And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “Jonathan, leave that, love,” Margaret said, sitting on the edge of the bed and beckoning her children to either side of her.

  “Now I don’t want either of you two worrying, do you hear? Your dad just had a little too much to drink and things got out of hand.”

  Jonathan knew there was more to it than that. He’d seen his parents argue before, but not like this. Why was his father so angry, and what had he done that had made his mother want him removed from their room? He looked at his mother’s face, tear-streaked and drawn, and knew there was nothing to be gained by pressing her further. It would only add further upset, and there was Sophie to consider too; she had seen and heard enough for one night.

  “Are you okay, Mum?” he asked.

  “Yes, dear, I’ll be fine,” she sniffed, cuddling them to her. “Go back to bed, you need your sleep.”

  The race: he’d totally forgotten about it. What time was it now? The clock on the bedside table told him it was after three; he was due at the starting line in eight hours’ time.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mum?” he asked again as she ushered him out the door.

  “I’ll be fine, Jonathan. Your sister and I are going to have a sleepover, aren’t we, Soph?”

  Sophie smiled faintly from her place in the king-size bed.

  “Okay then, see you in a few hours. If you need me, just knock on the door.”

  She smiled softly, touched by the offer. “We’ll be fine, love.”

  Back in his own bed, Jonathan tried to find sleep, but to no avail. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind, over and over again. What had they been fighting about? Was it about him? Were they going to break up now? And where had those men taken his father? Malcolm’s transformation into an alcohol-fuelled lunatic had repelled Jonathan at the time, but now that the dust had settled he was worried about him. If those men had hurt him, they’d be sorry. It was awful, the way they’d dragged him off like that as if he were a common thug. That was his dad; they couldn’t do that to him.

  Then there was his mother; seeing her like that had upset him more than anything. His poor, gentle mother, the most caring person he had ever known; she didn’t deserve that. His father was at the root of the problem, that much was clear, but whose side should he take? He was going to be like Gary Richards now; his parents were divorced and constantly made him choose between them. Jonathan didn’t want to have to pick just one, he loved them both. It was probably all his fault anyway. If he hadn’t been trying to find his birth parents, none of this would have happened. He was being punished for his selfishness. This was God’s way of telling him he should be grateful for what he had. It was too late now, though; he’d ruined everything.

  23

  The phone rang at 8.30, his wake-up call. They needn’t have bothered; he was already wide awake. He’d hardly slept a wink; how could he, after what had happened? Jonathan answered the phone, thanked the receptionist and got out of bed. He was exhausted and in no fit state to race. All night long he’d lain in bed, going over and over what he’d seen, wondering what had caused it. He just wanted to sit down with his mum and dad and make sure everything was okay. After a quick shower, he gathered his running gear and went across to his mother’s room. They were already up, Margaret drying Sophie’s hair by the dresser. One look at her son confirmed her worst fears.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked hopefully.

  “I’m okay, Mum,” he lied.

  There and then she would gladly have killed her husband. All this build-up, all Jonathan’s hard work ruined by his stupidity. If he’d simply confessed his mucky secret and left it at that, it wouldn’t have been so bad. She would have absorbed the blow and dealt with it when they got home. But he’d compounded things by making a scene and upsetting their son on the eve of the biggest day of his life, and that was simply unforgivable. She looked at her boy, so sluggish and lethargic. What chance did he have of winning now?

  “We’re ready now, love, if you want to head down for breakfast.”

  “Okay, Mum.”

  He was like a zombie.

  Over breakfast, Sophie chatted giddily about their plans for the day. She appeared to have completely forgotten about the events of the night before. Usually Jonathan would have been infuriated by her incessant chattering but he just stared into space, dully chewing on his food, swallowing it without tasting a bite. No one mentioned Malcolm; it was as if he had ceased to exist. When they’d finished their breakfast, they booked a taxi and waited in the lobby for it to arrive. Margaret looked at the staff milling around, wondering if they knew that she was the one with a lousy drunk for a husband.

  The drive to the arena was conducted in the same fashion; Sophie gabbling away while Jonathan stared out the window like a man condemned. He knew that the outcome of this race was of huge importance but, try as he might, he couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for it. He should have been bouncing around the inside of the cab, barely able to contain himself. Instead he sat there, wishing it was time to go home. Margaret watched him, wondering what she could do to lift his spirits. If someone didn’t do something his chance was gone, and opportunities like this didn’t come around very often. Sophie had switched her attention to the taxi driver, and was quizzing him on the workings of inner-city London. Margaret turned to her son.

  “How are you feeling, Jon? Nervous, I bet.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Did you sleep okay? You know, afterwards?”

  Jonathan looked at her sadly. “What’s going on, Mum? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Jon.”

  “I can’t concentrate on the race until I know he’s all right.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Jonathan.”

  “But where is he, Mum?”

  Margaret couldn’t give him an answer. She had no idea where her husband was, but, unlike her son, she didn’t care.

  “Look, Jonathan,” she said, adopting a more forthright approach. “Your dad is big enough to look after himself, wherever he is, and you’ll see him soon. Right now you’ve got a race to win, an important race – the biggest race of your life. So forget about your dad and focus that head of yours, do you hear?”

  She tapped the side of his head for extra emphasis, hoping to almost literally knock some sense into him.

  Jonathan looked at her doubtfully. “What were you two fighting about? Are you splitting up?”

  Another question she couldn’t answer.

  “I don’t know, Jon. We’ll discuss it later, okay?”

  “So you might be splitting up, then?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Is it something to do with me?”

  “No, of course not. What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen Jonathan,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “Whatever happens between me and your dad has nothing whatsoever to do with you. We – ”

  He stopped her short with a dismissive shake of his head and pulled his hands away. Whatever it was she was about to say, he wasn’t interested in hearing it. They were splitting up and things would never be the same again. He was going to be the exact same as Gary Richards: weekdays with Mum, pretending everything was normal, and then off to Dad’s crummy flat every Saturday for stilted conversations and awkward attempts at bonding. It was going to be shit.

  24

  Ernie waited anxiously at the entrance to the arena, craning his neck every time he saw a car approach in the hope that it would be the one containing his prized asset. When Jonathan finally alighted from his steed, his coach was there to greet him or, more precisely, to assess his state of mind. The sight of the pallid athlete with dark circles around his eyes sent Ernie Turner into a frenzy.

  “What’s up with you?” he asked in a panic. “Are you poorly?”

  “No, Coach, I’m fine.”


  “You don’t look fine.”

  He ushered him to the registration desk, probing him for information as they went.

  “Did you sleep all right?”

  “What did you eat yesterday?”

  “Have you been getting fluids down you?”

  It was no use. The boy was gone. He was in the same place he’d been for the past couple of weeks, somewhere he couldn’t be reached. They signed in and Jonathan went to the dressing-rooms, promising to join Ernie in the warm-up area when he was ready. Ernie wasn’t having that, though. He was going to wait outside for him, just in case; the way things were going, the kid was capable of doing anything. But Jonathan emerged a moment later in full attire, ready to go; he looked the part if nothing else.

  They reached the warm-up area and joined the other athletes. Everyone was going through their pre-race routines, stretching, focusing their minds. Jonathan just dropped his belongings on the floor and sat on top of them. This was too much for Ernie. He wasn’t having this, not by a long shot.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he asked, dropping to his haunches.

  “Nothing, Coach,” Jonathan replied in that same, maddening monotone.

  “Nothing? Exactly!”

  Jonathan stared right past him as if he weren’t there.

  Ernie got right up in his face, inches away from him.

  “Now listen here, Jonathan,” he said, feeling his blood pressure rise. “If you think we’re going to throw away all our hard work, all those hours spent on that fucking track, because you don’t feel like trying today, then you can think again.”

  Jonathan tried to turn his head away, to escape the reality of the situation, but Ernie wouldn’t let up. He placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes.

  “Do you realise what’s at stake here? Win today and you go on to represent your country in the World Championships, the Commonwealths, maybe the Olympics, for fuck’s sake! Can you not push aside whatever’s going on in that head of yours for just five minutes and give it your all?”

  A light flickered on. Something registered. At first Ernie thought he’d imagined it, but there it was again; a hint of aggression, a touch of menace; the elements that made this kid worth all the effort.

  “Well?” he said encouragingly, as Jonathan got to his feet. “Can you?”

  “Okay, Coach,” said Jonathan, and this time he seemed to mean it.

  He rose from the floor like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis and began limbering up, half-heartedly at first but then with more intent until it became a proper, no-holds-barred, pre-race exercise routine.

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” Ernie muttered in astonishment. “It lives and breathes.”

  Five minutes later the order came for the coaches to leave the holding area. After ensuring Jonathan wasn’t just putting on a show to convince him, Ernie left with a spring in his step. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

  Jonathan hadn’t been putting on a show; something in his coach’s words had hit home. Whatever happened between his parents was going to happen, regardless, but whether he experienced it as a national champion or not was entirely up to him. It still felt as if his world was falling apart, but here was something he had control over. He’d always felt in control on the track; it was the one place where he knew no one could touch him. And he was fucked if he was letting Paul Whitworth steal all the glory; he didn’t deserve it, none of them did. Jonathan was the real talent here, the one destined for stardom. He’d show them how it was done, even without a proper night’s sleep. What was it Ernie had said about the greats overcoming adversity? Coe, Snell, Cruz et al. Well, here he was, facing some adversity of his own, and if he could win despite all that had happened, maybe the name Philliskirk would someday be added to that list.

  They filed out onto the track. It was perfect weather for eight-hundred-metre running, warm but overcast, a slight breeze refreshing them as they went to their lanes. There were a lot of people here, by far the biggest audience any of them had yet experienced. Usually Jonathan would be able to pick out his mother, but that wasn’t possible today. He knew she’d be up there though, roaring him on. The thought gave him extra impetus and strengthened his resolve. Forget about the Olympics or Ernie or personal glory, he wanted to win this for her. They lined up and were told to wait for the stadium announcer to call their name. This was the big time; they would be introduced to the crowd individually, but the real fanfare would be reserved for the winner. Jonathan measured up his opponents as he waited for his name to be called. He’d never been easily intimidated, but standing here among the cream of British talent he suddenly felt quite insignificant. He felt small in stature, too. When had everyone grown so big? He knew most of these runners, had raced and beaten all but two of them, but they all seemed to have grown substantially. Many had grown upwards, which was natural enough, but some had also grown outwards; a couple looked like real powerhouses and could be mistaken for grown men. Then he remembered where he stood in the order: fifth. Lane five, the best lane, the lane awarded to the runner with the best qualifying time. That meant one thing: he was the best one here. These boys might be taller or stronger than him, but none of them had his natural ability, his God-given talent. They had used their physical attributes to get here, beating the opposition with size and strength, but as soon as these lads reached the senior stage where everyone was tall and everyone was a powerhouse, they would falter. Jonathan still had growing to do, both upwards and outwards. If he could beat this lot without being fully developed, then who knew what he’d do in years to come. This was the first step; succeed here and everything else would fall into place. He felt no pressure. He was at ease. This was what he was born to do.

  Jonathan’s name was announced; he waved deferentially and readied himself for the starter’s gun. His mind focused, his world narrowed and everything else ceased to exist. The other runners, the spectators, his father’s whereabouts, the identity of his birth parents – all that became secondary. Now it was just himself and the track. The gun sounded. He leapt into action; head down, driving forward, all thoughts of tiredness pushed to the back of his mind. But he didn’t come out hard enough, and as soon as the athletes broke from their lanes he found himself boxed in, trapped behind one runner with another on his outside. Almost immediately the pace dropped; it was slow, dangerously slow. What were they playing at? It was as if they were conspiring against him. Whitworth had probably had a word with some of the others and planned all this: bunch up and block off Philliskirk while I race ahead to glory. He needed to get away from the kerb, to find some free air, but the runner on his outside was an immovable barrier. Jonathan gently brushed against him, testing the waters. The runner pushed back, forcefully. So this is how it’s going to be.

  He hadn’t time to sit here in the middle of the pack; he needed to be near the front, keeping an eye on things. He had runners on either side of him now, and one behind him who was growing increasingly impatient too. Jonathan felt a leg come into contact with his, knocking him off balance, forcing him to place his hands on the back of the athlete in front of him.

  “Fuck off!” A Brummie accent; the midlands champion.

  “Not my fault,” Jonathan called back. “Someone’s pushing behind.”

  As they approached the end of the first lap the pace began to quicken, but he was still stuck in this cluster of runners. He could see ahead now: Whitworth was at the front with another runner, one he hadn’t raced before. This just wouldn’t do. He stepped off the kerb, moving directly into the path of the runner behind. Once more their legs tangled but Jonathan held his ground, using the athlete on his outside for leverage. That runner, incensed by this show of aggression, pushed back, trying to force Jonathan back onto the kerb. But Jonathan wasn’t having it. He nudged him with his shoulders, daring him to engage, knowing that any more contact co
uld see them all tumble to the ground. The runner on his outside yielded, happy to survive to fight another day. Finally, Jonathan was out. He was now at the head of the chasing pack, a full twenty metres behind the two leaders.

  The bell sounded. One lap to go. All thoughts of pacing himself and running his normal race were out the window now; it hadn’t been that kind of race, things hadn’t gone to plan. From here on in it would be a matter of fitness and who wanted it the most. Slowly but steadily he ate into the front runners’ lead, cutting it from twenty metres, to ten, to five, until he joined them on the back straight. Hello, lads; weren’t expecting to see me today, were you? Whitworth turned to see who had joined them. The look of surprise on his face was a sight to behold. His partner in crime, a lanky, awkward kid with a prep-school haircut, continued on unabated, clearly not realising he was obstructing a personal battle. But catching up had taken its toll on Jonathan, he needed a breather, a moment to regain himself. The other two weren’t in a charitable mood, and almost as soon as Jonathan had joined them the pace was upped once more. With a little over two hundred metres to go, the lanky kid made his move. He stepped to one side and thrust himself forwards, instantly gaining a few metres on Jonathan and Paul Whitworth; but it was a move born out of panic. Within seconds he began to falter, his bolt shot and his race finished. They gobbled him up as they rounded the last bend. Jonathan Philliskirk and Paul Whitworth were alone once more, ready to write another chapter in their storied rivalry.

  Jonathan was struggling now; he was barely hanging on to Whitworth’s coat-tails and his opponent wasn’t even going at full pelt. The two of them made their way down the home straight, Whitworth, the taller, more graceful athlete, seemingly in complete control. While behind him, Jonathan flailed and flapped in desperation, his form completely gone, nothing working as it should have been. Yet despite all this, despite Jonathan’s poor preparation and his battle to get back into contention, it looked like he might just do it. With fifty metres to go he drew up alongside his contemporary, and for a moment or two he drew ahead. In the stands his mother jumped up and down on her seat, grabbing the shoulders of the spectator in the seat in front. She was screaming and swearing, repeating Jonathan’s name, the Lord’s name, urging the gods to favour her boy; but then, almost without trying, the other boy began to pull clear, the tall blond boy whom he’d beaten so many times before.