“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.
“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.