KAARON WARREN
31
the room where the races were held. He collected their food and left it in the tunnel, then he ran up the stairs, the wind in his ears, hair ruffled. That was good. He ran up the hall, past dark doors (doors behind which islands slept, cars rested, crowds nestled silent) till he came upon a shaft of light. Here, perhaps, were the races. Regaining some sense, he slowed his pace and crept to the door. There, he heard shouting voices, so loud his ears rang. And he saw flesh, true flesh. He had not even seen himself naked – there was no large mirror in the room and he would not appear that way with his grandmother around. He most certainly had not seen her naked. He did not mind the most horrific stories, graphic details, the cruellest sights on the television. But to see his grandmother naked, or to touch himself, was too shocking. He hated discussions about himself, any intimation of person. When his grandmother wanted to talk about what he would do when he left the room forever, he hated that. He had seen TV flesh, but this was so soft, so… meaty. It looked like food, like something you would eat, and the thought made Marvo sick. He knew you did not eat human flesh. The sight horrified Marvo and he gave a half-shout, the greatest noise he had made in three years. A grunt. The flesh stopped writhing. A voice demanded, “Who’s there? Who is it?” and Marvo ran, fleet of foot and invisible, down the stairs and out of sight before the man could rise, wrap and follow.