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