Stillson moved quickly through the ranks of the band to shake hands on the other side, and Johnny lost complete sight of him except for the bobbing yellow helmet. He felt relief. That was all right, then. No harm, no foul. Like the pharisee in that famous story, he was going to pass by on the other side. Good. Wonderful. And when he made the podium, Johnny was going to gather up his stuff and steal away into the afternoon.
Enough was enough.
The bikies had moved up on both sides of the path through the crowd to keep it from collapsing in on the candidate and drowning him in people. All the chunks of pool cue were still in the back pockets, but their owners looked tense and alert’ for trouble. Johnny didn’t know exactly what sort of trouble they expected – a Brownie Delight thrown in the candidate’s face, maybe – but for the first time the bikies looked really interested.
Then something did happen, but Johnny was unable to tell exactly what it had been. A female hand reached for the bobbing yellow hard hat, maybe just to touch it for good
luck, and one of Stillson’s fellows moved in quickly. There was a yell of dismay and the woman’s hand disappeared quickly. But it was all on the other side of the marching band.
The din from the crowd was enormous, and he thought again of the rock concerts he had been to. This was what it would be like if Paul McCartney or Elvis Presley decided to shake hands with the crowd.
They were screaming his name, chanting it: ‘GREG …GREG…GREG…’
The young guy who had billeted his family next to Johnny was holding his son up over his head so the kid could see. A young man with a large, puckered burn scar on one side of his face was waving a sign that read:
LIVE FREE OR DIE, HERE’S GREG IN YER EYE!
An achingly beautiful girl of maybe eighteen was waving a chunk of watermelon, and pink juice was running down her tanned arm. It was all mass confusion. Excitement was humming through the crowd like a series of high-voltage electrical cables.
And suddenly there was Greg Stillson, darting back through the band, back to Johnny’s side of the crowd. He didn’t pause, but still found time to give the tuba player a hearty clap on the back.
Later, Johnny mulled it over and tried to tell himself that there really hadn’t been any chance or time to melt back into the crowd; he tried to tell himself that the crowd had practically heaved him into Stilison’s arms. He tried to tell himself that Stillson had done everything but abduct his hand. None of it was true. There was time, because a fat woman in absurd, yellow damdiggers threw her arms around Stillson’s neck and gave him a hearty kiss. which Stillson returned with a laugh and a ‘You bet I’ll remember you, hon.’
The fat woman screamed laughter.
Johnny felt the familiar compact coldness come over him, the trance feeling. The sensation that nothing mattered except to know. He even smiled a little, but it wasn’t his smile. He put his hand out, and Stilison seized it in both of his and began to pump it up and down.
‘Hey, man, hope you’re gonna support us in…’
Then Stillson broke off. The way Eileen Magown had. The way Dr. James (just like the soul singer) Brown had. The way Roger Dussault had. His eyes went wide, and then they filled with – fright? No. It was terror in Still-son’s eyes.
The moment was endless. Objective time was replaced by something else, a perfect cameo of time as they stared into each other’s eyes. For Johnny it was like being in that dull chrome corridor again, only this time Stilison was with him and they were sharing…
sharing
(everything)
For Johnny it had never been this strong, never. Everything came at him at once, crammed together and screaming like some terrible black freight train highballing through a narrow tunnel, a speeding engine with a single glaring headlamp mounted up front, and the headlamp was knowing everything, and its light impaled Johnny Smith like a bug on a pin. There was nowhere to run and perfect knowledge ran him down, plastered him as flat as a sheet of paper while that night-running train raced over him.