Bridge of Clay(13)

Now he had a good hold of him, on the red and buried track. Voices were climbing down to them, from boys and folding sky.

“Come on, Clay. Jesus, ten meters, you’re almost there.”

Tommy: “What would Zola Budd do, Clay? What would the Flying Scotsman do? Fight him to the line!”

Rosy barked.

Henry: “He really surprised you, Rory, huh?”

Rory, looking up, gave him a quizzical smile of the eyes.

Another non-Dunbar voice, to Tommy: “Who the hell’s Zola Budd? And the Flying Scotchman, for that matter?”

“Scotsman.”

“Whatever.”

“Would you lot please shut up? There’s a stoush on here!”

It was often like this when the struggle set in.

The boys lingered, watching and half wishing they had the heart for it themselves, but grateful like hell they didn’t. The talk was a security measure, for there was something slightly gruesome about them, scissored on the track, with paper lungs and breath.

    Clay twisted, but Rory was there.

Only once, several minutes in, he nearly pulled loose, but again he was held up short. This time he could see the line, he could almost smell the paint.

“Eight minutes,” Henry said. “Hey, Clay, you had enough?”

A rough but certain corridor was formed; they knew to show respect. If a boy might pull a phone out, to film or take a photo, he’d be set upon and duly thrashed.

“Hey, Clay.” Henry, marginally louder. “Enough?”

No.

It was said, as always, without being said, for he wasn’t smiling yet.

Nine minutes, ten, soon it was thirteen, and Rory was thinking of strangling him; but then, close to the fifteen-minute mark, Clay eventually relaxed, threw back his head, and very slackly, grinned. As a faint reward, right through all the boys’ legs, he saw the girl up in the shade, bra strap and all, and Rory sighed, “Thank Christ.” He fell to the side, and watched as Clay—very slowly, with one good hand, and one trailing—dragged himself over the line.





I got myself together.

I entered the kitchen with force—and there, by the fridge, stood Achilles.

Beside the mountain of clean dishes, I looked from murderer to mule and back again, deciding who to take first.

The lesser of two evils.

“Achilles,” I said. There had to be great control in that annoyance, that fed-up-ness. “For Christ’s sake, did those bastards leave the back door open again?”

The mule, true to form, toughed it out, deadpan.

Bluntly, boredly, he asked the usual pair of questions: What?

What’s so unusual about this?

He was right; it was the fourth or fifth time that month. Probably close to a record.

“Here,” I said, handling him quickly, holding the thatch of his neck.

At the door I spoke back to the Murderer.

Back but matter-of-fact.

“Just so you know, you’re next.”





The city was dark but alive.

The car, inside, was quiet.

There was nothing now but homecoming.

Earlier, the beer had come out, it was shared around.

Seldom, Tinker, Maguire.

Schwartz and Starkey.

They all took some cash, as did the kid called Leper, who’d bet fourteen minutes flat. When he’d started gloating, they all told him to go get a skin graft. Henry kept the rest. All of it was performed under a pink and grey sky. The best graffiti in town.

At one point, Schwartz was telling them about the spitting shenanigans at the 200, and the girl had asked the question. She loitered with Starkey in the car park.

“What the hell’s wrong with that guy?” That wasn’t the question in question, though; it would be here in moments to come. “Running like that. Fighting like that.” She thought about it and scoffed. “What sort of stupid game is it, anyway? You’re all a bunch of dumbshits.”

“Dumbshits,” said Starkey, “thanks a lot.” He put his arm around her like it was a compliment.

“Hey, love!”

Henry.

Both girl and gargoyle turned, and Henry swerved a smile. “It’s not a game, it’s just training!”

    She put a hand on her hip, and you know what she asked next, the lacy-limp girl, and Henry would do his best. “Go on, Clay, enlighten us. What the hell are you training for?”

But Clay had turned from her shoulder this time. He felt his pulse in the graze on his cheekbone—courtesy of Starkey’s whiskers. With his good hand, he searched his pocket, very deliberately, then crouched.

It bears mentioning now that exactly what our brother was training for was as much a mystery to him. He only knew that he was working and waiting for the day he’d find out—and that day, as it was, was today. It was waiting at home in the kitchen.



* * *



—

Carbine Street and Empire Lane, and then the stretch of Poseidon.

Clay always liked this ride home.

He liked the moths gathering tall and tight-knit at their various streetlight postings. He wondered if the night excited or soothed and settled them; if nothing else, it gave them purpose. These moths knew what to do.

Soon they came to Archer Street.