Page 42

Adrienne
At last, I’m running again.
The tension of the bivouac is behind me, along with the snide comments and side-eyes, the storm-battered weariness. Now I can say all I need to with my feet, and that’s how I like it.
I’m amazed by how quickly the first few miles disappear. I keep pace with Mariam, matching her stride for stride. We push hard in the early morning, trying to cover as much ground as possible while the sun is not at full strength. Navigating is easier than I imagined too, despite the crude hand-drawn map. Every so often we pass a rock that has been spray-painted bright blue, marking the route. They’re easy to spot amidst the otherwise monochrome shades of brown landscape.
I’m not fully able to relax into my stride, though. My nerves are frayed, stinging like they’re exposed to the air. Pete’s disqualification, Jason’s injury, the note in his journal – it’s all put me on edge. I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for … I don’t even know what.
Knowledge is king, Addy.
Hearing Glenn’s voice in my head makes me recoil, despite the fact that he is right. He’s the only person to ever call me ‘Addy’, as if renaming me was part of the control he could exert.
It almost makes me stop in my tracks. But I grit my teeth. I’m not going to let him – or his memory – distract me. This is part of the reason I stopped running. Because I couldn’t dissociate it fromhim.
From what he did.
I focus on the other voice in my head. Ethan’s.Mum, you know the way.
I wonder if he’s at the tennis courts right now. He normally goes first thing in the morning, whether he’s staying with me, Pete or his grandparents. At our local court the net hangs half off, but we still hit a ball around until it’s time to walk to school. I’ve never been the best player – even at ten, he can run circles around me – but I’ve got better thanks to the sheer number of hours we’ve practised. I’m so proud of his discipline – maybe because I recognize it in myself.
It’s not the only thing he’s got from me. At his last tournament he got suspended from the team. The night it happened, Pete had dropped him off with me, absolutely furious.
‘Tell your mum what happened,’ he’d said.
‘It wasn’t fair,’ Ethan had replied, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Finn’s ball was in. The umpire was wrong. He should have won his game.’
‘And you thought yelling at the umpire was going to help?’
Ethan had stormed off to his room.
Pete had sighed. ‘Can you talk to him?’
‘Was the umpire wrong?’ I’d asked.
‘Not the issue. His outburst was, and the coach says he’s not to play again until he understands that.’
I’d winced. He was right. Ethan needed to learn to control his temper. Losing it was something he’d inherited from me.
‘The ball was in,’ Pete had conceded, eventually.
And that’s when I knew. Ethan was more like me than I had realized – the good and the bad. His fierce sense of justice. That strain between the truth and the reality. What’s fair about a ball being in and the umpire calling it out? One is the truth, but the other sometimes needs to be accepted as real to be a good sportsperson.
Sport, like life, doesn’t always abide by the rules.
Ethan’s never known me as an athlete. Certainly not as a champion. And I’ve never told him. My boxes of medals are stuffed under my bed. I don’t compete at his sports day. It’s easier that way. To pretend that my life began when we moved to Ambleside and I started working in the outdoor shop. That I’m just his plain, boring mum.
Maybe now he’ll see a different side to me.
The further we run, the more spread out the pack becomes. I lose the front runners but I’m not worried at this point. The race is long and these are literally the very first few miles. As long as I keep a good pace, I’ll be able to make up the time.
Still, when I reach the next checkpoint, I’m grateful. I’ve been playing it close to the line with water, and my bottles are nearly running dry. In my long-sleeved-top, shorts and compression socks, most of my skin is protected from the force of the sun’s rays, but I feel like I’m cooking from the inside out. Sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip, the suncream I lathered on my face now dripping into my eyes, making them sting – a rookie error. And we’re noteven at the peak of the day yet. As I pass through, one of the volunteers hands me my water. I need to transfer it to the reusable bottles lodged in the straps of my pack, the straws at a convenient height so I can sip without removing them, so I step into the shade of one of the shelters. I could also do with putting some sachets of rehydration salts in with my water, to help me as we’re about to enter the dunes.
Taking a break makes me feel agitated about my time, but I tell myself it will just be for a few minutes.
A groan sounds from the back of the tent. I peer into the darkness, my eyes having trouble adjusting from the searing bright light outside.
I step closer. ‘Nabil? Are you OK?Tout vas bien?’ I ask in halting French.