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.