Bridge of Clay

—

There were cheers now, and whistles.

A herd of nicknames came charging down, grandstand to track. From that distance their calls were very vague—more like the songs in his bedroom when the nighttime southerly came—but they were there, all right, and so was Rory.

For 150 meters, Clay had the ochre-red surface to himself. His heart clanged, the dry tear lines cracked apart.

He ran at the refusing light, at its stubborn, bulky rays.

He looked into his gait, at the elastic width of Tartan.

He ran at the cheers of boys, who called from the grandstand shade. Somewhere in there was that red-mouthed girl and her careless, wayward shoulder. There was no sex in the thought, just that similar thread of amusement. He wondered about her deliberately, for a suffering was soon to begin. It didn’t matter that this was the fastest he’d ever got here. Nothing. It meant nothing, because there, fifty meters from the finish, Rory now stood like a rumor.

* * *

—

Leading in, Clay knew he should be decisive. To hesitate would ruin him. Timidity could kill him. Not long before they met, at the far right margin of his sight, there was twenty-four boys’ worth of miscellaneous shouts. They damn near brought the grandstand down, and before them a glimpse of Rory. He was typically raw and wry.

And Clay?

He fought every urge, to sidestep, left or right. He virtually climbed into him and somehow made it over. He felt his brother’s anatomy: his love and lovable anger. There was collision between boy and ground, and just the one foot was held now. One arm locked around his ankle was the only thing standing between Clay and something long considered unachievable. There was no getting past Rory. Never. Yet there he was, dragging him behind. He was stretching back to palm him off. His arm stiffened, but an inch or two from Rory’s face, a hand rose up like a titan out of the deep. A handshake from hell, he crushed Clay’s fingers with one effortless clinch, and with it, he ripped him downwards.

Ten meters short, he hit the track completely, and what was it about Rory’s weightlessness? That was the irony of the nickname. A human ball and chain implied an unbearable heaviness, but here he was more like a mist. You turned and he was there, but when you reached out, nothing was left. He was already somewhere else, causing danger up ahead. The only things of mass and weight were the depth and rust of his hair, and those hard grey metal eyes.

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?”