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Jason:
You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I think I’ve seen a ghost …
7
Stella
A gust of wind whistles down the gap between the tents, shaking the wooden posts, and I shield my face from the sudden influx of dust and sand. The sky darkens, the sun covered by a thick grey veil of cloud.
I bite at the edge of my thumbnail, only stopping when I taste the iron tang of blood.
I force my hand to my side, balling it into a fist.
DNS.
Did Not Start.
It’s worse than a DNF – aDid Not Finish.
At least, that’s how Pete sees it. Denied even the chance to compete. His reputation on the line. If he can’t somehow clear his name, he’s going to have to do a lot of damage control after this. He’s got a plan to do an independent drug test in Ouarzazate, but that means leaving the bivouac straight away.
After seeing Adrienne, Pete and I had the biggest blowout of our relationship. Pretty sure the entire bivouac heard us. He thinks I should forget about my obligation to Runners for Hope and leave with him. But that would be letting people down. That’s my dad’s role – not mine. The end result is that he’s on the bus back to Ouarzazate, along with some of the other DNS-ers. And I’m still here.
I rub the engagement ring once again, spinning the diamond round so it digs into my palm. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me she would be here. He obviously knew. But I can’t even bring myself to be that pissed off. Because there are things I haven’t told him either. Another reason I need to stay at Hot & Sandy.
Later. Later will be the time for truth. Now I need to turn my focus to Boones.
He can’t avoid me any longer. I know he’s here somewhere.
Where are you hiding?
I wander around the bivouac, through the aisles of tents. With Pete gone I can finally concentrate. Dad loves to be with the runners. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here somewhere, bumming a cigarette off one of the Berbers or sharing a cup of coffee with one of the elites. If anyone looks like they’re about to engage me in conversation, I lift my camera and take a photo, and they leave me alone. The camera makes me part of the set. Background noise. No one even gives me a second glance.
In a gap between tents I think I spot him. He’s leaning down, chatting to a runner – race number 501 – who is flowing through some yoga stretches. He’s one of the people I interviewed earlier for Runners for Hope. Matteo.
Matteo moves into downward dog as I walk towards them.
Yet by the time he completes his vinyasa, Boones is gone. ‘Shit,’ I mutter under my breath. This is just like him. Testing me. Toying with me. Probably enjoying my desperation.Fuck, I’m playing right into his hands.
‘Two hundred and fifty miles,’ Matteo says, lifting his arms over his head and bringing his hands back down in prayer. ‘This is ludicrous, isn’t it?’
The blunt statement makes me laugh. ‘Hey, you’re the one who signed up for this, not me,’ I reply.
He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, ludicrous.’
I think back to the interview. ‘You’re doing this for your father.’
‘That’s right. He was my idol. And now he’s my reason to keep going when the going gets tough.’
‘You’re lucky to have that.’
He takes a deep breath, staring out at the darkening sky. ‘And it helps that we’re in such a beautiful place. I never dreamed I’d get to see something like this.’
I follow his gaze, past the line of tents to the tops of the jebels visible on the horizon. I’m not surebeautifulis the way I would describe it right now – it’s alien and hostile, a contrast to the welcoming oasis town where my mother’s family is from, in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. There, a tributary of the River Todra feeds an explosion of date palms, olive trees and ferns – it’s so lush and green it’s hard to believe the Sahara is on its doorstep. It’s enchanting.