by Steve Howell
“Have some of this,” she said, grabbing a plastic bottle of water from the table and handing it to me. “I’ll get dressed.”
She scooped some clothes from the bed and went into the bathroom. I gulped the water down, emptying the small bottle in seconds, and sat like a zombie staring at the dust dancing in the shafts of light coming through the window.
Mimi emerged from the bathroom brushing her hair, dressed now, wearing jeans and a lemon V-neck top, and sat opposite me on the bed.
“You look awful,” she said, laughing, but in a kind way. “Truly, truly dreadful. Your face is grey. That T-shirt looks like it’s glued on. And, Liam, you smell rank.”
“Thanks. I’m not at my best,” I replied.
“So what big discoveries did you make at the gym?” She was teasing like she expected me to admit it was a waste of time.
“None, really,” I said. “Except the creepy policeman was there.”
That surprised her.
“Which creepy policeman?”
“The ginger one. He said his name’s Gary. It turns out that’s where he got his muscles… And he appears to know Megan.”
Mimi raised her eyebrows just about as far as they could go. “Knows?”
“Mentioned her. Asked me to say ‘hello’ to her. And then, on my way back, Megan phoned.”
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction further. “She phoned?”
“No, I’m kidding.” That was feeble, but then I was feeling feeble. “Yes, and we’re meeting her at eight o’clock, at those Roman Barracks up the path.” I nodded roughly towards where I thought the path was, closed my eyes and pushed my head back, resting it on the back of the chair. I felt like sleeping, like I could slip into oblivion any minute.
Mimi came over and sat on the arm of the chair and ran her fingertips gently across my forehead and through my sweaty hair. With each stroke, the tension seemed to ease. My mind drifted through the images of the day, the faces and places. The inspector. Gary. The gym. The grubby upholstery of the taxi. It settled in the amphitheatre. I was watching Roman gladiators and legionnaires. The stands were packed with cheering crowds. There were people in golden carnival clothes waving Brazilian flags. Megan was unfurling a Union Jack. I was clapping. The legionnaires threw their helmets in the air…
***
I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke the sun was low and the curtains were half-closed. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. I stared through the gloom at Mimi, who was working on her laptop, head down, tapping out emails. She sensed me looking and turned, her lips curling into a smile.
“You’re back, then?” she said.
“What happened?”
“You were telling me about how you met that nice ginger policeman in the gym and how he knows Megan.”
I jumped up. “Megan! What time is it?”
“Relax, relax,” Mimi said. “It’s only seven. You said we’re meeting her at eight.”
Mimi picked up a plate of sandwiches that was sitting next to her laptop. “Have some of these, Liam, you need to eat something. “
I took a wedge of the neatly cut triangles and sat down again. “And your phone rang. Your son Daniel. I answered it. He said he was worried about you. He’d seen something about Megan on TV.”
“What about Megan?”
“Nothing new – but you should call him.”
“I will – later,” I said, shoving one of the triangles into my mouth in one go.
While I was munching, Mimi gave me a rundown of the news. Jackie had been keeping the sponsors calm but she was worried about whether or not Megan would appear at the Diamond League at Crystal Palace on Friday. A few journalists had been sniffing around but the police haven’t put out any more statements and no one has a fresh angle to run. The PR people at the University of South Wales are panicking about Thursday’s honorary degree ceremony – will Megan show up, will the media be door-stepping it?
I finished munching. “Shit, I’d forgotten about that,” I said.
“Forgotten what?”
“The uni-thing. Talk about bad timing.”
“Yep, it’s all bad timing. That’s for sure. So let’s not make it worse by missing Miss Tomos,” Mimi said, on her feet now and holding out a hand out to pull me up. “Liam, you are changing, aren’t you?”
I took her hand. As I reached full height, she stepped back, looking me up and down grimly. My T-shirt had dried out but was crumpled and turning yellow. I nearly said, “Meg’s not going to care,” but I was watching Mimi’s face as she scrutinised me. It was caught in the rays coming through the narrow gap around the curtains. Her eyes were sparkling, intense and intelligent. I smiled and went to my room to smarten myself up.
10
The Pain Barrier
“So this was the toilet,” Mimi said, reading the blurb and gesturing at a rectangle of two-foot high stone walls. “They sat on these, hung their arses over the back and dumped their load.” She was looking down at a stone gully behind one of the walls that sloped towards a corner. “Pretty gross if you ask me. I thought the Romans were more sophisticated than that.”
“This was for the legionnaires,” I said. “I bet the generals had something posher. Probably with central heating.”
We sat down. It seemed as good a place as any to wait for Megan, and we weren’t sure anyway which direction she would come from. In fact, we were looking the wrong way when we heard her voice calling.
“Li…”
Megan could shorten names even when they couldn’t get much shorter.
We both jumped up and saw her jogging towards us. There was no sign of Will, and I took comfort from seeing that Megan was wearing the same black tracksuit she’d used at the trials. Maybe this detour to Newport was as unplanned for her as it was for us.
“Hiya,” she said in a making-an-effort tone, but looking tired, her features tight like she was holding herself in check.
We stood awkwardly at the entrance to the toilet for a moment and then shuffled towards one of the walls and parked our backsides like legionnaires on a comfort break, Megan sitting between Mimi and me.
“So what’s going on?” Mimi said, her arm around Megan, who was leaning forward, elbows on her thighs, staring into the distance.
“We used to hang out here, after school,” she said, nodding towards a rambling collection of buildings about a hundred metres away. “Me, Will, Matt, a few others – on summer’s evenings like this. Nowhere to go. We were too young for pubs and clubbing. So we’d sit around here, or down at the amphi, drinking cider, smoking weed and snogging.”
“And I thought you were a goody-two-shoes!” Mimi said.
Megan smiled. “I didn’t do the cider or the weed,” she said. “Well, not much.”
We fell silent, all of us apparently reluctant to be first to talk about why we were really here.
Mimi was rubbing Megan’s back in slow circular movements. I watched people passing on the footpath – strollers, joggers, dog-lovers and cyclists – a steady flow, soaking up the last of the day’s sun.
“It’s all so fucked-up,” Meg said finally.
Mimi looked at me across Megan’s back, raising both eyebrows.
“What is?” I said. “Tell us.”
“Just about everything,” she replied. “The police gunning for Will. Matt’s mother stirring it, trying to get him done for manslaughter…” She sat up straight and turned towards me. “Matt dying like he did was just horrible, unbelievable. And when I think about all of us hanging out here, it’s like it was yesterday – and now he’s gone and for no good reason. Just stupid, going too far… But you can’t blame Will. Will’s as gutted as the rest of us. We were all friends.”
“But, Meg,” Mimi said gently. “I can understand all that, but why get involved now? You split up with Will before you came to London, yeah?” Megan nodded. “And he’s a big boy - a very big boy, I hear. He can look after himself, can’t he?”
Megan was sobbing now, h
er body shaking, her face in her hands. She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “He asked me to help,” she said. “And anyway, the police want to speak to me too.”
“We know,” I said.
“How come?” Megan asked, her voice jumpy.
“Well, apart from it being in the Argus,” I said, sounding more sarcastic than I intended, “we had a visit from the police this morning – an Inspector Richards.”
Megan looked surprised. “So you’ve spoken to him. What did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to tell, Meg. But I did say I’d encourage you to contact him. You can’t avoid him forever you know.”
“Okay. Consider me encouraged, but I’ll see him when I’m ready.”
Mimi looked at me across Megan’s back with a grim shrug. “But can’t you see how this looks?” she said. “You’re shacked-up with Will and avoiding the police. It looks like you have something to hide… especially with Will’s history.”
Megan sat bolt upright, knocking Mimi’s arm away in the process. “Look, I’m telling you, I’m going to stand by Will like he’s stood by me. And what’s it got to do with you anyway?”
“It’s got everything to do with me. You’re about to go to Rio and you’re running around with a – well, let’s not beat about the bush – a drugs cheat. For fuck’s sake, it’s not exactly what we had in mind when we agreed your PR plan!” I gave Mimi a wave to calm it down but she wasn’t having any of it. “Where are you staying anyway?” she continued. “Will’s place?”
Megan ignored that and turned to me. “Liam, I want you to come with me to see Matt’s father.”
I think my mouth dropped open. If it didn’t, my brain simulated the sensation. “To see Matt’s father? Why?”
“Because I haven’t seen him since, you know, it all happened. I went to London… without speaking to him.”
“But his wife’s gunning for Will.”
“They’ve split up. Graeme lives on his own now.”
“Can’t Will go with you?”
Meg shook her head. “You’re kidding, right? Graeme isn’t after Will’s blood like Matt’s mother, but he wouldn’t let him across the doorstep.”
“What do you think, Mimi?” I said.
“I can’t see any reason why not. ‘Meg and her coach visit the bereaved father’ sounds better than the other headlines we’ve been getting…”
“Fuck the headlines. I’m doing this because I want to.”
Mimi cringed at that. “I know, Meg,” she said, “but that’s what you pay me for – you know, to think about the headlines; about how things look.”
Megan stood up and turned to face both of us, her face flushed and angry. “I know,” she said. “But I’m sick to death of worrying about how things look. I’d just like to do something because it’s right for a change. Liam?”
I nodded.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll meet you on the footbridge. You know, in town – the new one across the river. Graeme lives near there, and I’ve told him I’ll be there about ten.”
She turned and started to walk away.
“Meg,” I shouted. “What about your training?”
She stopped and looked back, smiling. “Relax Liam. It’s okay. I went for a run this morning. I’m in good shape.”
“And the Diamond League?” I said.
“We’ll see.” She paused for a moment. “Friday seems a long way off.”
And then she went, bounding across the grass, up on her toes. You rarely see an athlete striding so effortlessly, seemingly defying gravity. It always makes me think of the old song, Poetry in Motion.
***
Mimi and I walked back along the path towards the hotel. In the field to our right, a cricket match was drawing to a close with two batsmen walking off to applause from the fielding team and a gaggle of spectators. It seemed so simple and civilised.
Mimi was silent. I think we both felt reassured by seeing Megan and hearing her talk about Matt, but I had stopped myself from quizzing her more about Will, and his hold on her bothered me.
“So what do you think?” Mimi said finally.
We’d stopped where the footpath crossed a road before carrying on past the amphitheatre. The hotel entrance was only a short walk to the left.
“It was good to see her,” I said, “but I still don’t know what to make of it all, especially Will.”
“Yep, me too. Her wanting to see Matt’s father, that’s good. Clears the air. But Will? The way she leaps to his defence...”
“Hmm. Like Marion Jones with C J Hunter,” I mumbled, and regretted it immediately.
“C J who?”
“Nothing – it’s okay.”
Mimi looked bemused but didn’t push it.
“I need a good walk, to clear my head,” I said abruptly, making it obvious I meant on my own. “You don’t mind, do you? I need to think things through.”
I thought Mimi looked slightly hurt, but maybe I was flattering myself. I touched her arm and, to my surprise, she stepped forward and kissed me on my left cheek, more softly and slowly than the usual parting peck.
“No worries,” she said. “Do some thinking, and if you have any brainwaves…”
“I’ll let you know.”
She threw me one of her sparkling smiles and laughed. “I sure haven’t had any,” she said.
***
I didn’t realise how dark it was becoming until I was on an unlit path near the amphitheatre. The sun was starting to disappear and the lights of The Priory, across a field to my left, were glowing brightly in the gloom. The path curved around the Roman wall enclosing this side of the village and ran through two small meadows until it reached a busy road.
Ahead was the old stone bridge carrying traffic in and out of Caerleon. I stopped on the footbridge alongside it and looked down at the water below. The tide was coming in again, already so high it lapped into the bushes on the banks. Eddies and ripples reflected the lights from the pubs facing each other across the river, their gardens buzzing with boisterous drinkers. I leaned on the railing watching the river, the water rising just as it did when Roman boats were moored here, so certain and predictable.
But history depends on the angle you look at it from. All day I’d been picking over the events of the last two years or so, wondering if things were as I’d thought they were, if Megan was who I thought she was; remembering how she turned up at Copthall on a cold February evening, only 19 years old and not yet in the British team, but eager to take those final, hard steps into the small band of elite athletes.
I had seen so many athletes flounder at that point, lacking the will or the ability and having to face the brutal truth they might end up an also-ran. But I could tell Meg wasn’t one of them, and we soon pinpointed what she needed to do. We made plans for perfecting her hurdling, improving her start and increasing her leg speed. But most of all, she needed more strength. Only if she was much stronger would she hold her form all the way to the line.
And that was the toughest part. She may have mixed – as I now knew – with bodybuilders, but it was obvious she hadn’t done any really heavy lifting herself. She was very strong by any normal standards, but not world-beater strong. And so the really serious work began: hills, circuits, weights – pushing ever harder, talking her through the doubts and despair. I told her it would take 18 months, and to think of the World Championships in Beijing as her goal.
The chemists and conspirators behind Tim Montgomery called him ‘Project World Record’. They turned him from being good but not exceptional into a world record breaker in three years. A controlled experiment, like a rat in a lab. Meg had made a similar dramatic improvement, and I wondered how people were talking about me now – if they were saying she was my ‘project’. My enemies – rival coaches, athletes I’d offended – were bound to be gossiping about Meg, and I could imagine the raised eyebrows and ‘no-smoke-without-fire’ innuendos. But I also knew I had
n’t pumped her with steroids and I couldn’t see how it could be done without me knowing. I don’t remember any ‘roid rages or mysterious absences. She always told the anti-doping agency where she was and had been tested randomly many times. She’d never tested positive.
But then Marion Jones never failed a drugs test either.
I shook my head, trying to cast off the doubts that had plagued me all day.
It was dark now and the air suddenly had a chilly edge. The crowds were thinning in the pub gardens. People were passing me on the bridge, giving sideways glances as if they thought I was going to jump.
I walked back off the bridge and crossed the road to find the path to the amphitheatre. As the light from the road lamps and cars faded, I had to rely on the sound of my feet grinding the gravel to ensure I didn’t wander off course.
I heard soft voices and footsteps coming towards me. Eventually a young couple emerged from the darkness about ten metres away. They passed, the guy nodding and murmuring, “Alright”. I reached an open gate. The path began to climb towards where I sensed the amphitheatre was. I could see the distant lights of Newport beyond the meadow to my left. To my right loomed the Roman wall, the stones black now, the top outlined by a feint glow from the village.
The path got steeper and turned to a point where it crossed the top of the fortifications, opening up a view of the floodlit hotel and the village. There was a tall hedge to my left. From memory, I knew the amphitheatre was behind it. I would soon reach the road that crossed the path and be able to turn right to The Priory.
Another figure appeared from the gloom. No crunching gravel had preceded it. My mind computed that.
“Alright,” said a male voice from the tall silhouette passing me slowly. I sensed the strides were wrong. They were too short and too slow.
But it was too late. I tried to stretch my stride, ready to run, but the man had grabbed me from behind, his arms locking mine. I wrestled to free myself, but my resistance was pathetic. He tightened his grip, jerking me upright, suddenly and painfully.
“Don’t fucking bother, you snooping cunt,” he said.
Someone else’s hand was pulling my hair now, lifting my head. A face was in my face, his nose pressing into mine, a sickly smell of tobacco and alcohol on his breath.