Bridge of Clay(5)

“You miserable piece-a shit,” said Henry (the moneymaker, the friendly one) at Clay’s side. As he struggled, he loped and laughed. His smile swerved off his face; he caught it in his palm. At times like these, he communicated with Clay through tried and tested insults. “You’re nothing,” he said, “you’re soft.” He was hurting but had to talk on. “You’re soft as a two-minute egg, boy. Makes me sick to watch you run like this.”

    It also wasn’t long before another tradition was observed.

Tommy, the youngest, the pet collector, lost one of his shoes.

“Shit, Tommy, I thought I told you to tie ’em up better. Come on, Clay, you’re weak, you’re ridiculous. How ’bout havin’ a bloody go?”

They reached the sixth floor and Clay dumped Tommy sideways and tackled the mouth on his right. They landed on the musty tiles, Clay half smiled, the other two laughed, and they all shrugged off the sweat. In the struggle, Clay got Henry in a headlock. He picked him up and ran him round.

“You really need a shower, mate.” Typical Henry. We always said that to do Henry in we’d have to kill his mouth twice. “That’s shockin’, that is.” He could feel the wire in Clay’s arm as it wrung his smart-mouth neck.

To interrupt, Tommy, thoroughly thirteen, took a running jump and brought all three of them down, arms and legs, boys and floor. Around them, Rosy leapt and landed; her tail was up, her body forward. Black legs. White paws. She barked but they fought on.

When it was over, they lay on their backs; there was a window on this, the top floor of the stairwell, and grubby light, and rising-falling chests. The air was heavy. Tons of it, heaping from their lungs. Henry gulped it good and hard, but his mouth showed true heart.

“Tommy, you little bastard.” He looked over and grinned. “I think you just saved my life, kid.”

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” and he motioned now to Clay, who was already up on an elbow. His other hand down in his pocket. “I don’t get why we put up with this lunatic.”

“Me neither.”

But they did.

For starters, he was a Dunbar boy, and with Clay you wanted to know.



* * *



—

What was it, though?

What was there to know when it came to Clayton, our brother?

Questions had followed him for years now, like why did he smile but never laugh?

    Why did he fight but never to win?

Why did he like it so much on our roof?

Why did he run not for a satisfaction, but a discomfort—some sort of gateway to pain and suffering, and always putting up with it?

Not one of those inquiries, however, was his favorite.

They were warm-up questions.

Nothing more.



* * *



—

After lying on their backs, they did three more sets, Rosy cleaning up the stray shoe on the way.

“Oi, Tommy.”

“Yeah?”

“Put ’em on tighter next time, right?”

“Sure, Henry.”

“Double knots, or I’ll cutcha in half.”

“Okay, Henry.”

At the bottom, he gave him a slap on the shoulder—the signal to get on Clay’s back again—and they ran the stairs and came down in the lift. (Cheating in some people’s minds, but actually much harder: it shortened the recovery.) After the last climb, Henry, Tommy, and Rosy took one more ride down, but Clay was taking the stairs. Outside, they walked over to Henry’s iron slab of a car and went through the old routine: “Rosy, get out of the front seat.” She sat there at the wheel, her ears perfect triangles. She looked ready to adjust the radio. “Come on, Tommy, get her out of there, do us a favor.”

“Here, girl, stop muckin’ round.”

Henry pocketed a hand.

A fistful of coins.

“Clay, here it is, we’ll see you up there.”

Two boys drove, the other ran.

Out the window: “Oi, Clay!”

He pushed on. He didn’t turn around, but he heard all right. The same thing, every time.

    “Get daisies if you can, they were her favorite, remember?”

As if he didn’t know.

The car pulled out, blinker on. “And don’t get done on the price!”

Clay ran faster.

He hit the hill.



* * *



—

In the beginning it was me who trained him, then Rory, and if I did it with an old-school brand of foolish integrity, Rory bludgeoned but never broke him. As for Henry, he’d made a scheme of it—he did it for the cash, but also because he loved it, which we’ll witness soon enough.

From the outset, it was straightforward, yet stupefying: We could tell him what to do.

He would do it.

We could torture him.

He’d endure it.

Henry could boot him out of the car because he’d seen a few mates walking home in the rain, and Clay would get out, he’d break into a jog. Then, when they drove past and shouted “Stop bludging!” out the window, he’d run faster. Tommy, guilty as all buggery, would look out the back, and Clay watching till the car dropped out of sight. He’d see the bad haircut getting smaller and smaller, and that was how it was: It might have looked like we were training him.