?”

“Sure,” and when they went their separate ways, he called out to them one more time. “Hey, I think you might have convinced me!”



* * *



—

The crowd that afternoon was the biggest they’d ever seen, for Queen of Hearts was also leaving, for a stint running overseas.

There was almost no room in the grandstand, but they found two seats, and watched Petey Simms, doing laps with the horse in the mounting yard. McAndrew, of course, looked pissed off. But that meant business as usual.

    Before the jump, she held his hand.

He looked outwards, he said, “Good luck.”

She gave him a squeeze, then released it—for when the horses left the barriers that day, the crowd was on its feet; people screamed, and something changed.

The horses hit the turn, it was wrong.

When Queen of Hearts surged forward, Matador, black and gold, went stride for stride, beside her—which was really saying something, because her strides were so much bigger. When she accelerated, he somehow went with her.

The grandstand shade became desperate.

They called raucously, near-terror, for the Queen—for it couldn’t be, it couldn’t.

But it was.

When they hit the line, it came down to their bobbing heads.