Chapter 112
LOOK AT ME now, hiding in plain sight of a hundred thousand people and cameras linked to billions more.
Fated. Chosen. Gifted by the gods. I am clearly a being superior in every way, certainly superior to pathetic Mundaho and Shaw and that conniving bitch Hunter Pierce, and the other athletes down there on the stage inside the stadium, all of them condemning me as a …
The wind is picking up. I shift my attention into the wind: north-west, far beyond the stadium, far beyond London. Out there on the horizon dark clouds are boiling up into thunderheads. What could be more fitting as a backdrop?
Fated, I think, before I hear a roar go up in the stadium.
What’s this? Sir Elton John and Sir Paul McCartney are coming onto the stage and taking seats at opposite white pianos. Who’s that with them? Marianne Faithfull? Oh, for pity’s sake, they’re singing ‘Let it Be’ to Mundaho.
At their monstrous screeching, you can’t begin to understand how much I want to abandon my stance of attention, rub my scar and end this hypocritical pap right now. But, with my eyes locked dead ahead into the approaching storm, I tell myself to stay calm and follow the plan to its natural and fated ending.
To keep the infernal singing from getting to me, I focus on the fact that, just a few minutes from now, I will reveal myself. And when I do I’ll be able to rejoice in their shared horror: McCartney, John, and Faithfull too. I’ll watch them all trampling over Mundaho as they run for the exits and I joyously make one final sacrifice in the name of every true Olympian who ever lived.