Over the Line

by Steve Howell

  This was information I didn’t need. “There are shops in Wales, you know,” I replied, suspecting she thought civilisation ended at Hampstead.

  Mimi waved a dismissive hand and sighed. “This is beginning to feel like one of those dreams where you’re falling and can’t grab hold of anything,” she said. “I just can’t get my head round what’s going on. There’s the Megan we knew and loved a week ago, and now there’s this Meg who’s a complete mystery. What’s going on?”

  I had no answer, but I was thinking we needed to find out more about Will. Earlier, a desire to keep a lid on things had put me off getting in touch with any of my athletics contacts in Newport. But now, with Megan still AWOL, desperation was setting in.

  “We need some local knowledge,” I said, sitting in the other armchair opposite Mimi. “I think our best bet – maybe our only bet – is a coach I know, a guy called Terry Gibbons. He’s been around Welsh athletics for as long as I can remember.”

  “And you trust him?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know him that well – I wouldn’t call him a mate – but what have we got to lose?”

  Mimi had switched her phone on and was trawling through some texts. But she gave me a vacant half-nod that I took to mean ‘yes’.

  It took me the best part of an hour searching online to find an email address for Tony and send him a one liner asking him to call me.

  Mimi, meanwhile, had checked dozens of voice messages, emails and texts about Megan. The vast majority were from journalists chasing for a comment on the Olympic team announcement, with no sign that they had yet picked-up a whiff of Megan’s latest disappearing act. But there were also five voicemails from Jackie ranting in ever more colourful language about Megan’s treachery and irresponsibility and the panic that was emerging among sponsors.

  “I can’t face talking to Jackie right now,” Mimi said. “I’m not a frigging therapist.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, surprised at my chivalry.

  Mimi was right. Jackie mainly needed therapy. She was handling the sponsors as best she could, sticking to the line that Megan was ‘under the weather’ and there was nothing to worry about. But she was fuming about Meg’s no-show at the photo-shoot that morning. Under the weather or not, the sponsor wanted pictures of Britain’s golden girl draped in their latest range of clothing, and they weren’t going to get off Jackie’s back until she’d delivered.

  “What the hell’s up with her?” Jackie was saying as another call came in. Thinking it could be Terry, I cut her off and took it. I was right. After pleasantries and dancing around the Megan situation, we arranged to meet that evening at a country pub a few miles from the village. He said it had a beer garden, and we’d be able to find a quiet spot, which reassured me he understood the sensitivities.

  “Good – that’s something,” Mimi said with renewed enthusiasm. “Right, I need food and a bath, in no particular order.”

  I was developing an ever-greater admiration for Mimi’s spirit but, beyond two sorry looking biscuits on the tea tray, I couldn’t help her on the hunger front, and I assumed she wasn’t suggesting we share my bathroom.

  “Piss off to your own room,” I was about to say as my phone started vibrating with another call, but I actually said, “Shit! It’s Meg…” fumbling so badly I almost cut her off.

  Within seconds, I was beginning to wish I had. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” was her opener. “Things are bad enough without you stalking me. I told you yesterday I was going to sort things out, and that’s what I’m doing – in my own way – and I don’t need your help. Got it? This is private. And that’s it.”

  She paused for breath, and I jumped in, trying to sound calm. “Look, last night we agreed your schedule for the week and then the next thing we know, you’ve disappeared. What were we supposed to do?”

  “Trust me, Liam. How about trying that?”

  I didn’t want to say anything to make it sound like I didn’t. “I want to help, that’s all,” I said.

  “Look, Liam – I don’t want your help. Nothing personal, you’re a great coach, but you know jack shit about my life. So don’t meddle. Please. Don’t meddle. I’m telling you, it’s none of your business… Just go back to London. I’ll call you. Okay? I’ll call when I’ve sorted this. I’ll call…”

  Her voice tapered, like she was welling-up, and I thought she was going to break down. But the phone went dead, and Mimi and I were left staring at it as if we could somehow will her to call back.

  7

  Coach To Coach

  “I was half expecting you to phone,” Terry said in between sips from a frothy pint of shandy. “When I saw the Argus report, I thought we’d see you in Newport sooner or later.”

  I smiled nervously, not sure why he would so readily make that assumption, but not wanting to ask.

  We were sitting in the pub garden at one of those picnic tables with built-in benches designed for contortionists. Mimi and I were on the side facing the pub. Terry, who’d put on a couple of stone since I last saw him, was spreading out on the other. Our table was in a V-shaped corner with hedges on two sides. A lawn separated us from a patio where more comfortable-looking chairs and tables were filling up with summer evening drinkers. My back was already protesting, but it was a price worth paying for not having anyone in earshot.

  “What do you make of it all?” Mimi asked, by-passing any small talk.

  I’d tried to put her off coming, thinking I would get more out of Terry coach-to-coach. But she wasn’t in any mood to sit around in a hotel room while the men did the talking.

  “Of the Will Driscoll/Matt Davies thing?” he said.

  Mimi gave a single, firm nod like she was thinking ‘why the hell else would I be in this pub?’

  “It’s been brewing for months,” Terry continued, speaking ponderously, trying a little too hard to sound in the know. “Matt’s mother blames his death on Will. I hear she thinks he led Matt astray; that it was all his fault things got out of control the night he died. You know the story – the boy collapsed after a party, and Will called the ambulance.”

  “But why re-open the case?” Mimi said. “The police need a reason. I don’t get it.”

  Terry wriggled, and I wondered how much of an expert he really was.

  “She’s on a mission,” he said, “and she seems to have the ear of people in high places. Or her solicitor does. I don’t know what she hopes to achieve, but rumour has it she thinks he should be charged with manslaughter.”

  “Oh my God,” Mimi said, under her breath, but clearly enough for all of us to hear.

  Terry sucked at his shandy again, looking pleased with himself now. “So how’s Megan doing?” he said.

  I had no idea how much Terry knew over and above the media reports, or how much of a gossip he was. I definitely wasn’t going to tell him she’d gone AWOL.

  “It’s unsettled her,” I conceded. “But she ran well yesterday…”

  Mimi seemed to sense my discomfort. “So tell us about Will. What’s he like?”

  Terry was still looking at me, waiting for more on Megan. But Mimi leaned forward expectantly, playing his ego. He was, after all, here to tell us stuff.

  “Nice lad who’s made some stupid mistakes,” he said.

  We waited for him to elaborate, but he was sipping his shandy again.

  “Okay,” Mimi said, sounding irritated. “So we know of two stupid mistakes: a) using steroids, and b) being there when Matt died.”

  Terry seemed to take the hint. “I know him quite well,” he said. “He used to come down to the track when he was a kid. Ran for our juniors for a while, but then he got into rugby, and we only saw him occasionally. A great athlete though, a beast – well over six foot, built like a tank, and very fast – a sub-eleven sprinter without really trying.”

  “So what about the steroids?” I said.

  Terry was getting the hang of it now – we ask the questions. “He was done about three years ag
o, just before Matt Davies died and Megan went to London. It was a random test, open and shut case. He was given a two-year ban. His excuse was he’d been injured, and used steroids only to speed up his comeback. He told his mates he thought he wouldn’t get tested because he was injured.”

  Terry paused, staring down into his shandy, shaking his head. “The tragedy is, he didn’t need them,” he continued. “He was on the verge of making it: professional rugby, national squad. They were all sniffing around – he played for Wales at under eighteen. It was all there for him, and my guess is he panicked because of the injury. Took a short cut. It’s so easy these days…”

  “Steroids?” I said.

  “You just have to know where to go, really,” he replied.

  “So he’s bad news as far as Megan’s concerned,” I said.

  Mimi laughed. “More like the kiss of death. ‘Megan teams up with drug cheat who killed friend with fatal steroid dose’. Love it. Great. What’s she frigging playing at?”

  I nudged Mimi with my knee. We didn’t know yet she had ‘teamed up’ with Will, and we definitely didn’t want Terry to think that.

  “I’m sure Meg just wants to do the right thing,” I said.

  “Or she still loves him,” Terry added, with a mischievous grin. “They were inseparable for years.”

  “So Matt’s parents blame Will?” I said, trying to shift the discussion back to what we needed to know.

  Terry nodded. “Which is a bit rich when Matt was one of the biggest ‘roiders going. It could have been either way round. Matt to Will, Will to Matt, what does it really matter?”

  I was having trouble getting my head around this. Okay, I wasn’t that naïve. I knew, in my own sport, Ben Johnson hadn’t been an isolated case, and I’d seen reports of steroids being peddled in boxing gyms. But school kids using them and dying at parties? This was news to me.

  “So what sport did Matt do?” I said.

  Terry buried his head in his hands. “Where have you been, Liam? I think I need another drink.”

  “My round,” Mimi said, picking up our empty glasses. “But wait for me. No more until I get back.”

  The garden was packed now, with every chair taken and people spilling onto the patchy yellow grass. A few children were playing on a slide near our table. As I watched them, I sensed someone’s eyes lingering on me and looked up to see a man with a mop of ginger hair and a bright check shirt turning to walk towards the garden gate.

  Terry was talking cheerfully about Rio – as if I cared at this moment. “Only five weeks to go then Liam. You must be pretty excited?”

  I nodded and forced myself to smile, but I couldn’t muster any words that would sound convincing. I deflected him on to the Olympic team, knowing he’d happily join me in moaning about some of the selections. That kept us occupied until Mimi reappeared, struggling to balance three glasses. She set Terry’s shandy in front of him with a nod to carry on.

  “Do you have any kids, Liam?” he said.

  This was a sore point, and of doubtful relevance. I may even have winced. My marriage had been about as short-lived as my international athletics career. I rarely saw my son.

  “A boy – twelve,” I said, and Mimi shot me a surprised look.

  “Maybe if he was a few years older, you’d know more about all this. That’s all. It could be different in London, but down here it’s not the really sporty kids who get into steroids. Not many of them anyway because, if they’re good, and not stupid like Will, they know they’ll be tested. It’s usually the losers – kids who lack self-confidence.” Terry drank about a third of his shandy in one gulp, wiped his mouth and smiled. “Do you remember those Charles Atlas ads? You’re probably too young.”

  Mimi shook her head.

  “Vaguely,” I admitted, showing my age. “The guy in the comics.”

  “They were all the same: skinny kid gets sand kicked in his face by a bully in front of girlfriend, sends off for a Charles Atlas body building book, and before you know it no one’s kicking sand in his face anymore. Well, these days it’s steroids, that’s all. Same thing: there’s money in teenage angst. Charles Atlas made a fortune. God knows who’s creaming it from steroids. But there’s thousands of kids using them and plenty of dough changing hands.”

  “As simple as that?” I said.

  “Yep – it’s only a Class C drug, and you can order them online, but it’s probably easier to pop down to a gym, if you know the right ones; slip into the back room and get an injection. Just make sure you check where the needle’s been.” Terry laughed, and Mimi and I looked at each other and then at the two sorry glasses of mineral water in front of us. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but I was feeling foolish for preaching to my students about the evils of drugs in sport without really knowing what was going on, probably on my doorstep.

  “So Matt was the kid who got sand kicked in his face?” Mimi said.

  Terry hesitated. “To be honest, I didn’t really know him that well. But, from what I hear, he wasn’t into any sport. He was a small kid, always on the sidelines watching Meg and Will at athletics meetings. Then he got into the steroids and body building, and, bingo, he had nice big pecs and a six-pack, a fake tan and tight polo shirts.”

  “And sod the consequences,” Mimi said.

  Terry shrugged. “You don’t think about that when you’re fifteen, do you? I didn’t when I was downing a dozen pints and whisky chasers as a student. Not until I ended up in A&E.”

  He chuckled and shook his head as if he was remembering something. “I’ve got a doctor friend in Cardiff who spends half his time treating ‘roiders with abscesses on their biceps – infected needles. Mostly he drains them and dishes out antibiotics. But he had one guy with massive biceps – he was boasting they were 18 inches – who had an abscess buried in the muscle. They had to cut it out, and he walked away with one arm half the size of the other.”

  Terry found that hilarious, but I cringed and folded my arms, instinctively checking if my biceps were still in one piece.

  “He was lucky to be alive,” Mimi said.

  “Definitely,” Terry said. “They’re saying now that hepatitis is a bigger problem with ‘roiders than heroin addicts. Around here anyway.”

  We fell silent for a moment, watching Terry drain the last of his shandy. Mimi offered another one with a nod of her head.

  “No, I’m okay thanks – driving,” he said.

  “So is athletics affected much?” I asked, still digesting it all. “Are the athletes doing it?”

  “Ha!” he said. “Are you worried you’ve got a Marion Jones on your hands?”

  I winced – I hoped not too noticeably – but I could see Terry was expecting an answer.

  “Of course not,” I said, but it came out croaky, too eager. “I’m her coach, I trust her. And, besides, I know how much work she’s done…”

  Terry gave me a look, like he’d heard the uncertainty in my voice. And I thought about Meg’s tendency to flare up and wondered what ‘roid rage was like.

  “Marion Jones – she’s the American, right?” Mimi said, unhelpfully.

  “Yes, denied it to the bitter end,” Terry said. “Wonderfully talented. A natural. She didn’t need chemicals, but she kept bad company.”

  Terry spoke those final words slowly, gratuitously, knowing we knew he was talking about Will.

  “Right,” I said, trying to make it sound like the final word. “That’s been really, you know, helpful. Good to have some local intel, as they say.

  “It’s nothing Megan couldn’t have told you,” he said, but I felt he’d crossed a line – one innuendo too many – and wondered if he might know more than he was letting on about our troubles.

  I shivered. The sun had slipped behind some trees now and phones were glowing like Chinese lanterns across the garden.

  “We’d better make a move,” I said, and started to wriggle into a position where I could lift my leg over the bench.

  But Mimi wasn’t f
inished. “So where are the hot spots?” she said. “Which gyms dish out the steroids?”

  Terry laughed. “Which don’t?”

  “Come on,” I said, struggling to hide a growing feeling he was bigging this whole thing up too much.

  “Look, I’m talking about the places they call ‘hard-core’ gyms, where most of the users are on steroids, not the lifestyle gyms or the posh university gym you go to. You need to get out of your ivory tower, Liam. If you think I’m exaggerating, try a few for yourself.”

  Mimi had pulled her notebook out and was looking at him to give her some names. Terry frowned. I thought he was going to have trouble naming some, but then a he started reeling off a list of gyms in Newport and obscure locations around South Wales, faster than Mimi could take them down.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Point made. But which one does Will use?”

  “That would be the one in Grange Road,” he said, pointing to a name scribbled on Mimi’s notepad.

  “I’ll check it out,” I said. “I’m curious.”

  ***

  After waiting for Terry to drive off, we picked our way through the packed car park ourselves to find Mimi’s soft-top. It was dark now, with only a thin line of orange above the black hills on the horizon. We stood, watching the glow fade.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a son,” Mimi said.

  “Not much to tell,” I said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Danny.”

  Mimi laughed. “Liam and Danny-boy. How sweet. So why’s this the first I’ve heard of him?”

  “I don’t know: I don’t see him much; we don’t talk about that kind of thing.” And I wasn’t keen to talk about Danny now, not with my head spinning about Megan, and Terry’s dig about Marion Jones, but Mimi persisted.

  “So why don’t you see him much?”

  I sighed, but I sensed Mimi wasn’t going to be put off. “He lives down in Sussex. My ex – Kelli – has done well. She’s from the US, a banker. We met when she was doing an MBA at Middlesex. She’s remarried now, and I don’t have a car, and I’m busy most weekends and… anyway, she thinks I’m useless.” I stopped. “Do you really want to hear all this?”