Bridge of Clay - Page 23

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 Henr

Tags: Markus Zusak
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