Page 16 of Runner 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.

Hiroko, standing on the other side of Mariam, is discussing that very possibility.

‘He didn’t cancel Long & Windy when poor Steve Parsons was blown off a cliff.

I don’t think a sandstorm is going to put him off launching Hot & Sandy.

’ His eyes drop to my race number. He grimaces and takes a step back, as if the number thirteen was something you could catch.

If he’d been Catholic, I think he might have crossed himself. ‘You OK wearing that?’

I shrug. ‘It’s just a race number.’

His mirrored sunglasses make his eyes unreadable, but his lips quirk. ‘When Rupert had it, he wore his bib upside down, like they do in the Tour de France.’

‘I’m fine with how it is,’ I say through gritted teeth.

The crowd hushes, and Hiroko lifts on his tiptoes to see over the heads of the other runners.

I, on the other hand, look up at the sky.

The weather couldn’t be more different from last night.

Now the sun radiates down on us, the air still.

There’s not a breath of wind, nor a single cloud in the sky. Just miles of endless blue.

The crowd murmurs, as a Jeep drives slowly into the centre of the bivouac. We all stare expectantly at the doors, waiting for whoever is going to emerge.

But no one does.

There’s a clap. One loud smack of hands.

Then silence.

Another clap.

A man steps out from amongst the runners, walking right up to the car and clambering on to its roof, nimble and light-footed. He sheds his hat and glasses, revealing the person we’ve all been waiting for.

Boones.

He grins. Then he claps again.

The sound reverberates through the crowd. Even though he’s only one man in a crowd of almost a thousand, I hear him as loud as if he is right next to me. It’s like a camp counsellor’s attempt to gain rowdy teenagers’ attention.

But it works.

He does it again. Except this time, others join in.

The claps sound louder than ever. As one, the beat continues, speeding up, spreading from person to person until it seems like the entire desert is applauding, then cheering and yelling, all the pent-up energy from the night before released, the whole mood of the bivouac changing.

If anyone else had tried it, I’m certain it would have flopped.

But it’s like Boones has been able to alter our collective brain chemistry.

There’s a frenzy, a fervour that takes hold.

People stamp their feet and shout loud whoops.

In front of me, Hiroko bounces up and down, Alex beside him, arms round each other.

Even I’m clapping so hard my palms sting.

A woman nearby starts crying – tears of joy. Or at the very least they’re a release.

Boones raises his hands again. It takes a little time but the crowd calms. There’s no dejection now in the shoulders around us. Chins are up. Heads held high. Mine too.

He lifts a microphone from his pocket. He speaks directly into it, his characteristic rasp somehow still crystal clear. ‘Well, I promised you hot and sandy,’ he says in his American drawl.

The crowd roars with laughter.

‘That was quite the night. Some of you have been hurt. Some of you have quit. The desert is testing us, even before the race has begun. But those of you who are still here – bravo. As you’re experiencing right now, you’re facing the toughest challenge of your life.

It will be hard. It will be beautiful. Maybe you will be pushed to breaking point.

You will come face to face with your demons, duke it out on those sands.

But, my God, it will be worth it. And I for one can’t wait to see who manages it. ’

The crowd roars again.

‘This is an experience like no other. And I want you to live every moment of it. So new rule: no electronic devices.’

My heart drops, my fingers automatically going to my phone. I grip it tight. I’d promised to message Ethan whenever I had signal. But, more than that, the last time I’d raced without a phone, the worst had happened. If he needed to reach me and couldn’t … I would never forgive myself.

‘No phones, cameras, music players, chargers, any watches with a function other than basic time. You get it. We’re going pure.

We’re going simple. If you get into trouble, there’s no faster way to get help than to use your emergency beacons.

Henry will run through the logistics. If you don’t want to comply, you can join the thirty-four others who have left already.

No shame in admitting this isn’t for you.

It’s not going to be for most of you. Only the brave can handle what’s coming.

See you on the starting line. You have fifteen minutes. ’

He clambers down from the Jeep as the murmurs grow.

He’s cutting us off from the outside world. Henry takes the microphone and is saying something about how volunteers will be coming round to collect the devices.

Mariam shrugs. ‘I didn’t even bring my phone.’

‘This is brilliant,’ says Hiroko. ‘I spend enough time on my devices at home. I can fully unplug and blame Boones.’

Volunteers in Hot & Sandy vests are moving through the crowd with what look like dry bags with roll-top lids. ‘I have to go,’ I reply. Mariam calls after me but I’m already on my way.

Most people hand them over without fuss.

It’s not as if there’s much signal out here, and having that purity of experience – cut off from technology – has its appeal, as Hiroko said.

But I cling on to mine like a life raft, dodging runners and volunteers alike in my urge to get to the edge of the bivouac.

I dial Nancy, Pete’s mother. I know it’s six a.m. in the UK, but she’s an early bird, up to walk their pair of overexcited black Labradors.

But for some reason today she chooses not to answer.

Same with Pete’s dad, his number ringing out.

Where on earth are they? I feel panicky now, as I see Henry has spotted me.

He’s approaching with an open dry bag like a threat.

I keep walking, dialling the numbers. It crosses my mind to call Pete, but I push that thought away. He won’t be with Ethan yet and he can hear the news about the race from Stella. I wonder if they’re taking away phones from the photographers too.

I glance behind me and see Henry is busy with another runner.

I stop to record a video, taking a couple of deep breaths, trying to rearrange my face into someone who is calm and in control.

Not wildly panicked and flailing. ‘Ethan! It’s Mum.

This is just a message to say that Boones is taking our phones away so we can concentrate on running.

Didn’t you tell me that he hates technology?

So there you go. You were right. But please don’t worry – remember you can follow my dot to see how I’m doing.

Know I’m always thinking about you. Know I love you very much.

Be good to Nanny and Grandad. Good luck in your matches.

You know the way. And remember – I do too. See you very, very soon.’

I watch the message swirl around and around, the signal strength wavering as it attempts to send the video. I beg it to go. When I lower the screen, there is Henry.

‘Ready?’ he asks, holding out the open bag.

‘Can I make sure this sends?’

Henry glances down at his watch, sucking in his bottom lip. ‘I don’t know … OK, well, I also see here you have a digital camera and charger on your inventory – they need to go in too.’

I nod, feeling sick. I hadn’t had a moment spare to look at the pictures I’d taken of Jason’s notebook on that camera.

Now that information is going to be locked away.

The charger is in an easily accessible side pocket, but I take my time searching for it.

I finally see the double tick to show the video has been sent, and I drop both the phone, charger and camera in the bag.

He rolls the top and seals it, marking it with my race number.

The bag is slightly padded, made of heavy-duty black material.

‘It’s a Faraday pouch. Blocks any signal,’ he explains. ‘You’ll be able to pick it up at the end of the race.’

‘You must have had all these prepared. Why didn’t you tell us earlier?’

Henry laughs. ‘It’s all part of the race, to keep you on your toes. We volunteers are giving up our phones too. The only person with one is Boones – otherwise we’re running on radios.’

I frown. ‘That doesn’t seem safe.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s a laptop in the admin tent that will be manned twenty-four seven. There’ll always be someone watching your GPS trackers. We’ll know if any emergency beacons are activated and get help to that location straight away.’

‘So the photographers don’t have phones either?’

‘No one. They’ll have their cameras and will be able to send their images from the comms tent. Good luck, runner thirteen,’ he says, before walking away.

Without my phone I feel naked. Cut off. Alone. I’m still not sure that I can go through with this.

Then I see the dark green Jeep. This is my chance.

I start running. ‘Boones!’ I shout. Thankfully the vehicle moves at a crawl through the busy bivouac, and I am faster. The car stops as I bang on the window.

He lowers it, then examines me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my race number. ‘Adrienne.’

My words come out in a breathless rush. ‘What you wrote on the invitation. I need to know. Who was driving the car?’

He raises both eyebrows at me. ‘Aw, come on now. You’re here. You’re wearing the number. We’re minutes from the start.’

‘Right. That’s why you have to tell me what you know.’

‘Answers at the end of the race.’

‘There could be someone here who’s trying to hurt me.’

‘It seems to me like someone has been trying to hurt you for a long time.’ He leans over to the glovebox and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

I hold my breath as he hands it to me. I unfold it – it’s a black-and-white still from what looks like CCTV footage.

The logo for the camera brand is in the left-hand corner.

In view is the Ranger Rover. I recognize the street it’s on as well.

Just round the corner from my house. But the driver’s face is blurred.

‘You have this video?’

‘I do. I’ll show it to you. After the race.’

I crumple the paper. ‘How long have you had this?’ My mind is racing. All this time he’s known. ‘The driver … are they here? Am I in danger?’

‘Honey, you’re in the middle of the Sahara Desert. There’s danger everywhere.’