Tommy had quite a shock, but soon gave himself over; he leaned in at the mule and laughed.
* * *
—
After lunch, as Clay started out the front door, Henry held him back.
“And where the hell do you think you’re going?”
A brief pause. “The cemetery. Maybe Bernborough.”
“Here,” said Henry, grabbing his keys, “I’ll come with you.”
When they got there, they leaned forward, into the fence, they navigated the graves. At the one they wanted they crouched they watched they folded their arms they stood in the afternoon sun; they looked at the corpse of tulips.
“No daisies?”
They half laughed.
“Hey, Clay?”
Both were slouched yet stiff, and Clay now came to face him; Henry was affable as ever, but different in some way, too, looking out across the statues.
At first he just said, “God.” A long silence. “God, Clay.” And he pulled something out of his pocket. “Here.”
Hand to hand:
A nice big slice of money.
“Take it.”
Clay looked closer.
“It’s yours, Clay. Remember the bets at Bernborough? You wouldn’t believe how much we made. I never even paid you.”
But no, this was more, it was too much, a paperweight of cash. “Henry—”
“Go on, take it,” and when he did, he held its pages in his hand.
“Hey,” said Henry. “Oi, Clay,” and he met him, properly, in the eyes. “Maybe buy a Goddamn phone, like someone normal—let us know when you actually get there.”
And Clay, a smile, of scorn:
No thanks, Henry.
“Okay—use every bloody cent for a bridge then.” The wiliest of boyish grins. “Just give us the change when you’re done.”
* * *
—
At Bernborough Park, he did some laps, and after rounding the ruin of the discus net, he was given a nice surprise—because there, at the 300-meter mark, was Rory.
Clay stopped, his hands on quadriceps.
Rory watched with his scrap-metal eyes.
Clay didn’t look up, but smiled.