Page 8 of Runner 13

Adrienne

Seven years earlier

Yorkshire

‘It’s about your son. There’s been an accident,’ the policeman says.

I struggle to my feet and follow the uniformed officers to their car, my whole body shaking. Someone – the race director maybe – throws a Mylar blanket over my shoulders and I hug it tight round me.

Everything – the win, the pain, the horrid shouts at the end of the race – is shoved from my mind.

I feel like I’ve been plunged through a hole in ice.

‘What’s happened to Ethan?’ I ask, my words coming out in a stutter as I’m ushered into the back seat.

I’ve barely spoken in thirty hours and my voice sounds unnatural in my own head.

The officer in the passenger seat turns round. ‘Your son is in hospital. His father is with him.’

A moan, involuntary and primal, escapes my lips. When I didn’t see them at the checkpoint I should have waited. I should have known something was wrong. The last call I made had gone to voicemail …

That’s when it hits me. My phone. When I take it out of my pocket, I see the screen is smashed.

I press the ‘on’ button but it doesn’t come to life.

I might as well have been carrying a brick for all the use it gives me.

It must have broken beneath my weight when I slipped and fell on the frozen ground at mile eighty-two.

The officer is speaking, but only a certain amount slips through my fog of fear and worry. I get the gist, though: Ethan had been riding his trike back from the park when a car mounted the kerb at speed and knocked him down. They were looking for the vehicle and driver now.

‘But … but he’s OK?’ I ask, my throat constricted.

‘He’s stable. I don’t have any other updates.’

‘Can you drive any faster?’

At the hospital I leave the officers in my dust, racing up to the paediatric unit. In the waiting room I catch sight of Pete talking to a nurse in scrubs.

‘How is he?’ I blurt out.

‘He’s OK,’ Pete says. ‘He’s sleeping right now.’ He looks ashen, shaken.

‘I need to see him. Where is he?’

‘Room fifty-five,’ says the nurse.

I don’t waste another second, rushing down the hallway to find the room. I take a breath before opening the door. I don’t want Ethan to see my panic.

He’s lying in the bed, so small and fragile. He looks beaten up – a bandage across his head and his arm in a sling, his cheek red raw and grazed. I sit on the bed next to him. At the movement he curls towards me.

I choke, my heart breaking at the thought of him being in pain. At the fact that I hadn’t been there for him. I reach out and stroke his cheek, feeling his soft breath on my fingers.

After a few moments, a doctor knocks and asks me to follow him outside.

I’m reluctant to leave Ethan’s sleeping form, but I need answers.

He leads me to a small room, where Pete is waiting – and he’s no longer alone.

The police officers are back, and they’ve been joined by a woman in a dark grey trouser suit.

She flashes a badge at me, introducing herself as DS Flintock.

Her eyes narrow as she takes me in, but my mind is too scrambled to interpret her expression. I’m only looking at the doctor.

‘Your son has suffered a fracture to his arm and took a bad bump to the head – we’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be fine,’ he says.

‘Oh, thank God,’ I say. ‘What happened?’ I direct the question to Pete.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. ‘It’s such a fucking blur …’

I give him a moment as he takes a deep breath.

‘We were on our way back from the park, getting ready to meet you at the checkpoint like we planned. Ethan insisted on riding his tricycle. Then this maniac driving a massive black Range Rover comes careering round the corner. Mounts the kerb near to where Ethan was. I swear, it was like it was aiming right for him. I ran but I couldn’t get there.

’ His voice breaks, and I can hear all Pete’s fear and worry and anger welling up.

‘Ethan managed to swerve away, tumbling into someone’s front garden, then they drove off. ’

‘Did you get a look at the driver? Or a number plate?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘I was too worried about Ethan; I wasn’t thinking …’

‘We’re going to check the traffic cameras in the area,’ says one of the officers. ‘We’ll find the vehicle that way.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. The adrenaline that had flooded my system and kept me upright is leaking away, and my head feels fuzzy.

‘There’s something else.’ DS Flintock steps forward now, clearing her throat. ‘Can you confirm your whereabouts yesterday, between the hours of eleven a.m. and three p.m.?’

‘That’s easy. I was running.’

‘You never left the course for any reason?’

‘Of course not. They should have a GPS log of my route. What’s this about?’

‘You recently made an accusation of sexual assault against your coach, Glenn Knight, didn’t you?’

Immediately I stiffen. It’s not really a question, and the detective doesn’t wait for an answer.

‘The police over there didn’t exactly find you credible, did they? They didn’t pursue any charges,’ she continues. Again, not really a question. Just a statement of fact.

‘Wait – do you think that has something to do with why Ethan got hurt?’ I shift on my feet. I think of the vitriol I’ve received online, the comments that had graduated to doxing, letters shoved through my door. Demands that I stop racing. Calls for me to be prosecuted for slander.

Then there were those shouts at the finishing line.

Liar.

Murderer .

The detective shakes her head. ‘Mr Knight was found dead at his home early this morning.’

‘What?’ My jaw drops. ‘How?’

Pete looks equally aghast. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Have you seen or spoken to Mr Knight recently?’

I pause. ‘Not since …’ Then I realize why they are asking me about my whereabouts. ‘You can’t think I had anything to do with his death?!’ I exclaim.

But if they think that, maybe others do too.

My hand shoots out and I grab Pete’s wrist. ‘What if it was because of me?’

‘What, Glenn’s death?’

‘No, Ethan’s accident. The driver … what if I caused this? Someone angry at me about the accusation?’ And the lies , I think but don’t dare say out loud. I turn to the detective. ‘It could be, couldn’t it?’

‘We’ll look into it,’ she replies, but the way she snaps her notebook shut doesn’t give me much confidence.

Ethan is OK, that’s the main thing. But it’s likely the reason the police won’t give it any more thought.

‘And we’ll be looking into that GPS log too.

’ With a sharp nod of her head, she gestures to the other officers that she’s ready to go.

Pete and I sit in silence until we’re alone. My fingers are still round his wrist.

I let go. ‘It’s my fault,’ I say, dropping my head into my hands.

‘Don’t say that,’ says Pete, shaking his head. ‘You know what people are like on the roads. It was school run time too; it’s always mayhem on that street. I should have kept him closer. If anyone should be blaming themselves, it’s me.’

I nod. ‘I’ve tried to slow him on that tricycle before – it’s impossible. It’s going in the bin.’

‘You can try – Ethan loves that thing. Come on now. Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ he says, and the words hang like dead weights over my shoulders.

They seem pointed. He’s biting his tongue, and I appreciate it – even though I can hear what he wants to say as loudly as if he’d actually spoken.

You’ve got a reputation for false accusations.

Don’t make it worse. ‘Let the police sort it out.’ His legs are twitching and he gets up.

Pete is such a doer, a man who always wants to be on the move. ‘Can you believe it about Glenn?’

I shake my head.

‘I wonder what happened.’ He pulls out his phone, glancing at it and frowning. ‘I’ve got to …’ He points at the screen.

‘Go. I’ll be fine here.’

He nods, already dialling.

Glenn is dead. Good. At least he can’t hurt anyone any more.

That’s the first thought that pops into my head.

Then the righteous anger turns to guilt.

But the people he hurt won’t get justice now either.

He’s died as a victim of false accusations, his precious reputation upheld. And that’s your fault.

It’s too much of a coincidence. I speak out about Glenn. Glenn dies. My son is put in the hospital.

My stomach clenches and I retch acidic bile on to the floor.