Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2 Read Free

forehead. The boy was red-faced and shiny with perspiration; gleaming like a . . . like a . . .  Magnus cast around for an image he could use on Dongolite hecklers, but nothing useful . . .  pig , conker , bell-end  . . . came to mind.
    Magnus followed the flow of people on to the platform. There was work being done in the station. Some of the barriers that flanked the platform’s edge had been taken down and temporarily replaced by traffic cones strung with fluorescent tape. They narrowed the walkway, pushing people even closer together.
    Magnus saw the crowd before and behind him and realised that the rest of the train had been as full as his compartment. There were other trains, one every fifteen minutes, all crammed with people. Most of them were heading to the stadium. Magnus swallowed. It would be all right once he was on stage. For now he was just a part of the crowd, everyone moving at the same slow pace towards the exit, like one body composed of many cells.
    The four Dongolites from his carriage paused up ahead. Magnus glanced in their direction as he drew level. The sweat-soaked youth was swaying gently on his heels, with the unfocused stare of someone about to be transported on a wash of acid. He was wearing black-rimmed spectacles, round and ridiculous, that made him look as if he had put his eyes to binoculars some Beano -reading wag had grimed with soot. The glass magnified the youth’s eyeballs and Magnus saw them roll back in his head, pupils spooling upward until all that was left was white, greased and boiled-egg shiny. The Dongolite tottered backward. The heels of his spit-polished brogues knocked a traffic cone from the platform’s edge. He swayed gently, took a step towards his friends, and then teetered backward again.
    Magnus gave a shout of warning and moved towards the group. He heard the shrill blast of the guard’s whistle, saw the Dongolite’s knees crumple, his specs falling, smash against the concrete as he tipped off the platform, backward on to the tracks.
    Christ! One of the Dongolites tore off his jacket, exposing maroon braces and matching sleeve suspenders. He froze. Christ! Jesus Christ! Christ! Jesus!
    The other two Dongolites threw themselves on to the ground, ready to pull their friend up from the tracks below, but too slow, too slow. Magnus was with them now, face flat on the platform as if a bomb had gone off. He caught a quick glimpse of the boy’s body, floppy hair corn-gold against the gravel, unseasonable tweeds rag-doll-rumpled and then the train was flashing past, the shouts of the crowd and the frantic scream of the guard’s whistle not quite drowned out by its sound.
     
    Richie Banks had once told him that ‘Good comics have ice in their soul. I’ve known more than one cold cunt go up on stage and do their full routine, same day that their mother died. Unfeeling bastards, but a joy to represent. They don’t let a crisis get in the way of a gig.’
    It was like speaking to God, standing at the edge of the stage, facing the flare of lights that razed all view of the audience. Magnus did not mention the Dongolite’s fall, the corn-gold hair shining bright in the dark, the rush of the train, or the shout of the youth frozen on the platform, Christ! Christ! Oh Jesus Christ! But the sound of the accident was in his head, the scent of blood and burning rubber still in his nostrils. When he took his bow and announced, ‘Here’s the man you’ve all been waiting for, Jooooooooooohnny Dongo!’ the applause of the audience brought back the shouts of the people on the platform and Magnus could have sworn he heard the guard’s whistle screaming on, so high his eardrums felt ready to explode.
     
     

Two
    Johnny Dongo looked a mess. His hair had lost its comic bounce and hung in a lank cowlick over a forehead sheened with sweat. He spat into his handkerchief, raised a glass of milk cut with rum to his lips and said, ‘What a fuckup.’
    Magnus could not