Page 15
Chapter Twelve
SEPTEMBER 2086
Alex
It was a boiling hot day. Whenever Alex looked out of the window, he saw the little huddle of paparazzi, their cameras pointed unrelentingly at his flat.
“Bastards. I can’t do anything or go anywhere without them following me,” he fumed, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
Neil glanced up from the sofa, where he was reading. “It’s only for a couple of weeks. When the Paralympics are over, they’ll go away.”
“Two weeks holed up in this place with you? Might as well be two years.” He kicked the edge of the sofa.
“You should be proud of your brother for turning his life around to the point where he’s competing at international level again,” Neil said primly.
“You sound like the hacks. Every time I set foot outside the door it’s ‘Alex, tell us how you feel about your brother. Do you feel guilty, Alex? Proud? Do you feel sad, happy, or fucking delirious with joy? Is your heart bursting? Do you want to cry? Vomit? Laugh?’ Why the fuck are they so obsessed with how I feel ? Who cares how I bloody well feel?”
“Apparently, most of the world’s press. You have to admit, it’s a story.” Neil flashed him a spiteful grin. “Our plucky national hero is paralysed in an accident caused by his no-good, drugged-up brother. But does he let that defeat him? Hell no! He pulls himself back up, gets himself into shape, and – defying all medical predictions – he goes back out there to compete for his country again. Fanfare! Trumpets! Violins!”
“Oh, fuck off. I’m sick to death of it.”
“It’s news, so of course the press is interested in a quote from you. Every good fairy tale needs a villain, after all.” Neil’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
Alex had done a good job of avoiding him since graduation. He’d made the most of his new-found freedom to sleep his way around Oxford, taking great pleasure in bringing his conquests home and flaunting them.
Neil was like a spider stuck in a web of his own making, alternating between shooting wounded looks and slinging bitchy comments at him.
He didn’t give a damn what Neil told his father; he was done playing that game. Unfortunately, right now he was stuck in the flat with his unwanted flatmate, and he resented it bitterly. These were his last days of freedom before he started work at Lytton AV, and he wanted to enjoy them – not spend two swelteringly hot weeks holed up with his least favourite person.
There was a commotion outside, followed by a knock on the door. He opened it to find Solange standing there in a pair of tight denim shorts that showed off her shapely legs and a teeny-tiny white vest top that clung to her small pert breasts.
“Hey,” she said cheerily. He grunted and stood aside to let her in.
“Hello, Solange,” Neil said pointedly, in contrast to Alex’s brusque welcome. Neil didn’t like Solange, but he’d been scrupulously polite to her since Alex had started inviting her over. “Don’t mind Grumpy here,” said Neil, waving at him. “He’s just upset that his heroic brother has overcome adversity to bring hope to the nation.”
“Again,” Alex muttered.
“Well, he’s a hero, isn’t he?” Solange said brightly. “Everyone loves Charles. ”
“Yup. Story of my life.” Alex dumped his cigarette viciously in his half-drunk pint of lager.
“I was worried about you.” Solange flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I kept phoning you last night, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was out clubbing,” he said, keeping his arms stiffly by his sides. “With Bax. He managed to distract the press while I sneaked out.”
“Did you have a good time?” she asked, drawing back, her face falling at his cool welcome.
“I suppose so.” He shrugged moodily. “I fucked a guy in the toilets, and then some girl sucked me off in the alleyway outside. It was good.”
He glanced at Neil, and then Solange, hoping to have wounded at least one of them. Solange, who had always been so easy-going, had become increasingly clingy of late, which made him want to curl up into a ball like a hedgehog, all spikes.
“Sounds lovely, dear,” Neil responded, with a sarcastic smile.
“You sound more like a bitter old queen every day,” Alex snapped. “Just because you never get any.”
“Some of us have standards; we don’t find the idea of fucking in a smelly nightclub bog and then being sucked off in a dirty alleyway very appealing.”
“Did it make you happy?” Solange asked, gazing at him sadly. He had the uncomfortable feeling she pitied him.
“In the moment, yeah. It killed some time,” he replied, feeling hemmed in on all sides: the paparazzi camped outside, Neil inside, and now Solange, too, her sad eyes radiating a sympathy that he didn’t want or deserve. “Did you bring any croc?” he asked her abruptly.
She pulled a little pouch out of her bag. “Always.”
“Then let’s go have sex and do croc.” Alex grabbed her arm and pulled her into his bedroom.
“Who said romance is dead?” Neil sniped behind him.
Two hours later, he lay on his back with tears gently flowing down his cheeks, feeling mellow and sated. Solange propped herself up on one arm and gazed down on him.
“Alex,” she said softly. “Is this all I am to you? Sex and croc? ”
“What more do you want?” he asked, his earlier sour mood returning.
“I don’t know. Just, we’ve been seeing each other – well, sort of – for nearly three years now, and as we’ll soon be going our separate ways, I wondered…”
“It’s never been serious, though, for either of us. Has it?” he asked, sitting up and pulling on his shirt. “We always said that, from the start.”
“No.” She shook her head, making her cloud of dark curls bounce. “But… we’re close, aren’t we, Alex? You know I really care about you.”
“Don’t smother me, Solange,” he snapped. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”
“I know, but I thought…”
“That you could change me? Yeah, that’s what Neil thought, too.”
“You need to let someone love you, Alex,” she said sadly.
“No, I fucking don’t,” he said. “Now, let’s go out for a drink.” He stood up and began pulling on his jeans.
“What about the press? I thought you didn’t want them getting shots of us together?”
“I don’t, but I can’t stay locked up like this forever. I’ll go nuts.”
The press jumped into action the minute they saw Alex and Solange, charging at them. In an instant, Alex was back in those terrible weeks immediately after the accident, when he couldn’t move for the paps following him around, taking photos and yelling stupid questions at him.
“How the hell does Charles enjoy this shit?” he seethed as they struggled to walk a few paces down the street.
“Alex! Charles is racing in the final tomorrow. How does that make you feel?” a reporter yelled.
“Like I want a drink, mate. How does it make you feel?”
“Why didn’t you go to Mexico to support your brother?”
“Because I didn’t fucking want to—” he began, but Solange stepped in smoothly.
“Because he knew you guys would be all over him,” she defended, “and he wanted this to be about Charles. Isn’t that so, Alex?”
“Yeah.” He tried to barge his way through the crowd, tugging her along behind him, but he wasn’t big enough, and there were too many of them.
Dozens of flashbulbs flared in his face, blinding him. Solange’s hand was clammy in his, and he could feel little trickles of sweat running down his back.
Feeling a surge of impotent fury, he struck out wildly, his fist connecting with people, lenses, and then with the pavement as he fell down.
He looked up blearily, through the sweat and crocodile tears, to see the cameras flashing like a firework display, surrounding him on all sides.
Someone pushed through the crowd and picked him up, then hauled him bodily through the throng, and he could have wept, because the last thing he wanted was Neil bloody Grant saving his arse.
Neil and Solange pulled him back into the building and up the stairs to the privacy of the flat, locking the door behind them. Neil dumped him on the floor, and Solange crouched down beside him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, handing him a glass of water. “You’re okay now, Alex. We’ve got you. Thanks, Neil.” Their saviour was breathing heavily, his brown shirt torn at the chest. She shot him a grateful smile.
“You know, Alex, whether you like it or not, I’m the best friend you’ll ever have,” Neil said.
“Christ, I hope not,” he said. “Even I don’t deserve that.”
“Alex, don’t be so mean,” Solange scolded. “Neil just dragged you out of that mob.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just go! Go on – piss off,” Alex yelled at her. She sat back on her heels, staring at him, her mouth open in shock. “Fuck off. I don’t want to see you again, Solange – not now, not ever.”
“Alex, you don’t mean that?—”
“Yes, I bloody well do. I was only using you for the croc; I’ve been bored of you for ages,” he said viciously, wanting to lash out at anyone in sight and knowing precisely what would hurt her most. She got to her feet and ran to the door without another word.
Footage of the incident was all over the news sites within minutes. Alex stared at himself dejectedly on his nanopad. His eyes were wet from croc, his face scrunched up in a roar of frustration as he lay on the ground, blinking at the flashbulbs. He looked like a wild animal, snarling in rage; he barely recognised himself.
“No wonder the whole bloody world hates me so much,” he said. “Stupid fucking bastards. As if they could ever hate me as much as I hate myself.”
His onscreen image lashed out, snapping and growling, his face twisted into a mask of hate. He wasn’t human – he was the other, a creature the world could project all its ugly emotions onto, because he didn’t matter. He’d lost that right four years ago on a country road. Like Neil said, every good fairy story needed a villain, and he was playing that role to perfection.
There was a ping, and his father’s face popped up. With a sigh, Alex accepted the call; Noah would only call Neil if he didn’t. His father appeared onscreen, his face creased with concern.
“Alex – I’ve just seen the news – are you okay? What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the bloody press! They’re harassing me; I can’t go anywhere without them getting in my face.”
“I’ve told you before – just ignore them. Don’t engage with them. I don’t know why this is so hard for you.” His father looked tanned and relaxed. “Who was that pretty girl with you?” he asked, unexpectedly.
“Her name is Solange.”
“Well, she looked nice. You should bring her to meet us.”
“We just split up,” Alex said sullenly.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” His father sighed. “Look, it’s a shame things aren’t going so well for you right now. I knew you should have come with us to Mexico.”
“I told you why I didn’t bloody well want to go to Mexico. And I don’t see how it would be any better if I was there instead of here.”
“You’d be having a good time. It’s lovely here – we’re being made very welcome. There have been issues with protestors – the usual stuff, some countries less affected by the Rising don’t approve of our IS system – but they aren’t prepared to help with our refugee situation, so…” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s all been taken care of quite discreetly and doesn’t affect us at all. Charles is being treated like a hero wherever he goes. ”
“He must be loving that.”
“Don’t start, Alex. Charles deserves this, and I’m doing my best. I’m not Isobel, but I hope I’m the next best thing.”
“I’m sure you are,” Alex said quietly. “And I’m sure he appreciates that.”
“Look, he wants to talk to you – be nice, okay?”
“Fine.”
His father disappeared, and Charles took his place, looking blissfully happy.
“Hey, little brother – no getting into fights when I’m not around to rescue you,” Charles teased.
Alex gave a grudging smile. When they were kids, Charles had always waded in to rescue him from fights, calming any situation with that special charm that nobody could resist.
“I’ll try not to do it again,” he said, feeling his bad mood subsiding. “How’s it going out there?”
“Brilliant! We’re having such a fantastic time. I wish you’d decided to come with us.”
Alex rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. “I’d have only spoilt it for you. I’d have argued with Dad, and the press would have hassled me, then you’d have been upset and unable to focus on the regatta. I didn’t want to cost you the gold.”
Charles shot him a sympathetic smile. “I knew that was the reason you wouldn’t come, but I’m still worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine. So, how’s it going?”
“I got through all my heats. I’m in the final.” Charles beamed.
“Yeah, I know. It’s all over the news.”
“Be pleased for me,” Charles said beseechingly. “I want you to be proud of me, Alex.”
“The whole country is having an orgy of pride over you right now – you don’t need me to join in,” Alex said wearily.
“But nobody else matters, except you.” Charles glanced over his shoulder and then back again, furtively. “Not even Dad. You’re the only one I really want to be proud of me. Nobody else.”
“Well, I’ll try, then,” Alex sighed. “Do you think you can win the gold? ”
“I hope so, yes.”
“Even without Mum’s help?” Alex asked. “She was always the driving force behind your training – all those bloody performance spreadsheets.” He gave a wistful little smile. “And all the other ways she helped, too,” he added quietly.
Charles’s dimples faded for a second. “She’s with me. In spirit.”
“I’m sure she is. She’d love what you’re doing. Nobody could ever keep her down, and you’re the same.”
“Just wish me luck. Please, Alex. I know you didn’t want me to do this, and I’m sorry you’ve had all this trouble with the press, but please, wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Charles,” he said softly. “I mean it. I really hope you win the gold.”
His brother’s sweet, dimpled smile was all the reply he needed. He shut down the nanochat, headed for the kitchen, and grabbed himself a supply of alcohol, then retreated to his bedroom to seek oblivion.
Day turned to night, but it remained freakishly hot. The sweat trickled down his face as he lay on the bed, listening to the hacks camped out on the street below. They were laughing and shouting to each other, making it impossible to sleep.
He got up to close the window and a dozen flashbulbs went off. Slamming the window shut, he closed the curtains and threw himself back down on the bed. Without any air, the room was stifling.
He reached for the stash of croc Solange had left him and inhaled deeply. The mellow high hit him a few moments later, and, closing his eyes, he found himself back at the 2082 Minneapolis Olympics, four years ago.
It was baking at the opening ceremony, so Alex was relieved to find it cooler out by Long Lake, where the rowing events were taking place.
Nothing had prepared him for the hustle and bustle. It was overwhelming. The press followed him and his family everywhere, jostling them. His mother and Charles seemed to love every frenzied second, while he and his father trailed along behind, smiling stoically .
“I don’t know how Charles can bear it,” he said to his father as they sat in the corner of their hotel lounge, watching Charles give yet another impromptu interview.
Noah laughed. “He doesn’t seem to mind the attention.”
“Are you kidding – he loves it.”
“So does Isobel,” Noah pointed out.
Alex glanced at his mother. A little throng of reporters were gathered around her, too, hanging on her every word as she flirted outrageously.
“Like mother, like son.” He grinned. “I’m so glad I’m not a sportsman, or an actor, or anything else that would throw me into the public eye. I wouldn’t like being at the centre of anything like this.”
“Me neither. Here’s to the quiet life!” Noah raised his glass. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, son,” he said in a softer tone. Alex braced himself, fearing the worst.
“I know you’ve been unhappy at school, and after you were expelled from Graylands at the end of last term, well, I admit I was angry.”
“Yeah, just a bit.” Alex winced into his Coke. His father had sent him to his room the minute he’d returned home and ordered him not to set foot outside the house for two weeks. He hadn’t minded – he’d spent the time designing a flying motorbike.
“I’m sorry about that. I thought your bad behaviour was because you were jealous of Charles’s success – it all seemed to start when we took him out of school to concentrate on his rowing career. I thought you were being selfish and envious.”
“I’m not envious of Charles. I don’t want this.” Alex waved his hand at the crowd. “Not in a million years would I ever want this.”
“I see that now. You and Charles are so different.” Noah cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ve found out the real reason why you behaved as you did. Charles tells me you were being bullied at school – at all your schools.”
Alex froze and looked down into his Coke. “Charles should keep his big mouth shut,” he said, feeling ashamed.
“I wish you’d told us, son.” Noah placed a gentle hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Charles said he looked out for you at Shales Academy, but once we took him out… I can only assume it got worse?”
Alex took a long gulp of his Coke. “I didn’t know how to handle it after he left, or at the other schools you sent me to after that, so I kept lashing out and getting into fights.”
“You were bullied at all three schools?” Noah looked bewildered. “But why?”
Alex shrugged morosely. “Dunno. ’Cause I’m different?”
“I’m sorry.” Noah squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, too, that we’ve all been too preoccupied to notice what was going on. Your mother is focused on Charles’s training, I’ve been busy with Lytton AV, and you got lost somewhere along the way.”
He stared at his father in surprise. They’d always got on well when he was younger, but the strain of his expulsions had taken its toll on their relationship of late.
“I’ve been speaking to some of the other families here, and one of the things that came up is how to deal with the other kids in the family when one child is a prodigiously talented athlete,” Noah said, unexpectedly. “Often, that child’s gift can take over a family’s entire life, and I think that’s what’s happened to us. So, after the Games, you can stay at home for your final year. I’ll find you a tutor, or you can go to a local sixth-form college if you’d prefer. How does that sound?”
Alex blinked. “It sounds great, Dad. Thank you.”
“Good.” Noah pulled him into a hug. “You’re just as important as Charles, you know, son. I’m sorry if it hasn’t always felt that way.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled into his father’s shoulder.
“Now, promise me you won’t give Charles a hard time for telling me about the bullying,” Noah said, pushing him away and looking him in the eye.
“I can’t be angry at Charles for long. Who can?” He grinned, glancing over to where Charles and Isobel were still holding court, laughing, joking, and generally charming everybody, like the practised double act they were.
“I blame myself for not realising something was upsetting you sooner,” Noah admitted. “Like I said, I’ve been busy at work, trying to bring in as much money as possible. Charles’s training is expensive, and Isobel has been asking for more lately. It’s been a strain.”
“It’ll be worth it, if he wins a medal tomorrow.”
“Of course – but look, we’re talking about Charles again, and I want to talk about you. This business with that drug you keep taking – the alligator or whatever it’s called.”
“Croc, Dad. It’s called croc.” Alex rolled his eyes. “Short for crocodile tears – because it makes you cry.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun. You’ve got to promise me that you’ll stop. If you get good grades in your exams, then you can go to Oxford, and after that you can join me at Lytton AV. But you have to stop taking this drug.”
“You mean that?” he asked eagerly. “I can do a degree in art and design and then come and work in the design studio at Lytton AV?”
“It would make more sense for you to take a business degree if you’re going to run the company one day.”
“But I want to study art and design – that’s what I’m good at. You let Charles do what he’s good at,” Alex protested.
Noah sighed. “Okay. Fair enough. You can study art and design at Oxford, and then we’ll see about you coming to work with your old man. How does that sound?”
“Fantastic!” he breathed. “I’ll work very hard – I’ll make you so proud of me, I promise.”
“That’s good to hear, son.” Noah beamed at him. “This will be a fresh start for us all. Just promise me you’ll give up this crocodile water stuff.”
“Tears – and yes, I promise.” He held up his hand solemnly. “I promise I won’t take croc ever again. I’ll be a good boy from now on.”
At that moment Isobel gave a loud peal of laughter, and they both turned to look at her.
“Charles – is there really any chance of you winning the gold tomorrow?” a reporter asked sceptically, sticking a microphone in front of him. “The entire country is stoked up to fever pitch, but your race record is erratic. What would you say to those who argue that because of your privileged upbringing and laid-back personality, you don’t have the hunger to win – that, basically, you’re just too nice to bring home the prize?”
Alex exchanged a wry glance with his father. It wasn’t the first time Charles had been asked this. Isobel flew over to stand next to her eldest son.
“You’re right – Charles is nice,” she said. “But he also has a backbone of steel, and the will and determination to win. You’d better not miss that race tomorrow, people, because you’re going to see history in the making. I promise you that Charles Lytton will bring home the first Olympic gold medal for Great Britain since the Rising.”
“If he does, it’ll be down to her,” Noah said. “Your mother is the most determined woman I’ve ever known. He’s come on in leaps and bounds since she became his coach.”
“Do you think he can do it, Dad?” Alex asked, biting on his nails anxiously. “I mean, he might win a medal, but can he win gold?”
“I don’t know, but if I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s never to bet against your mother. Once she’s set her cap at something, she doesn’t ever give up.”
Alex barely managed a wink of sleep that night, because he was so nervous. Charles, by contrast, looked as happy and self-assured as ever the next morning.
“Good luck, son,” Noah said, enveloping Charles in a bear hug.
Isobel snorted. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s all down to hard work and preparation.”
Charles held up his hands, grinning. “I’ll take all the luck I can get. Now, go and take your seats. I’ll see you later with a medal around my neck.”
“A gold medal,” Isobel corrected.
Charles kissed her cheek. “A gold medal,” he promised.
Alex was so consumed by nerves he couldn’t say a word. He patted Charles on the arm and then fled up to the stands to watch the race.
He bit down hard on his nails when the starter pistol blared, and then became aware of the cameras homing in on him and his parents. He didn’t know whether to smile, wave, or ignore them, but then he became so swept up in the excitement of the event that he forgot about them completely .
It was a tight race, and Charles was never in the lead until the final few seconds, when he found a burst of energy to overtake two boats and draw level with the one leading the race, crossing the line neck and neck.
It was too close to call, so they waited for the official result, the tension unbearable. Alex kept his gaze fixed on the tiny figure of Charles in the boat on the water below, bending over his oars, panting, waiting to find out if he’d won.
Then a massive cheer went up from the crowd – Alex heard it before he saw the scoreboard flashing out Charles’s name. The noise was like a tidal wave, engulfing him.
He spent the next few hours in a happy daze. The media pounced, and he forgot his shyness as countless microphones were thrust under his nose.
“Your brother has just won the first gold medal for Great Britain since the Rising,” a reporter squealed. “How does it feel?”
“Fantastic!” he beamed. “People have been saying that he’s too nice to win, but what you see is what you get. He really is that nice – it’s not made up for the cameras. He’s my big brother, my hero – and living proof that nice guys do come first.”
The media latched on to that quote, and it followed Alex everywhere. People had tee-shirts made up with “Nice Guys Do Come First” emblazoned over pictures of Charles holding his gold medal.
The entire country went into a frenzy of celebrations that lasted for weeks. Team GB won two bronzes, in addition to Charles’s gold, which made him the undisputed hero of the Games as far as Britain was concerned.
Upon his return, he was paraded around New London in an open-topped AV bus with his gold medal around his neck, while the crowds roared their delight.
Charles was a worthy winner, lapping up the attention and flashing that bright smile wherever he went. He was, quite literally, the country’s golden boy – from the burnished hair on his head to the sunny smile on his face and the medal around his neck.
Four weeks later, the nation’s hero lay on a country lane next to the wreckage of a Lytton duck, his spine so badly smashed that it was unlikely he’d ever walk again. The nice guy had been cut down in his prime, and a distraught nation needed someone to blame.
“Enter the bad brother, stage left, twirling his cape,” Alex said, reaching for more croc and inhaling deeply.
“Hey – Alex! Got another quote for us?” someone bellowed up from the street.
He rolled off the bed, took a deep gulp of whisky, and opened the window.
“Yeah, I have.”
He unzipped his fly and pissed over the reporters below, laughing as they scattered like ants, cursing up at him as they ran. Then he slammed the window shut and fell on his bed, with crocodile tears streaming down his face.
He spent the night and all of the next day in his room, snorting croc and drinking. He was woken from his stupor the following evening by loud cheers reverberating up and down the street. He walked blearily into the lounge to find Neil bouncing up and down on the sofa in front of the screen.
“What just happened?” he asked.
“Charles won the gold medal!”
Alex stared at the screen, showing his brother sitting in his boat on some faraway stretch of water, his chest heaving as he punched the air with both his fists. It looked almost exactly like his moment of victory at Long Lake, four years previously.
“Oh,” Alex muttered, and went back to bed.
The news sites were immediately full of both Charles’s triumph and Alex’s disgrace, publishing photos side by side that contrasted the two – Charles in his wheelchair, smiling as he accepted his gold medal, and Alex, dark and glowering at his bedroom window, pissing on the reporters below.
A Tale of Two Brothers proclaimed one headline, while another went for a sneakier joke, captioning the photos simply: Golden Boys .