cb.booksofblood2-第9节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


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。
　'They　love　you；'　said　Cameron。　'God　knows　why　…　they　love　you。'
　Then　he　laughed；　his　little　cruelty　over。
　'You'll　be　all　right；　son；'　he　said。　'Get　out　and　run　for　your　life。'
　Now；　in　the　broad　daylight；　Joel　looked　at　the　rest　of　the　field　and　felt　a　little　more　buoyant。　Kinderman　had　stamina；　but　he　had　no　finishing　power　over　middle　distance。　Marathon　technique　was　a　different　skill　altogether。　Besides　he　was　so　short…sighted　he　wore　wire　rimmed　glasses　so　thick　they　gave　him　the　look　of　a　bemused　frog。　No　danger　there。　Loyer；　he　was　good；　but　this　wasn't　really　his　distance　either。　He　was　a　hurdler；　and　a　sometime　sprinter。　400　metres　was　his　limit　and　even　then　he　wasn't　happy。　Voight；　the　South　African。　Well；　there　was　not　much　information　on　him。　Obviously　a　fit　man　to　judge　by　the　look　of　him；　and　someone　to　watch　out　for　just　in　case　he　sprung　a　surprise。　But　the　real　problem　of　the　race　was　McCloud。　Joel　had　run　against　Frank　'Flash'　McCloud　three　times。　Twice　beaten　him　into　second　place；　once　（painfully）　had　the　positions　reversed。　And　Frankie　boy　had　a　few　scores　to　settle：　especially　the　Olympics　defeat；　he　hadn't　liked　taking　the　silver。　Frank　was　the　man　to　watch。　Charity　race　or　no　charity　race　McCloud　would　be　running　his　best；　for　the　crowd　and　for　his　pride。　He　was　at　the　line　already　testing　his　starting　position；　his　ears　practically　pricked。　Flash　was　the　man；　no　doubt　of　it。
　
　For　a　moment　Joel　caught　Voight　staring　at　him。　Unusual　that。　petitors　seldom　even　glanced　at　each　other　before　a　race；　it　was　a　kind　of　coyness。　The　man's　face　was　pale；　and　his　hair…line　was　receding。　He　looked　to　be　in　his　early　thirties；　but　had　a　younger；　leaner　physique。　Long　legs；　big　hands。　A　body　somehow　out　of　proportion　to　his　head。　When　their　eyes　met；　Voight　looked　away。　The　fine　chain　around　his　neck　caught　the　sun　and　the　crucifix　he　was　wearing　glinted　gold　as　it　swung　gently　beneath　his　chin。
　Joel　had　his　good…luck　charm　with　him　too。　Tucked　into　the　waistband　of　his　shorts；　a　lock　of　his　mother's　hair；　which　she　had　plaited　for　him　half　a　decade　ago；　before　his　first　major　race。　She　had　returned　to　Barbados　the　following　year；　and　died　there。　A　great　grief：　an　unforgettable　loss。　Without　Cameron；　he　would　have　crumbled。
　Cameron　watched　the　preparations　from　the　steps　of　the　Cathedral；　he　planned　to　see　the　start；　then　ride　his　bike　round　the　back　of　the　Strand　to　catch　the　finish。　He'd　arrive　well　before　the　petitors；　and　he　could　keep　up　with　the　race　on　his　radio。　He　felt　good　with　the　day。　His　boy　was　in　fine　shape；　nausea　or　no　nausea；　and　the　race　was　an　ideal　way　to　keep　the　lad　in　a　petitive　mood　without　over…stretching　him。　It　was　quite　a　distance　of　course；　across　Ludgate　Circus；　along　Fleet　Street　and　past　Temple　Bar　into　the　Strand；　then　cutting　across　the　corner　of　Trafalgar　and　down　Whitehall　to　the　Houses　of　Parliament。　Running　on　tarmac　too。　But　it　was　good　experience　for　Joel；　and　it　would　pressure　him　a　little；　which　was　useful。　There　was　a　distance　runner　in　the　boy；　and　Cameron　knew　it。　He'd　never　been　a　sprinter；　he　couldn't　pace　himself　accurately　enough。　He　needed　distance　and　time；　to　find　his　pulse；　to　settle　down　and　to　work　out　his　tactics。　Over　800　metres　the　boy　was　a　natural：　his　stride　was　a　model　of　economy；　his　rhythm　damn…near　perfect。　But　more；　he　had　courage。　Courage　had　won　him　the　gold；　and　courage　would　take　him　first　to　the　finish　again　and　again。　That's　what　made　Joel　different。　Any　number　of　technical　whizz…kids　came　and　went；　but　without　courage　to　supplement　those　skills　they　went　for　almost　nothing。　To　risk　when　it　was　worth　risking；　to　run　'til　the　pain　blinded　you；　that　was　special　and　Cameron　knew　it。　He　liked　to　think　he'd　had　a　little　of　it　himself。
　Today；　the　boy　looked　less　than　happy。　Women　trouble　was　Cameron's　bet。　There　were　always　problems　with　women；　especially　with　the　golden　boy　reputation　Joel　had　garnered。　He'd　tried　to　explain　that　there'd　be　plenty　of　time　for　bed　and　bawd　when　his　career　had　run　out　of　steam；　but　Joel　wasn't　interested　in　celibacy；　and　Cameron　didn't　altogether　blame　him。
　
　The　pistol　was　raised；　and　fired。　A　plume　of　blue…white　smoke　followed　by　a　sound　more　pop　than　bang。　The　shot　woke　the　pigeons　from　the　dome　of　St　Paul's　and　they　rose　in　a　chattering　congregation；　their　worship　interrupted。
　Joel　was　off　to　a　good　start。　Clean；　neat　and　fast。
　The　crowd　began　to　call　his　name　immediately；　their　voices　at　his　back；　at　his　side；　a　gale　of　loving　enthusiasm。
　Cameron　watched　the　first　two　dozen　yards；　as　the　field　jockeyed　for　a　running　order。　Loyer　was　at　the　front　of　the　pack；　though　Cameron　wasn't　sure　whether　he'd　got　there　by　choice　or　chance。　Joel　was　behind　McCloud；　who　was　behind　Loyer。　No　hurry；　boy；　said　Cameron；　and　slipped　away　from　the　starting　line。　His　bicycle　was　chained　up　in　Paternoster　Row；　a　minute's　walk　from　the　square。　He'd　always　hated　cars：　godless　things；　crippling；　inhuman；　unchristian　things。　With　a　bike　you　were　your　own　master。　Wasn't　that　all　a　man　could　ask？
　'…　And　it's　a　superb　start　here；　to　what　looks　like　a　potentially　marvellous　race。　They're　already　across　the　square　and　the　crowd's　going　wild　here：　it　really　is　more　like　the　European　Games　than　a　Charity　Race。　What　does　it　look　like　to　you；　Jim？'
　'Well　Mike；　I　can　see　crowds　lining　the　route　all　the　way　along　Fleet　Street：　and　I've　been　asked　by　the　police　to　tell　people　please　not　to　try　and　drive　down　to　see　the　race；　because　of　course　all　these　roads　have　been　cleared　for　the　event；　and　if　you　try　and　drive；　really　you'll　get　nowhere。'
　'Who's　got　the　lead　at　the　moment？'
　'Well；　Nick　Loyer　is　really　setting　the　pace　at　this　stage　in　the　game；　though　of　course　as　we　know　there's　going　to　be　a　lot　of　tactical　running　over　this　kind　of　distance。　It's　more　than　a　middle…distance；　and　it's　less　than　a　marathon；　but　these　men　are　all　tacticians；　and　they'll　each　be　trying　to　let　the　other　make　the　running　in　the　early　stages。'
　Cameron　always　said：　let　the　others　be　heroes。
　That　was　a　hard　lesson　to　learn；　Joel　had　found。　When　the　pistol　was　fired　it　was　difficult　not　to　go　for　broke；　unwind　suddenly　like　a　tight　spring。　All　gone　in　the　first　two　hundred　yards　and　nothing　left　in　reserve。
　It's　easy　to　be　a　hero；　Cameron　used　to　say。　It's　not　clever；　it's　not　clever　at　all。　Don't　waste　your　time　showing　off；　just　let　the　Supermen　have　their　moment。　Hang　on　to　the　pack；　but　hold　back　a　little。　Better　to　be　cheered　at　the　post　because　you　won　than　have　them　call　you　a　good…hearted　loser。
　Win。　Win。　Win。
　At　all　costs。　At　almost　all　costs。
　Win。
　The　man　who　doesn't　want　to　win　is　no　friend　of　mine；　he'd　say。　If　you　want　to　do　it　for　the　love　of　it；　for　the　sport　of　it；　do　it　with　somebody　else。　Only　public　schoolboys　believe　that　crap　about　the　joy　of　playing　the　game。　There's　no　joy　for　losers；　boy。　What　did　I　say？
　There's　no　joy　for　losers。
　Be　barbaric。　Play　the　rules；　but　play　them　to　the　limit。　As　far　as　you　can　push；　push。　Let　no　other　sonofabitch　tell　you　differently。　You're　here　to　win。　What　did　I　say？
　Win。
　In　Paternoster　Row　the　cheering　was　muted；　and　the　shadows　of　the　buildings　blocked　the　sun。　It　was　almost　cold。　The　pigeons　still　passed　over；　unable　to　settle　now　they'd　been　roused　from　their　roost。　They　were　the　only　occupants　of　the　back　streets。　The　rest　of　the　living　world；　it　seemed；　was　watching　this　race。
　
　Cameron　unlocked　his　bicycle；　pocketed　the　chain　and　pad…locks；　and　hopped　on。　Pretty　healthy　for　a　fifty　year　old　he　thought；　despite　the　addiction　to　cheap　cigars。　He　switched　on　the　radio。　Reception　was　bad；　walled　in　by　the　buildings；　all　crackle。　He　stood　astride　his　bike　and　tried　to　improve　the　tuning。　It　did　a　little　good。
　'…　and　Nick　Loyer　is　falling　behind　already　…'
　That　was　quick。　Mind　you；　Loyer　was　past　his　prime　by　two　or　three　years。　Time　to　throw　in　the　spikes　and　let　the　younger　men　take　over。　He'd　had　to　do　it；　though　my　God　it　had　been　painful。　Cameron　remembered　acutely　how　he'd　felt　at　thirty…three；　when　he　realized　that　his　best　running　years　were　over。　It　was　like　having　one　foot　buried　in　the　grav