by Simon Bourke
Malcolm shot up from his seat, grabbing the phone from Dennis’ desk. “No!” he cried. “Please don’t.”
He pressed the phone against his chest, terrified they would wrestle it from him.
“Oh, sit down, you idiot,” said Katie with disdain. “I’m not going to ring your wife.”
He looked at her, his face clouded in doubt, still cradling the phone protectively.
“Sit down, mate,” said Dennis, gently relieving him of the apparatus and guiding him back to his seat.
Dennis’ concerns now went far deeper than the state of his friend’s marriage. He had heard her use the word ‘court’. This had to be nipped in the bud.
“Katie, love,” he said, “I know you’re very upset right now and you’re not thinking straight.”
She had started to calm down and was ready to find some middle ground, but Dennis’ condescending voice telling her how she was feeling got her hackles up again.
“Am I not, really? Well, how would you like me to think?”
She waited for his response but he just stood there, dumbfounded.
“Go on, Dennis, tell me. How should I think?”
“I don’t think there’s any need to mention ‘court’, Katie.”
Ah, that was it; that’s what had him so worried.
“Why not, Dennis? Hasn’t a crime been committed, or is sexual assault considered legal where you come from?”
Malcolm flinched in his seat. It had started; he was going to jail. It was only a matter of time now.
“No, of course not,” replied Dennis. “What Malcolm did was downright wrong, but I fully believe we can sort it out without the need for court cases or the police.”
“How do you suggest we do that, Dennis?”
Malcolm looked at him curiously, wondering exactly how Dennis could do that.
“What do you want?” Dennis asked her flatly.
“No, Dennis, you tell me.”
All sorts of legal permutations ran through Dennis’ head. If he offered her money for her silence, was that akin to bribery? Should he absolve himself of all blame and let Malcolm deal with this on his own? He really should have brought a lawyer.
Much to the surprise of both Katie and Dennis, it was Malcolm who spoke next.
“A formal apology, written and signed by myself, and an extension to your contract with a rise in salary. Alternatively, a handsome redundancy package with glowing references from both of us. Choose whichever you prefer. If you decide to stay, I promise never to bother you again. We would have to maintain a working relationship and be civil to one another, but that will be it. You won’t be treated any differently than any of the other employees, I’ll make sure of that. If you do decide to take us – me – to court, then I fully understand your decision and am willing to accept whatever punishment comes my way.”
Dennis nodded his head in fervent agreement, looking at Katie, trying to gauge her mood. For Katie it felt like the first time they’d treated her with anything approaching respect. She’d been a bothersome child up to now, an irritation which had needed to be dealt with. However, it seemed that following her threats (none of which she had any intention of carrying out), they were willing to take her seriously.
“I’m not going to take you to court,” she said quietly. “Even though I really liked my job, I don’t think I can stay here either.”
Her tone was reflective, almost melancholy.
“They don’t like me,” she said nodding her head towards the empty office, “and the one friend I had here – well, we all know what happened there.”
She sighed deeply, glad that things were coming to a close but sad that it had to be like this. “How much notice do you need?”
Dennis rose from his chair, seeking out the P60 he’d kept handy just in case. He moved his chair back behind the desk and began leafing through the pages in a business-like manner.
“Now, love,” he said. “If you’d really like to get out of here as soon as possible, you can finish at the end of the week. As for your severance package, we can ...”
Malcolm sat to one side, no longer involved in the exchange. He should have been relieved, he had dodged a bullet after all. His wife and children weren’t going to find out. As good as that was, though, it wasn’t enough. He had damaged this girl, and, as he watched her, sitting there, listening to Dennis offerings, he knew she would never forget what he had done to her.
11
It would have been overly dramatic to say Jonathan was born to run, but ever since taking part in his first proper race he knew it was something he wanted to do. He wasn’t much of a footballer, cricketer or rugby player, but he could run. He’d always been a fast runner – leading the pack during any schoolyard activity involving fleeing or chasing – and he had the stamina to go with it. At first it seemed as if he were the same as any other kid; running here and there, constantly on the go, a bundle of energy. But as he got older it became clear he had a talent, a talent which needed to be honed. At the age of eleven he joined the local track and field team. In his first competitive race he obliterated the field, racing away and leaving bigger, stronger boys in his wake. It felt natural, normal, and winning quickly became a habit, one he maintained into his teens.
As a sport, running rewarded hard work and dedication, two things at which he excelled. Its main appeal, however, lay in the fact it was much less capricious than other sports. If something went wrong, then it was invariably your own fault. You couldn’t blame the referee, the weather or the bounce of a ball. It was one man on a track racing against seven others. All he had to do was get out of the blocks, avoid contact with his competitors, and the rest would take care of itself. Although winning came easy, it didn’t make it any less satisfying. Suddenly he was good at something, more than good, the best. This provided him with something he hadn’t experienced before: personal pride.
On some level he’d always believed he was damaged goods, an unwanted entity discarded without a second’s thought. His parents told him otherwise and insisted they wouldn’t change him for anything. The fact remained, however, that he was an accident, a disaster in someone’s life. The person who had borne him didn’t want him inside her. She had carried him for nine months with only one thought in her mind: I wish he wasn’t there. His entrance into this world wasn’t greeted with joy or excitement. Instead he was wordlessly taken away, his mother glad to be rid of him. There he lay with all the other unwanted children until Malcolm and Margaret Philliskirk took a chance on him. They could just have easily chosen a different baby, and right now they would be telling him that they wouldn’t change him for anything or anyone. It was pure luck that he’d ended up with them.
He looked at his friends and their parents and wondered how their lives differed. Did they have a shared connection, a bond that he could never have with his? There was no way of knowing. What he did know was that his parents loved him unconditionally, and he loved them in return with all his heart; but he always sought their approval. He yearned to show them that they’d been right to take a chance on him, that he was worthy of their love, and just as good as any child they could have had by natural means. He ran for them, really. Each victory, each medal, was his way of showing them that they’d chosen well. It was his way of repaying them, and the better he became and the more they praised him, the more he wanted to excel.
That devotion didn’t stop him wondering, though, and as he entered his teenage years he continually thought about those who’d discarded him. While his friends grew up and followed in their fathers’/brothers’/uncles’ footsteps, he ploughed a lone furrow. Why did he like the things he liked? Was it because his friends did, or was there a deeper meaning behind it? And what of his personality traits? His mum often teased him for being such a solemn young man: so thoughtful and contemplative, mature beyond his years. Where had that come from? Had they said the same thi
ngs about his birth father when he was young? If they were ever to meet, would they both sit there in silence, thinking and contemplating? He had no clear identity. He didn’t laugh like his dad or scowl like his mum. He was just an odd young man; origins unknown.
In athletics it didn’t matter who he was or where he came from, he was just Jonathan, the kid who was great at running. Those watching him race didn’t care about his birth parents or that he didn’t know where his mannerisms came from; all they saw was a fifteen-year-old boy powering round the track, a master at work. When he crossed the finishing line, they rose to acclaim his talent. That’s what he was, talented. His birth parents might not have wanted him, but if they could see him now, graciously accepting all this applause, they’d wish they had kept him.
12
He focused on his breathing, on his stride pattern, on the asphalt beneath his feet. He was weightless now, floating through the air, poetry in motion, in complete control; a running machine. His coach stood at the side of the track, barking encouragement.
“That’s it, lad, keep going. Yes, Jonathan, yes, my boy. Incredible, absolutely incredible!”
But Jonathan didn’t hear him, chose not to, only tuning in at the finish of each lap when his time was bellowed out by the excitable man in the red tracksuit.
“One minute, four point six-two seconds.”
Good; not his best, but consistent. Consistency was key.
The motivational messages resumed, and Jonathan returned to his own world. He didn’t need coaching when he was out there. Coach Turner knew that; he yelled and screamed for his own benefit, to make him feel like he was doing something, contributing to the master-class taking place before him. They had devised a plan which involved Jonathan running longer distances than he was used to; three kilometres, five kilometres or maybe more, depending on which training manual Ernie Turner had read the night before.
He’d said they needed to work on Jonathan’s stamina, run further, strengthen his legs and expand his lung capacity. Some runners might have complained about the extra workload, but not Jonathan. Running was what he did, and if Ernie wanted him to run all night then that was what he would do. These longer distances weren’t an issue; he actually enjoyed them. Maybe he’d found his true calling as a marathon runner. The way he felt right now, he could easily complete the 26.2 mile distance and still be fresh enough to run an 800-metre race at the finish. He was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t notice the tall, burly man with the thatch of black hair take a seat in the grandstand. Ernie Turner didn’t notice either, he was far too busy coaching his protégé to pay heed to curious onlookers. Even when the man came closer for a proper look, he didn’t register on Ernie’s radar.
“That’s it, Jonathan. Keep going, son. Nearly there now,” he enthused, hopping up and down. “Just two more laps to go”.
The interested bystander came closer, crossing the track and joining Ernie in the grassy centre.
“Things are going well then, Ernie?” asked the man.
He might as well have been talking to himself. There was just one lap to go, and young Philliskirk needed all the assistance he could get.
“One minute, four point nine eight!” Ernie cried, eyes ablaze with excitement.
Then he was gone, in hot pursuit of Jonathan, stopwatch in his hand. The tall man smiled, wondering how Jonathan put up with a coach who was clearly demented. Jonathan didn’t show any sign of distraction; on the contrary, he made his way round the track with ruthless efficiency. It was quite a sight.
“Fourteen minutes, fifty-eight point two-four seconds!” Ernie yelled, breathless now. “You beauty!!”
Jonathan slowed to a halt, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his own breath. His coach repeated the numbers over and over again but Jonathan didn’t need to be told his time, he already knew it was good. As he rose and turned to bask in his acclaim, he saw the tall man for the first time.
“DAD!” he yelled, jogging over to his father and almost knocking over Coach Turner in the process. The tubby man in the red tracksuit was completely overlooked as the boy ran to the man he sought to impress more than any other.
“Did you see it, Dad? A PB in the five kay!”
Malcolm smiled and nodded; of course he’d seen it.
“Only the last few laps, Jonathan, but wow, that was incredible.”
Jonathan beamed with delight. “Really, Dad?”
“Really, son. Amazing.”
“Great. Just give me a second to shower and dress and I’ll be right back, okay?”
“No hurry, Jon. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay, Dad,” he said, scampering off to the changing-rooms.
Ernie sidled up to the boy’s father, clearly put out by his presence.
“He’s still got a lot of work to do, Mr. Philliskirk.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “Didn’t he just get a PB, Ernie?”
“Yes, but all the boys competing in the nationals will be getting PBs right now. It means nothing.”
Malcolm’s dealings with his son’s trainer were as infrequent as they were brief, but he had learned enough to know that he was one of the world’s most miserable men. Maybe that was a good thing, though, because Jonathan excelled under his tutelage and Malcolm had never once heard him complain that Ernie was too hard on him.
“Only four weeks to go now, Ernie. How do you think he’ll do?”
“Hmph,” Ernie replied, shuffling off to the changing-rooms.
Malcolm sat down and waited for Jonathan to return. He had left Dennis and Katie to thrash out the finer points of her redundancy, offering one final apology as he went. She’d barely acknowledged it, but at least it was over now and had reached a satisfactory conclusion. He had got away with it, learned a valuable lesson and would never be so stupid again. He still felt like shit, though. He’d done something terrible and avoided any real punishment. The jury had voted in his favour and exonerated him. But, leaving the courthouse as a free man, he knew he’d bucked the system. He should have been cuffed and escorted away by two surly policemen to a future of uncertainty, a place where he would recant his sins and serve his penance.
“Ready, Dad!” chirped Jonathan, reappearing with his hair sopping wet.
“Good lad. We’d best hurry, your mum’s got our tea in the oven.”
“Brill, what is it?”
“Steak and chips; plenty of sustenance for our young athlete.”
“How was work, Dad?” Jonathan asked as they began the short drive home.
Well, lad, if you must know, it was a pretty tumultuous day. The girl I tried to get off with decided not to press charges, and instead accepted a generous redundancy package in exchange for her silence. In addition to this, I am currently suffering alcohol withdrawal symptoms which, if you look closely, cause occasional shakes and tremors throughout my entire body. Other than that, though, everything is just fine.
“Ah, same old, same old.”
“You’ve been working late a lot recently, Dad.”
“I have, son,” Malcolm replied, recalling those afternoons spent drowning his sorrows in that depressing little bar.
“We miss you at home.”
“I know, lad. But things are more settled now. I should be home earlier from now on.”
“Great.”
They travelled in silence for a few minutes, comfortable in each other’s company.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Jon?”
“Remember that night, when I got up for a drink of water?”
Malcolm didn’t remember, but decided to play it by ear.
“Yes?”
“What were you doing?”
Fuck. What had he been doing? Had the boy heard his parents having some ‘Mummy and Daddy time’ in the wee hours? No, it couldn’t be that; he was
fifteen now, no longer a child. Besides, Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he and Margaret had done that.
“Which night was it again, Jon?”
“Remember, Dad, a few weeks ago; I got up for a drink, and you were sitting there in the dark, drinking from a bottle.”
Malcolm shuddered, a vague recollection of the incident in question coming to him from the depths of his memory.
“Oh, that. I was just having a couple of drinks and must have lost track of the time.”
“It was half past three in the morning, Dad.”
Malcolm looked at his son and sighed deeply.
“I’ve been under a lot of pressure at work recently, son, and sometimes I need a couple of drinks at night to unwind.”
“At half past three, Dad?” Jonathan repeated.
“I know, it was a bit late. Don’t tell your mother about it, okay?”
“I won’t.”
He thought that was the end of it, but a minute or two later Jonathan spoke again.
“If something was wrong you’d tell me, Dad, wouldn’t you?”
Malcolm looked again at that expression of innocent sincerity. How could he lie to him?
“Course I would, son. Don’t you worry about your old dad.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Jonathan, lapsing into a silence that lasted all the way home.
13
“You seem more like your old self tonight, love.”
Margaret and Malcolm lay in bed, reading. She was halfway through the latest Robert Pattinson, and Malcolm was half-heartedly shuffling his way through the Manchester Evening News. It was just after ten, but the Philliskirks were an early-to-bed, early-to-rise family.
“Do I?” asked Malcolm, realising that for the first time in ages he actually felt like his old self.
“Yes. You’ve been so distant lately. And you’ve looked terrible, really dishevelled and untidy.”
Malcolm turned to his wife, smiling. “Oh, really? Tell it like it is, why don’t you?”