Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  Xander rubbed her shoulders. ‘Stop looking at Grace and relax. Once you start running, you’ll be fine, Wilde.’

  Libby stared straight ahead, trying to focus on the race organiser wittering about checkpoints and full body cover, but the blood pumping in her ears drowned out his words. The pistol fired.

  She ran.

  Once the start melee thinned out, Libby and Xander were where they wanted to be, in the front quarter of the pack. From here Xander’s plan was to chip away, using their quicker pace to put a gap between them and Grace. Libby would need it. She and Xander could maintain a faster pace for longer, but he’d warned her Grace always upped her pace at the end and if Libby was less than half a kilometre ahead of her when she reached Lum Crag, Grace would win. Xander had it all worked out.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. The carefully chosen music on her iPod worked to keep her pace even. She’d maintain the same rhythm, only changing the length of her stride to match inclines. How could Patrick think she couldn’t do this? Because he knew she’d failed before. Well, not this time.

  The lactic burn in her thighs wasn’t the worst it’d ever been, but heading up Black Fell, it wasn’t far off. Eight other runners were in front of Libby and Xander, but Grace was the required half a kilometre behind. Ten miles had gone. Libby had mud splatters up to her knees and a graze on her left elbow from stumbling over rocks. She checked her watch – still on target and feeling good. She could do this.

  She leapt up onto a stile, vaulting over the top and landing on the grass, already running. Behind her, Xander swore. He bent over, clutching his side.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, switching her iPod off.

  ‘Stitch. And it isn’t going away.’ He jogged on, his face set in a grim frown.

  Their pace slowed but they ran on, heading up to the peak of Black Fell towards the fifth check point. A patch of scree slowed them further, twice making Xander mutter under his breath.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer, but glanced up at the cairn. Fifty metres to go. A runner overtook them.

  ‘Xand?’ she asked, concerned by his increasingly pale face.

  ‘Just get to the checkpoint,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll have to retire. I can get a lift from here.’

  Libby’s nausea returned. ‘But–’

  ‘You keep running.’

  ‘I can’t do this by myself.’

  ‘Yes you can. You know the route. You’re on time.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Not without you. I’ll get lost. I’ll never find the right route down from the Crag.’ Twice she’d buggered it up in training, not spotting the gap in the rocks that led to a wall gap where the drop on the other side was only a couple of feet instead of ten. Instead she’d had to detour to reach the stile.

  At the summit, Xander struggled towards the checkpoint, looking ahead to the runners already on their way to the fourth peak.

  ‘Okay, new plan. See the Haverton Harriers runner, three in front of us?’

  Libby narrowed her eyes, but nodded. ‘Isn’t that Mike Robb, last year’s champion?’

  ‘Go catch him up.’

  ‘I can’t–’

  ‘Yes, you can. You’re faster uphill. He’ll leave you for dust going downhill, but if you can get somewhere near him going up the Crag, you’ll be able to follow his route to the wall. Watch him.’

  The checkpoint loomed. She could retire too.

  ‘Wilde, you can do this. You have an hour left. You got the legs?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t kill yourself, but catch him up. You can get the guy in front of us by the time you get to the bottom of the Pike. Then focus on the guy in front of him. Aim to catch Mike Robb by the top of the Pike. Stick with him across the ridge to the Crag.’

  ‘I’ll get lost and die.’

  ‘You’ve got your GPS watch on. I’ll track you on Daisy’s laptop.’

  She paused, sticking her dibber into the reader and thanking the marshals.

  ‘You can do this, Wilde.’ Xander kissed the top of the head. ‘Now go. Grace will up her pace at this point and she’s less than half a K behind you.’

  Libby hesitated.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Wilde. Run!’

  Shit. She strode away, switching her iPod back on as she focussed on the lime green vest of the runner in front of her.

  Your ass is mine.

  The ground disappeared under long, easy strides as she enjoyed the gentle, grassy descent. The lactic burn eased and she took a small drink, her confidence boosted by the quickly diminishing gap between her and the lime green vest.

  She’d prove Patrick wrong. She’d prove Grace wrong. She’d prove she wasn’t a quitter. Not anymore.

  She passed the first runner way before the bottom of the Pike, and target two was only twenty metres in front when she started the next uphill. A glance down to her left showed Grace sprinting down from checkpoint five. Xander’s stitch had slowed Libby down, giving Grace the chance to make up some ground.

  She’s going to catch me.

  Libby ignored the runner ahead, instead focussing on her main target, Mike Robb, fifty metres away. Her legs burned as her pace increased, but the gap shrank. This might kill her, but Xander had given her a strategy and she wouldn’t let him down.

  Ten more minutes to the top of Lum Pike, then five down along the Ridge, ten up to Lum Crag, then ten down to the valley bottom. The last ten minutes would be flatter, but with more obstacles – streams, walls, and mud.

  Mike didn’t look remotely pleased to see her, but she stayed at his heel up to the checkpoint. As Xander predicted, Mike left her on the downhill, his experience allowing him to run with more confidence over the rough terrain, but on the way up to Lum Crag, Libby once again sat on his heel, sticking her dibber in the checkpoint the second he’d taken his out. Grace was half a kilometre behind. Libby could do this.

  For the first time, her hope soared. She’d done the climbs. She’d done the majority of the miles. Twenty minutes stood between her and victory. Instead of letting Mike get away, she ran faster than she’d ever dared, determined not to lose him or her way down to the wall. Once she was at the wall, she could let him go.

  Twice she slipped, but she kept running. Adrenalin took over, her instincts kicked in and she found she was smiling as she sped down the mountain. She was fell running with the best. Grace would never catch her now.

  Mike led her to the wall and Libby relaxed. Familiar territory. Safe territory. She eased up a little, no longer needing the tour guide, but coming back to her usual pace, letting her feet match the music. She placed a hand on the wall as she stepped onto it, but the stone moved and she stumbled. Unable to control her landing, her foot hit a rock, twisting her ankle. She yelped, landing in a heap.

  Oh God, no.

  Mike Robb glanced back, but she stood up and waved, telling him she was fine. Just keep running. She jogged on, but each step sent a bolt of agony through her ankle. Behind her, Grace was at the top of the Crag. In two minutes, she’d be at the wall. There was no way Libby could win, but she’d finish if she had to walk over the line.

  If only Xander were here… He’d be at the finishing line. She couldn’t let him down. She couldn’t walk across the line – she had to run across it. The two runners she’d overtaken earlier dashed past, followed by another two. Grace was next.

  ‘Stick to ballet,’ she called, laughing as she ran like a gazelle past Libby.

  No. Libby would not be beaten, not like this. She’d danced on worse. Grace had no idea what Libby could do.

  I can out run her. I’m faster.

  Libby ran as she’d danced in Swan Lake, ignoring the messages her ankle was sending to her brain. In the woods, she caught Grace, but didn’t overtake. She’d wait. Five minutes to go. Grace’s pace steadily increased as they leapt streams and boulders.

  The woods disappeared and the Miller’s Arms came into view as Libby prepared to
make her move. Around the next bend the track opened out onto a grassy fell. The final half-kilometre. At full stretch, Libby could do it in just under two minutes. Crikey, they were within the record time.

  She pulled to the right, lengthening her stride.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Grace kept pace.

  Libby refused to glance around or answer back. She had to run faster. Pumping her legs, focussing on breathing, she ran as though she hadn’t run twenty-four kilometres already. Grace was right behind her, cursing her, wasting her breath, as Libby turned onto the bridleway.

  Just keep running.

  She could hear the cheers and applause for the runners ahead of them. Her legs moved faster. Xander would be waiting. Patrick would be there. She had to win. Her ankle had numbed to one searing burn and she turned into the field with no idea where Grace was – on her heel or by her side.

  At the end of the fenced off route in the field, Xander was shouting at her to run, pointing to the clock. She would beat Grace’s record by five bloody minutes. From the excited cheers, she knew Grace was behind her, the spectators cheering on the sprint finish. Zoë, Patrick, Daisy, Robbie, Vanessa… familiar faces flashed by as Libby pushed harder, her legs burning, her lungs on fire.

  Twenty-five metres… ten metres… five.

  She crossed the line.

  Xander helped guide her hand to the dibber sensor and once her finish time was logged, Libby raised her arms to the sky. She’d done it.

  ‘You are totally amazing,’ Xander yelled, lifting her off her feet.

  She wanted to thank him, but as he put her down, pain shot through her ankle. Using his arm for support, she hopped to the official’s booth and handed in her dibber. It was over. She’d won the women’s race.

  Grace slumped against the booth as she handed in her dibber. ‘When you fell at the wall... you could barely walk. Were you faking it?’

  Libby glanced down at her right foot, which she was still holding up from the floor, and shook her head. ‘Can’t walk.’

  ‘Respect.’ Grace held out her hand.

  Libby’s lip wobbled as she shook it.

  Two hours later, after a shower, a vast bowl of pasta and copious amounts of orange juice at Xander and Daisy’s, Libby had returned to the Miller’s Arms, still limping, still exhausted, but feeling almost human again. The same Mumford & Sons tribute band played folk classics in a mini-marquee out the back, the pub barbeque was churning out burgers, but pretty much every runner she’d seen had eaten nothing more than chips and crisps.

  And people were dancing, people who’d run that day. She admired them. Even if her ankle hadn’t been strapped up, she’d never have the energy to jig around.

  In her favourite purple t-shirt and ancient jeans, with hiking boots for walking home later, Libby sat curled up in the corner of the snug, happily drinking her very first pint of real ale – a ritual Grace insisted on. The first mouthful hadn’t been the nicest thing she’d ever drunk, but encouraged by Patrick, who was also drinking the Cumbrian beer at the bar, Libby persevered. And it wasn’t half bad.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake...’ Zoë killed the beeping on her phone and drained her Bacardi and soda. ‘That’s the sixth time that bastard’s called today. Does he think I’m going to forgive him, just like that?’

  ‘Are you?’ Grace asked.

  Libby half-hoped Zoë would forgive him. It’d been over two weeks since Fee’s funeral and Zoë’s obsessive fasting, like the frequency of Jonathan’s calls, hadn’t diminished. Maybe if she’d talk to Jonathan, she’d get over his affair with Maggie. Something had to change.

  ‘Never,’ Zoë said, switching her phone off.

  ‘Never say never,’ Libby said, repeating Zoë’s mantra.

  But Zoë just laughed and kissed Libby’s cheek. ‘I’m going for a fag.’

  Zoë left, giving Libby her first opportunity alone with Grace. After the handshake, there had been no more animosity, but they’d never had a chance to talk. Grace picked at her cheese and onion crisps, smiling at her.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I wanted to say sorry.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘I never would’ve messed around with Jack while he was seeing you. Never, ever. It’s not my style. But even if the elderflower wine thing hadn’t happened... well, if it hadn’t happened, I’d have gone out with him. I’m sorry for that. It’s always felt like a betrayal.’

  Grace merely nodded.

  ‘You don’t fancy giving it another go with Jack?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to move on. Someone new.’

  Libby reached into her back pocket, taking out a small, yellow silk pouch. ‘I made this last night. For you. Patrick said... well, I’m assuming you know what it is.’

  ‘A retribution spell?’

  Libby nodded. ‘Everything I’ve done to you, will come back to me, times three.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t take it. We both know you didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Then nothing will come back at me, times three.’ Libby held out the bag. ‘Please.’

  Grace took it, her hand shaking. ‘Blessed be.’

  ‘Blessed be.’

  Inside the bag was the little amulet of the naked woman holding up an offering, the one to promote new beginnings. Grace clipped it to her charm bracelet, still smiling. ‘I think this might be one of the most honest, nicest things that anyone’s ever done for me.’

  To Libby’s surprise, Grace leaned over the table and hugged her. Libby clung to her, the relief at making friends with Grace greater than finishing the fell race.

  ‘Oh hello,’ Patrick said as he stood in doorway, holding another three pints. ‘Scott, check this out. Libby and Grace are questioning their attraction to men.’

  Libby threw a beer mat at him, but couldn’t help laughing as he sat next to her, grinning like a fool. Scott, Clara, Robbie and Vanessa joined them, cramming into the little snug.

  ‘Who’s for poker?’ Scott asked.

  Patrick bent his head to whisper in her ear. ‘For half your winnings, I won’t tell him about your spooky mindreading skills.’

  She had to press her lips together to suppress her grin. ‘Did you bring your wallet, Scott? I hear you get paid the big bucks.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘We play for matchsticks, sweetheart.’

  Libby leant up to Patrick, whispering. ‘The deal’s off.’

  But Patrick laughed, his breath tickling her neck. ‘Ah, but those matchsticks we cash in for beer tokens. Play your cards right and we can drink for free off this lot.’

  Who cared about winning at poker when Hot Patrick was sitting next to her, whispering to her, his lips accidentally brushing her ear? Was this bliss, or did attention like this only make Cold Patrick harder to deal with? Bugger it. She’d take ten minutes of Hot Patrick any day.

  Across the table, Scott watched her, smiling as though he knew what she was thinking.

  Arse.

  * * *

  Under clear skies and a full moon, a gaggle of drunken revellers left the Miller’s Arms, heading back to Gosthwaite. Patrick had to jog to catch up to them after being delayed by Steve the landlord to discuss his pet pig’s balding skin.

  Up ahead, he spotted Libby zipping up her thick down jacket, shivering against the frosty evening.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked, slowing to walk beside her.

  ‘A bit. I’ll be okay once I get walking.’

  ‘Here,’ he said, pulling his woollen hat over her hair. ‘You should’ve got a lift back. How’s your ankle?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She had that angelic smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry for annoying you this morning.’

  She tried to pout, but only made him laugh. ‘I can’t believe you doubted me.’

  ‘I didn’t doubt you could do it. I was worried that if you didn’t win, you’d think you’d failed.’

  ‘I would’ve.’ She smiled. ‘Obsessive, I know. Anyway, it was a handy motivational tool s
o, thank you.’

  ‘Glad to be of service.’ He ambled along, his hands in his pockets. ‘Where’s Zoë?’

  ‘Buggered off with Sparky. Poor guy.’ She smiled as Scott ran past, giving a giggling Clara a piggyback. ‘Where’s your dog?’

  ‘Home. He lives with mum and dad. He’s old.’

  ‘But you don’t have any other pets?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a cat.’ He tried not to smile as she elbowed him.

  ‘I’d like a dog. Someone to run with.’

  ‘So get one.’

  ‘I can’t. Not while I’m living with Zoë.’ She frowned down at the track. ‘Though how long we’ll be here is–’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ She couldn’t leave, not now.

  ‘Well, no. I mean, I don’t know. Zoë’s nearly served her tax exile time, so she’s putting the house on the market. It depends on how quickly it sells.’

  ‘You could share with Grace,’ he suggested. ‘She’s always skint. Has two bedrooms.’

  Libby laughed. ‘I think it’s a bit soon to suggest moving in together. We’re only just on speaking terms.’

  ‘At least you’d still be in the village. Hyssop would have to live with me, of course.’

  She elbowed him again, but this time he was ready and grabbed her arm. For a moment he held her close, preventing her from hitting him. Roses and sweet peas. Christ, how did she... She gave up the fight and looked up at him. If a dozen people weren’t with them, he would’ve kissed her. And she knew it. He let her go and she got in one playful arm swat before he pushed her away, still laughing.

  ‘Now, what’s this about Jonathan Carr being into a bit of–’ He mimed brandishing a whip.

  Libby giggled, checking for who was nearby, but the nearest person was ten feet in front of them. Her sore ankle proved the perfect excuse for walking slowly and Patrick couldn’t care less. As Libby explained, their pace slowed further. If only the walk were ten miles, not two.

  All too soon, they’d reached the village and her garden gate. He mustn’t kiss her. Absolutely, mustn’t kiss her. Anyone could be watching. With a camera. He stood four feet from her, with his hands in his pockets.