It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. To have been so close, yet survived. God had 
been with him after all.
  He staggered along the road back to his bicycle, deter-mined to stop the race, to tell 
the world -His bike was untouched, its handlebars warm as his wife's arms.
  As he hooked his leg over, the look he had exchanged with Hell caught fire. His body, 
ignorant of the heat in his brain, continued about its business for a moment, putting its 
feet on the pedals and starting to ride away.
  Cameron felt the ignition in his head and knew he was dead.
  The look, the glance behind him -Lot's wife.
  Like Lot's stupid wife -The lightning leapt between his ears: faster than thought.
  His skull cracked, and the lightning, white-hot, shot out from the furnace of his 
brain. His eyes withered to black nuts in his sockets, he belched light from mouth and 
nostrils. The combustion turned him into a column of black flesh in a matter of seconds, 
without a flame or a wisp of smoke.
  Cameron's body was completely incinerated by the time the bicycle careered off the road 
and crashed through the tailor's shop window, where it lay like a dummy, face down 
amongst the ashen suits. He, too, had looked back.
  
  The crowds at Trafalgar Square were a seething mass of enthusiasm. Cheers, tears and 
flags. It was as though this little race had become something special for these people:
  a ritual the significance of which they could not know. Yet somewhere in them they 
understood the day was laden with sulphur, they sensed their lives stood on tiptoe to 
reach heaven. Especially the children. They ran along the route, shouting incoherent 
blessings, their faces squeezed up with their fears. Some called his name.
  'Joel! Joel!'
  Or did he imagine that? Had he imagined, too, the prayer from Loyer's lips, and the 
signs in the radiant faces of the babies held high to watch the runners pass?
  As they turned into Whitehall Frank McCloud glanced confidentially over his shoulder 
and Hell took him.
  It was sudden: it was simple.
  He stumbled, an icy hand in his chest crushing the life out of him. Joel slowed as he 
approached the man. His face was purple: his lips foamy.
  'McCloud,' he said, and stopped to stare in his great rival's thin face.
  McCloud looked up at him from behind a veil of smoke that had turned his grey eyes 
ochre. Joel reached down to help him.
  'Don't touch me,' McCloud growled. The filament vessels in his eyes bulged and bled.
  'Cramp?' asked Joel. 'Is it cramp?'
  'Run, you bastard, run,' McCloud was saying at him, as the hand in his innards seized 
his life out. He was oozing
  
  blood through the pores on his face now, weeping red tears. 'Run. And don't look back. 
For Christ's sake, don't look back.'
  'What is it?'
  'Run for your life!'
  The words weren't requests but imperatives.
  Run.
  Not for gold or glory. Just to live.
  Joel glanced up, suddenly aware that there was some huge-headed thing at his back, cold 
breath on his neck.
  He picked up his heels and ran.
  '- Well, things aren't going so well for the runners here, Jim. After Loyer going down 
so sensationally, now Frank McCloud has stumbled too. I've never seen anything quite like 
it. But he seems to have had a few words with Joel Jones as he ran past, so he must be 
OK.'
  McCloud was dead by the time they put him in the ambulance, and putrefied by the 
following morning.
  Joel ran. Jesus, did he run. The sun had become ferocious in his face, washing the 
colour out of the cheering crowds, out of the faces, out of the flags. Everything was one 
sheet of noise, drained of humanity.
  Joel knew the feeling that was coming over him, the sense of dislocation that 
accompanied fatigue and over-oxygenation. He was running in a bubble of his own 
consciousness, thinking, sweating, suffering by himself, for himself, in the name of 
himself.
  And it wasn't so bad, this being alone. Songs began to fill his head: snatches of 
hymns, sweet phrases from love songs, dirty rhymes. His self idled, and his dream-mind, 
unnamed and fearless, took over.
  Ahead, washed by the same white rain of light, was Voight. That was the enemy, that was 
the thing to be surpassed. Voight, with his shining crucifix rocking in the sun. He could 
do it, as long as he didn't look, as long as he didn't look -Behind him.
  
  Burgess opened the door of the Mercedes and climbed in. Time had been wasted: valuable 
time. He should be at the Houses of Parliament, at the finishing line, ready to welcome 
the runners home. There was a scene to play, in which he would pretend the mild and 
smiling face of democracy. And tomorrow? Not so mild.
  His hands were clammy with excitement, and his pin-stripe suit smelt of the goat-skin 
coat he was obliged to wear in the room. Still, nobody would notice; and even if they did 
what English-man would be so impolite to mention that he smelt goaty?
  He hated the Lower Chamber, the perpetual ice, that damn yawning hole with its distant 
sound of loss. But all that was over now. He'd made his oblations, he'd shown his utter 
and ceaseless adoration of the pit; now it was time to reap the rewards.
  As they drove, he thought of his many sacrifices to ambition. At first, minor stuff: 
kittens and cockerels. Later, he was to discover how ridiculous they thought such 
gestures were. But at the beginning he'd been innocent:
  not knowing what to give or how to give it. They began to make their requirements clear 
as the years went by, and he, in time, learnt to practice the etiquette of selling his 
soul. His self mortifications were studiously planned and immaculately staged, though 
they had left him without nipples or the hope of children. It was worth the pain, though: 
the power came to him by degrees. A triple first at Oxford, a wife endowed beyond the 
dreams of priapism,  a seat in Parliament, and soon, soon enough, the country itself.
  The cauterized stumps of his thumbs ached, as they often did when he was nervous. Idly, 
he sucked on one.
  
  '- Well we're now in the closing stages of what really has been one hell of a race, eh, 
Jim?'
  'Oh yes, it's really been a revelation, hasn't it? Voight is really the outsider of the 
field; and here he is streaking away from the competition without much effort. Of course, 
Jones made the unselfish gesture of checking with Frank McCloud that he was indeed all 
right after that bad fall of his, and that put him behind.'
  'It's lost the race for Jones really, hasn't it?'
  'I think that's right. I think it lost the race for him.'