Steve was happy as a lamb. They had the rest of the night ahead of them, and all the music he could possibly want was sounding in his head.
And Quaid knew, meeting the clown’s vacant stare through an air turned bloody, that there was worse in the world than dread. Worse than death itself.
There was pain without hope of healing. There was life that refused to end, long after the mind had begged the body to cease. And worst, there were dreams come true.
HELL’S EVENT
HELL CAME UP to the streets and squares of London that September, icy from the depths of the Ninth Circle, too frozen to be warmed even by the swelter of an Indian summer. It had laid its plans as carefully as ever, plans being what they were, and fragile. This time it was perhaps a little more finicky than usual, checking every last detail twice or three times, to be certain it had every chance of winning this vital game.
It had never lacked competitive spirit; it had matched life against flesh a thousand thousand times down the centuries, sometimes winning, more often losing. Wagers were, after all, the stuff of its advancement. Without the human urge to compete, to bargain, and to bet, Pandemonium might well have fallen for want of citizens. Dancing, dog racing, fiddle-playing: it was all one to the gulfs; all a game in which it might, if it played with sufficient wit, garner a soul or two. That was why Hell came up to London that bright blue day: to run a race, and to win, if it could, enough souls to keep it busy with perdition another age.
Cameron tuned his radio; the voice of the commentator flared and faded as though he was speaking from the Pole instead of St Paul’s Cathedral. It was still a good half-hour before the race began, but Cameron wanted to listen to the warm-up commentary, just to hear what they were saying about his boy.
“. . . atmosphere is electric. . . probably tens of thousands along the route. . .”
The voice disappeared: Cameron cursed, and toyed with the dial until the imbecilities reappeared.
“…been called the race of the year, and what a day it is! Isn’t it, Jim?”
“It certainly is, Mike —”
“That’s big Jim Delaney, who’s up there in the Eye in the Sky, and he’ll be following the race along the route, giving us a bird’s eye view, won’t you, Jim?”
“I certainly will, Mike —”
“Well, There’s a lot of activity behind the line, the competitors are all loosening up for the start. I can see Nick Loyer there, he’s wearing number three, and I must say he’s looking very fit. He said to me when he arrived he didn’t usually like to run on Sundays, but he’s made an exception for this race, because of course it’s a charity event, and all the proceeds will be going to Cancer Research. Joel Jones, our Gold Medallist in the 800 metres is here, and he’ll be running against his great rival Frank McCloud. And besides the big boys we’ve got a smattering of new faces. Wearing number five, the South African, Malcolm Voight, and completing the field Lester Kinderman, who was of course the surprise winner of the marathon in Austria last year. And I must say they all look fresh as daisies on this superb September afternoon. Couldn’t ask for a better day, could we Jim?”
Joel had woken with bad dreams.
“You’ll be fine, stop fretting,” Cameron had told him.
But he didn’t feel fine; he felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Not pre-race nerves; he was used to those, and he could deal with the feeling. Two fingers down the throat and throw up, that was the best remedy he’d found; get it over and done with. No, this wasn’t pre-race nerves, or anything like them. It was deeper, for a start, as though his bowels, to his centre, to his source, were cooking.
Cameron had no sympathy.
“It’s a charity race, not the Olympics,” he said, looking the boy over. “Act your age.”
That was Cameron’s technique. His mellow voice was made for coaxing, but was used to bully. Without that bullying there would have been no gold medal, no cheering crowds, no admiring girls. One of the tabloids had voted Joel the best loved black face in England. It was good to be greeted as a friend by people he’d never met; he liked the admiration, however short-lived it might turn out to be.