Read List of the Lost for Free Online Page B

occasionally pleaded was, even now, no doubt still judging him, as if death could not be thought sufficient final pain and mockery in itself.
    Four heavy hearts sat by a roadside bar with their straws like daggers chipping away at the crushed ice in their soft drinks. They had nothing to say yet they all knew. Sore-footed, they decided upon the long walk back to the barracks, all choosing to believe that the death of the wretch had not happened, yet at the same time they were in no rush to hear any bad news of discovery being broadcasted with spectator’s high-pitched glee; news hounds so terribly appalled at the discovery of a body about whom no one cared whilst alive (and about whom no one would care should it suddenly rise from silence). Whilst the boys had agreed amongst themselves that the incident had not actually taken place, they would also not mention the night’s events even quietly amongst themselves. What’s done in the dark remains in the dark.
    Nervous vitality would scour each of all emotional involvement or responsibility; that moment had gone, and they would now exercise an innocence with a talent as impressive as anything shown on track and field. The grandstand event ahead offered the promise of an American all-time best, a lifetime’s achievement along with a victoriously swinging gold medal, and, for this, cold-blooded routine returned for the following two weeks as mental and physical preparation continued in top-dog Boston training clubs and a new spurt urged them into spirited mid-day sessions and a heavy heat stretched throughout the month of May. “Yes,” Mr Rims drawled a drawn-out sigh, “you’ve caught the scent now.” Even a compliment wrap­ped itself in a banal tone of failure.
    Surrounded by women, some mechanically minded, some badly made-up, and all envious of one another, the boys had heartily gnawed at their iron bars and unwisely allowed alcohol a free dash at their brains because things overall mattered a little less since their track timings were now a bed of roses and their overall fitness boomed good times ahead, and what harm would a little devilment do? The hair-flicks of the gathered women leant in and leaned forwards and then threw their heads back as they laughed louder than necessary at remarks that weren’t especially funny in the first place but that gave opportunity to display expensive and expansive teeth. They clinked and they clanked, darting in and across the hunched revelers as swooping swallows of sensual scents begging for the male mystery to press the female mystery, and knowing with cast-iron assurity that it soon would. Such nights as these cannot ever fail.
    Although the publicly confessed lust of the man must always be made to seem ridiculous and prepubescent, the lust of the woman is at first childlike and desperate – as if they know there is something about which they know nothing, and this itch takes on the aggressive – which almost never works. In the bar of cluttered sounds and souls all sorts of things become clear, as if life is about to be launched – or at least lived. Nails parts his legs widely as he slouches back – an open invitation to the women whose eyes dart across in wonder at how the flesh beneath arranges itself (there are such moments, after all, when only basic imagination is required). Women are less of a mystery because their methods and bodies have been over-sold, whereas the male body speaks as the voice calls a halt. The candid and phenomenal superstructure of Tracey is a moving photograph of sex already happening, with her long hesitations and her Elizabeth Taylor non-taming of the shrewd; the alka-seltzer voice, the beer-mat limply twisting erotically over and over in her hands – as if everything must be a prelude to the night’s concluding act. The suspense is always held in a performance that must never drop below her usual level, and, in the interests of world