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.
But really, we weren’t even close.
Through time the words became less and less, the methods more and more. We all knew what he wanted, but not what he was going to do with it.
What the hell was Clay Dunbar training for?
* * *
—
At six-thirty, tulips at his feet, he leaned forward, into the cemetery fence. It was nice and high, this place; Clay liked it. He watched the sun, grazing amongst the skyscrapers.
Cities.
This city.
Down there, the traffic was herded home. The lights changed. The Murderer came.
“Excuse me?”
Nothing. He tightened his grip on the fence.
“Young man?”
He looked over now and an old woman was pointing, sipping her lips. They must have been tasty.
“Would you mind?” She had shapeless eyes, a tired dress, and she was wearing stockings. The heat meant nothing to her. “Would you mind if I asked for one of those flowers?”
Clay looked into the deep wrinkle, a long streak above her eyes. He handed her a tulip.
“Thank you, thank you, young man. For my William.”
The boy nodded and followed her through the open gate; he navigated the graves. When he got there he crouched he stood he folded his arms he faced the evening sun. He had no idea how long it took for Henry and Tommy to be either side, and the dog, tongue out, at the epitaphs. Each boy stood, slouched yet stiff, hands in pockets. If the dog had pockets, she’d have had her paws in them, too, for sure. All attention was then given to the gravestone and the flowers in front of it, wilting before their eyes.
“No daisies?”
Clay looked over.
Henry shrugged. “Okay, Tommy.”
“What?”
“Hand it over, it’s his turn.”
Clay held out his hand. He knew what to do.
He took the Mr. Sheen and sprayed the metal plate. Next he was handed the arm of a grey T-shirt and gave the memorial a good rub, a good wipe.
“You missed a bit.”
“Where?”