Page 15 of Runner 13

Stella

We don’t hug. This is no big emotional reunion.

In fact, seeing Boones brings long dormant insecurities bubbling to the surface, as I wonder what his opinion is of me now.

I hate that that’s my first reaction, but he has the infuriating knack of making people yearn for his approval, even if he’s done nothing to deserve it.

He sets high bars, and people strive for years to reach them.

If they do, he only pushes them higher. Moves the goalposts.

It’s what makes the Ampersand races so addictive.

It appeals to that extreme-athlete mindset: what is possible if I’m given the chance? What am I capable of?

Dad makes a small gesture with his head – a slight tilt to ask me if I’ll come. He’s giving us a chance to talk.

When was the last time we spoke properly?

Seven years ago? That had ended badly. I’m a whole new person now.

With a whole new life. A fiancé. A job I love.

I’ve never been able to fully escape the world of running, but I didn’t want to.

I wanted to carve my own place in it. Not to be overshadowed by him.

I follow him, leaving the chaos of the bivouac for a different sort: the inside of Boones’s trailer.

Almost every available surface is covered in paper – maps of the Sahara, wind and weather charts, lists of participants, medical and emergency numbers.

Boxes of supplies teeter in every corner.

Bottles of water, first-aid kits, flare guns, radios – and that’s just what I take in at first glance.

His eyes dance – his version of a smile, even though his lips don’t move. To my shock it sends a thrill through me. I check myself: this is the man who chose organizing his races over a relationship with me, who wilfully endangers lives despite repeated warnings. He is not my family.

He clears his throat. ‘You look good. Happy to see you here. I wasn’t sure if you would come.’

‘I’m not here for you,’ I say, hating how petulant I sound.

‘Oh?’

‘My fiancé is one of the elite runners. Well, he was …’

‘Ah yes, Mr Wendell. He’s been dying for an invitation to one of my races. Please, Boones, it would be the honour of my life to run in an Ampersand. ’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I presume he knows who you are?’

‘What, that I’m your daughter? Of course he knows. We’re getting married; he knows everything about me.’

That makes Boones laugh, and my cheeks burn.

‘Well, he got an invite – surely you should be saying “Gee, thanks, Pa.”?’

I grit my teeth. So Dad did know about my relationship.

Yet another way to manipulate me. He wanted me to be here, to witness this, but didn’t have the guts to invite me directly.

Or maybe this was his way of giving me the choice.

He didn’t know if I still cared. By making all this effort, I proved to him that I did.

Shit. I’ve played right into his hands.

And Pete doesn’t even get to run any more.

I blink. ‘Oh my God, Pete’s test results?’ I say, speaking my realization out loud. It’s not really a question. I know the answer.

He doesn’t deny it. ‘It’s better this way.’

Anger flares up the back of my neck, a flash of fire. ‘That’s my fiancé you’re talking about. Do you know what this could do to his reputation in the running community to have a DNS for performance-enhancing drugs? And inviting his ex – was that for my benefit too?’

‘I invited those who I thought were worthy.’

‘Bullshit. You got me here, like you wanted. Tell me why I should stay, or I’m getting on the first plane home.’

‘You’ve been at the bivouac for, what, twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours you waited to find me. You’ve seen those faces out there. You’ve heard the stories. What people are running for. Why they’re running. Don’t you want to see them do it? Just like we used to …’

‘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’s anywhere 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. My anger 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.