'Well they're both in sight of the Houses of Parliament now as they come round the bend of Whitehall. And the crowds are cheering their boy on, but I really think it's a lost cause —'
'Mind you, he brought something special out of the bag in Sweden.'
'He did. He did.'
'Maybe he'll do it again.'
Joel ran, and the gap between himself and Voight was beginning to close. He concentrated on the man's back, his eyes boring into his shirt, learning his rhythm, looking for weaknesses.
There was a slowing there. The man was not as fast as he had been. An unevenness had crept into his stride, a sure sign of fatigue.
He could take him. With courage, he could take him.
And Kinderman. He'd forgotten about Kinderman. Without thinking, Joel glanced over his shoulder and looked behind him.
Kinderman was way back, still keeping his steady marathon runner's pace unchanged. But there was something else behind Joel: another runner, almost on his heels; ghostly, vast.
He averted his eyes and stared ahead, cursing his stupidity.
He was gaining on Voight with every pace. The man was really running out of steam, quite clearly. Joel knew he could take him for certain, if he worked at it. Forget his pursuer, whatever it was, forget everything except overtaking Voight.
But the sight at his back wouldn't leave his head.
'Don't look back': McCloud's words. Too late, he'd done it. Better to know then who this phantom was.
He looked again.
At first he saw nothing, just Kinderman jogging along. And then the ghost runner appeared once more and he knew what had brought McCloud and Loyer down.
It was no runner, living or dead. It wasn't even human. A smoky body, and yawning darkness for its head, it was Hell itself that was pressing on him.
'Don't look back.'
Its mouth, if mouth it was, was open. Breath so cold it made Joel gasp, swirled around him. That was why Loyer had muttered prayers as he ran. Much good it had done him; death had come anyway.
Joel looked away, not caring to see Hell so close, trying to ignore the sudden weakness in his knees.
Now Voight, too, was glancing behind him. The look on his face was dark and uneasy: and Joel knew somehow that he belonged to Hell, that the shadow behind him was Voight's master.
'Voight. Voight. Voight. Voight—' Joel expelled the word with every stride.
Voight heard his name being spoken.
'Black bastard,' he said aloud.
Joel's stride lengthened a little. He was within two metres of Hell's runner.
'Look....ehind... You,' said Voight.
'I see it.'
'It's... come... for... you.'
The words were mere melodrama: two-dimensional. He was master of his body wasn't he? And he was not afraid of darkness, he was painted in it. Wasn't that what made him less than human as far as so many people were concerned? Or more, more than human; bloodier, sweatier, fleshier. More arm, more leg, more head. More strength, more appetite. What could Hell do? Eat him? He'd taste foul on the palate. Freeze him? He was too hot- blooded, too fast, too living.
Nothing would take him, he was a barbarian with the manners of a gentleman.
Neither night nor day entirely.
Voight was suffering: his pain was in his torn breath, in the gangling rags of his stride. They were just fifty metres from the steps and the finishing line, but Voight's lead was being steadily eroded; each step brought the runners closer.
Then the bargains began.
'Listen... to... me.'
'What are you?'
'Power... I'll get you power... just... let... us win.'
Joel was almost at his side now.
'Too late.'
His legs elated: his mind spun with pleasure. Hell behind him: Hell beside him, what did he care? He could run.
He passed Voight, joints fluent: an easy machine.
'Bastard. Bastard. Bastard —' the familiar was saying, his face contorted with the agonies of stress. And didn't that face flicker as Joel passed it by? Didn't its features seem to lose, momentarily, the illusion of being human?
Then Voight was falling behind him, and the crowds were cheering, and the colours were flooding back into the world. It was victory ahead. He didn't know for what cause, but victory nevertheless.
There was Cameron, he saw him now, standing on the steps beside a man Joel didn't know, a man in a pinstripe suit. Cameron was smiling and shouting with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, beckoning to Joel from the steps.
He ran, if anything, a little faster towards the finishing line, his strength coaxed by Cameron's face.
Then the face seemed to change. Was it the heat haze that made his hair shimmer? No, the flesh of his cheeks was bubbling now, and there were dark patches growing darker still on his neck, at his forehead. Now his hair was rising from his head and cremating light was flickering up from his scalp. Cameron was burning. Cameron was burning, and still the smile, and still the beckoning hand.
Joel felt sudden despair.
Hell behind. Hell in front.
This wasn't Cameron. Cameron was nowhere to be seen: so Cameron was gone.
He knew it in his gut. Cameron was gone: and this black parody that smiled at him and welcomed him was his last moments, replayed for the delight of his admirers.
Joel's step faltered, the rhythm of his stride lost. At his back he heard Voight's breath, horridly thick, close, closer.
His whole body suddenly revolted. His stomach demanded to throw up its contents, his legs cried out to collapse, his head refused to think, only to fear.
'Run,' he said to himself. 'Run. Run. Run.'
But Hell was ahead. How could he run into the arms of such foulness?
Voight had closed the gap between them, and was at his shoulder, jostling him as he passed. The victory was being snatched from Joel easily: sweets from a babe.
The finishing line was a dozen strides away, and Voight had the lead again. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Joel reached out and snatched at Voight as he ran, grabbing his singlet. It was a cheat, clear to everybody in the crowd. But what the Hell.
He pulled hard at Voight, and both men stumbled. The crowd parted as they veered off the track and fell heavily, Voight on top of Joel.
Joel's arm, flung out to prevent him falling too heavily, was crushed under the weight of both bodies. Caught badly, the bone of his forearm cracked. Joel heard it snap a moment before he felt the spasm; then the pain threw a cry out of his mouth.
On the steps, Burgess was screeching like a wild man. Quite a performance. Cameras were snapping, commentators commenting.
'Get up! Get up!' the man was yelling.
But Joel had snatched Voight with his one good arm, and nothing was going to make him let go.
The two rolled around in the gravel, every roll crushing Joel's arm and sending spurts of nausea through his gut.
The familiar playing Voight was exhausted. It had never been so tired: unprepared for the stress of the race
