Page 23 of Runner 13

Adrienne

When I cross the line of the first stage, I raise my arms to the sky and pump my fists in the air. I think of Ethan watching the live feed at home, and I want him to see his mum cross the line fierce – not like every step over the last mile had made me want to be sick, which is how I really feel.

Hiroko and Alex finish seconds after me.

They seem to be running as a team, helping each other keep pace and navigate the route.

A race volunteer steps forward, handing out cups of hot, sugary mint tea, and giving us our water allotment for the rest of the night – all we’ll have to cook with, clean with and drink until the start of the second stage.

I’m parched, starving, exhausted and in pain – but I can’t keep the grin off my face. Runner’s high.

God, how I’ve missed this feeling.

But my smile is not returned by the volunteer. I take in her frown, her drooping shoulders. ‘Everything OK?’

‘We don’t know,’ she replies. ‘Something’s happened to Nabil …’

I don’t hesitate. I head straight to tent number one, where I spot Mariam sitting next to Farouk, who has his head in his hands.

‘I just heard. How is he?’ I ask, gulping down breath.

‘We don’t know,’ she replies. ‘We thought you might have been with him.’

‘I saw him at the checkpoint, then we ran together until the dune field. From there we went our separate ways. I didn’t want to follow his line.’

‘And how did he seem?’

‘At the checkpoint he didn’t look well. He’d run out of water so I gave him some of mine. But when we were running he seemed normal again. I thought maybe he’d been a bit dehydrated.’

Mariam shook her head. ‘Nabil wouldn’t make mistakes like that.’

‘I should have stayed with him,’ says Farouk, slapping his palm against the carpet.

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Mariam. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

‘I’ll go to the medical tent, see if I can get an update,’ I say.

Mariam nods, settling back inside the tent with Farouk, offering him what comfort she can.

I drop my backpack and water off in our tent, pouring some recovery shake into one of my bottles before walking over to the medical tent.

To my surprise, it’s almost empty – Emilio is the only doctor there, leaning against a tall tower of supplies. He runs his hands through his hair, looking sweaty, sandy and tired – almost as if he’s the one who ran a marathon today.

His head darts up as I walk in, as if he’s expecting someone else. But his face doesn’t fall when he sees me. In fact, it lights up. ‘Adrienne, you’re OK? Let me check you over. I was worried about you.’

I’m too tired to protest. He shines a penlight into my eyes and checks my pulse. ‘No dizziness or wooziness?’

‘A bit. Just didn’t drink enough. Trying to get on top of it now.’ I shake my drink for emphasis.

‘Of course. When I saw you in the dunes, you looked pretty rough. I was worried for a moment there.’

‘That was you? So you must have seen Nabil?’ I ask.

He exhales, slowly.

We lock eyes and my heart drops into my stomach. I almost throw up my recovery shake then and there. ‘No!’ I whisper.

He raises his hands to shush me, looking around, though there’s no one here but us. ‘We got him into the car as quickly as we could. They will have a much greater chance of saving him in Ouarzazate.’

I lean against one of the chairs, my legs suddenly feel unstable. ‘What happened?’

Now Emilio shakes his head. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’

‘What? How?’

‘I shouldn’t have cleared him to run. His resting ECG showed evidence of pre-excitation – an abnormality that I was concerned about.

I sent him for a new one but he was so affronted that I even asked.

He’s one of Morocco’s top runners! He trains out here all the time; he’s won the Marathon des Sables Legendary six times – I was delighted when the second ECG seemed fine.

I gave him the go-ahead. But I should have trusted my instincts. ’

‘You think it was his heart?’

‘What else could it be? But we will find out from the hospital soon enough – if those photographers hadn’t found him using the drone, we may have been too late.’

I think about the dunes, how easy it would be for one man to be missed. If he was alone, with no ability to activate his beacon … he could have simply died without anyone knowing. The thought sends a shiver through my body.

‘He seemed dehydrated at the checkpoint,’ I say. ‘I had to give him some of my water. I debated alerting one of the doctors, but, like you said, Nabil is a legend and I … well, I didn’t want to ruin his race.’

Emilio nods, distracted now, his radio crackling.

The bright screen of a laptop catches my eye from behind him and I wonder if he’ll let me send a quick ‘I love you’ message to Ethan.

I know it’s against the rules. But two runners have come close to death already on this race.

I try to ignore my gut screaming at me that I could be next.

‘And Jason, do you know how he’s doing?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, I have to go. Another emergency beacon has been activated.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘I wish I was. It’s too hot, and people aren’t prepared.’

‘And this is day one.’

‘This is day one,’ he repeats, his eyes looking dark. ‘Take care of yourself, Adrienne.’

He gestures for me to follow him out of the medical tent, clearly not wanting to leave me in there on my own.

Back in my tent, I take my time inspecting my gear after the first stage.

Word spreads that Boones’s announcement will happen at seven p.m., just before the sun sets – and about half an hour after the cut-off time for the fun runners.

Anyone who finishes after that will be disqualified.

I wonder how many people will be on the starting line tomorrow.

I finally have a moment to look at Jason’s pages. It feels like a lifetime ago that I ripped them from the notebook, but it’s only been a few hours. His scribble is almost illegible, impossible for me to decipher.

But a few things stand out: Booneshounds . The community of Boones superfans. I guess Glenn might have been one of them back in the day, given how obsessive he had become about Boones’s races. Maybe it was one of Glenn’s online friends who wanted to avenge him?

RR BLACK . I assume that stands for Range Rover. The car that struck my son.

And those words – STILL WANTS REVENGE – which sends another set of shivers down my spine.

None of this helps me without context. I need him to explain. I’m furious with myself for not listening to him when I had the chance.

It’s an anxious wait, but before I know it it’s almost seven. I walk with Mariam and Farouk to the centre of the bivouac, where – once again – Boones is sat inside his vehicle, waiting for the crowd to gather.

Farouk is hardly able to keep still, his hands opening and closing into fists.

‘I don’t like this at all,’ says Mariam.

Boones is punctual, my analogue watch showing exactly seven p.m. when he clambers on to the roof of his car.

‘Friends,’ he says. ‘I have news we all didn’t want to hear.

We have lost one of our family. I had to wait to tell you all until his loved ones had been informed, but it’s true.

Nabil Muhammad Alami passed this afternoon.

He suffered a heart attack in the dunes and unfortunately could not be resuscitated. ’

The reaction is immediate – the entire bivouac rippling with collective shock, sadness, disbelief. Mariam and I turn to Farouk, who buries his face in his hands.

Boones waits for the wave to hit the very outer edges of the circle.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. ‘I personally am devastated by this loss. He might have been Hot she knew Nabil much better than I did, so I clasp my other hand over top and stay strong – for her.

When the minute is up, Boones speaks again. ‘I know this is hard to process. Take time this evening. The race will continue tomorrow as planned – as I know Nabil would have wanted.’

I don’t know what emotion is more powerful for me: revulsion or relief. I don’t want to race knowing a man has died. But at the same time I’m surprised to feel glad I have the chance to run again. That tiny spark of competitive fire is burning brightly.

Boones has made the decision for us all. And he’s not done yet.

‘Nabil wasn’t the only medical emergency out there.

In total, two hundred and three people pulled out today, including seven elites.

That brings our number to around two hundred and fifty continuing to stage two.

That’s almost a fifty per cent dropout on day one.

Tomorrow’s stage is another twenty-five miles, and it needs to be completed in eight hours. Miss the cut-off and you’re out.’

He climbs down from the car, apparently finished.

Mariam and I drop our hands and I rub at my wrists, where sweat has gathered the sand into small clumps. As the sun goes down, I feel a chill too.

‘Fuck,’ says Mariam.

I agree with her.

‘Farouk must be heartbroken.’

‘Everything broken. He was like a brother to Nabil. An uncle to his children.’

‘Nabil had kids?’

‘Three.’

My hand flies to my mouth, tears springing up in my eyes.

As we walk to our tent, Mariam grips my upper bicep.

There’s a crowd of people round tent number one.

I flashback to what happened to Jason – surely there can’t have been another accident?

We can hear Farouk yelling and there’s a scuffle, a cloud of dust as a volunteer stumbles out of the tent holding a backpack.

Then Farouk appears, his face thunderous with rage.

‘What’s happening?’ Mariam asks, as she rushes forward.

Except it’s no volunteer. It’s the main Blixt guy himself.

‘Henry? What’s going on?’ I ask.

Henry pulls himself up, pushing his floppy hair off his forehead. ‘As Farouk is the current leader, we’re doing a gear check.’ He sets the backpack down on the ground, as someone else holds Farouk back from protesting.

I vaguely remember being told that we could be subject to random bag checks – to make sure we’re still carrying all the mandatory items and haven’t ditched anything for the sake of weight. But to choose Farouk seems exceedingly insensitive.

Henry has a checklist of items that had been in Farouk’s bag at the start. He opens every single pocket, diligently taking things out and checking them against the list. In one of the drinks pockets, stuffed underneath the water bottles, are a few energy bars.

He consults his list, frowning, then asks another volunteer to double-check. She shakes her head after reviewing it. I glance at Mariam, whose mouth is set in a firm line. Farouk’s nostrils are flaring, his hurt barely concealed.

‘These weren’t in your bag at the start of the race,’ Henry says.

‘Those are not mine,’ he says. Then he switches to rapid French, gesticulating wildly.

‘He doesn’t know how those got in his bag,’ says Mariam, translating in case Henry is lost. ‘He’s never seen them before in his life. They don’t even sell that brand in Morocco.’

‘OK, well, he needs to come with me,’ says Henry.

‘What? Where are you taking him?’ asks Mariam.

‘To see Boones.’

Farouk follows without protest, still muttering.

‘Do you want us to come with you?’ I ask him as he passes.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s a mistake.’ He leaps forward, grabs Mariam’s hand. He says something to her, too fast for me to understand, and his eyes flick to me as well. She reaches up and touches his cheek, nodding. Then he lets her go and follows Henry, his posture hunched, resigned.

I exchange a look with Mariam. ‘What was that?’

‘He says we must continue to run if he is kicked out. That he wants someone with honour to win.’

I suck in my bottom lip. I’m both touched that he included me in that sentence and horrified that it’s come to that. ‘This is all too much. First Pete’s weird tox report, then Jason and Nabil, now Farouk might be disqualified … what is going on?’

‘I am not sure. But we should keep our gear close in case anyone is tampering with the race.’

I clutch my bag to my chest. It’s a terrifying thought but Mariam is right.

‘Let’s get some rest,’ she continues. ‘Tomorrow we have to climb the jebel. If we are not prepared for it, it could be a killer.’ Mariam walks off, not realizing how unsettling I find her words.

In twenty-four hours the fabric of the race has completely changed.

If Farouk really is out, then the race will have a new leader.

Rupert is now in pole position. He’s standing in the awning of his tent, watching the action but not participating – not protesting.

His eyes catch mine and I’m shocked by the intensity of his glare.

‘It should have been you,’ he mouths at me.