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‘I was a child, then, Dad. I trusted you. I don’t trust you now, and I don’t want to be part of whatever diabolical plan you’ve got in store.’
He shakes his head. ‘Please – stay for one stage. This is my ultimate race. The one I’ve been working towards.’ He gestures at his trailer, at the mountains of paper littering every surface. The detail and the planning. His masterwork. How anyone could be so diligent and so relaxed at the same time, I’ll never know. But it’s his madness and his obsession. His impossible dream. The one he’s dedicated his entire life to.
‘Did it have to be here?’ I ask.
He chuckles – he sounds almost like a child, and that grates on my already shredded nerves. ‘You think there’sanywhere else I can hold the ultimate challenge than the largest desert in the world?’
‘What about Yasmin?’ I cry out, kicking the leg of the table, sending papers flying. ‘Did that promise mean nothing?’
He’s not laughing now. ‘It means everything.’
‘And yet you’re here,’ I say in a voice barely loudly than a whisper. ‘Staging a race in Morocco. Just like I asked you not to.’
‘Unless it was the last thing I did,’ he finishes.
He seems all of a sudden unsteady on his feet, rocking back and catching himself on the table with his hand. He doesn’t sit, but he leans his bodyweight against his palm, his knuckles turning white as his fingers dig into the wood.
I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. In my memory and in every photo or video I’ve seen of him, he’s always been as lean as a rake. He’s still that, with his curling moustache and full beard, eyebrows with a mind of their own and long grey wiry hair pulled back into a low ponytail. But there’s a sunkenness to his cheeks, the inward curve of his body more pronounced.
So this is what it’s all been about. He’s sick.
I swallow, hard. ‘Is it bad?’ My voice has a tremor.
‘Not hiding it as good as I thought, I guess.’ He coughs into his sleeve. ‘This is it for me,ma petite lapine. My last hurrah.’
‘Cancer?’
He doesn’t reply but pats his chest. His heart. He’s always had issues with it. He’s taken medication for as long as I can remember. But this must be different. Myanger dissipates into worry and fear that grips me by the throat. I’d gotten used to feeling like I didn’t want Dad in my world. But actually I realize I can’t imagine a world without him.
Anarchic, chaotic, infuriating as he is, there’s brilliance there too. I see that.
We stand there, staring at each other. I don’t know what to do. Affection doesn’t come naturally to either one of us.
‘So, no more after this?’ I ask.
‘This is it from me, baby.’
Eventually, I nod.
‘You’re always welcome to help me with running the race, like the good old times …’
‘Don’t push it,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay and do the job I signed up to do. But it’s not for you. What you did to Pete was cruel. You could have given him a chance. I won’t forget that.’
‘I understand. But if you don’t want to join us on the inside, then you’d better wait for my announcement like everyone else,’ he says, waving me towards the door of his trailer.
As I leave, my eye catches on something pinned to the wall. It’s an old photograph of people standing in three rows, like a class or sports team photo. There’s a logo in the corner that does look familiar, though – a sword – and names along the bottom, too small for me to read. I reach out and snap it from its pin. ‘Dad, what is this?’
He plucks it from my fingers, dropping it on to the table. ‘History,’ he says.
I catch his eyes as he passes me, opening the door and stepping down the stairs. In that split second I see the hunger there, the anticipation. Even in the hundred-degree heat, it turns my blood to ice. I use my phone to take a photo of the image and follow him back out into the desert.
13
Adrienne
Mariam and I stand shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of other runners, waiting to hear Boones’s announcement. It’s only now that I really feel the scale of the race. I can’t move without a runner’s backpack smacking me in the face, each stuffed to the brim, everyone in hats and wraparound sunglasses, sand gaiters attached to Velcro on shoes, feet twitching with nervous energy. Yet it’s also not as jubilant as other race starts I’ve been on. The storm put paid to that, and news of Jason’s injury has spread like wildfire throughout the camp. My nails are bitten to shreds, and not just because the pages that I took from Jason’s notebook are burning a hole in the bottom of my bag, waiting until I can take a closer look at them.
I take a sip of water from a straw poking out of the bottle tucked into the shoulder straps of my backpack. I don’t know what it is I want Boones to say – if he’s going to cancel the race or not. If he does, I won’t get my answers. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, wondering when this attacker is going to show up again. Wondering who is out for revenge.