by Alec Dunn
And now Lucretia was telling him to talk to Max to arrange… what?
Max, thought Tristan, is clearly a psychopath.
What Tristan said to Lucretia was, “I don’t think so. I’m not sure how much Max would like that.”
“Nonsense, Tristan,” she curtly replied. “Speak to him.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve not spoken much to Max. At all…” Tristan left the sentence hanging, incomplete, evasive, unfinished, like the chance that Lucretia could get him to talk to Max.
“Ah,” she responded with understanding and he thought he had successfully escaped being rude and escaped talking to the angry and dangerous, if helpful, Max.
She pursed her lips for a moment, looked pensive and then smiled happily, saying, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll talk to Max for you.”
Then she left still smiling.
Whether she was aware of Tristan’s shocked mouth hanging wide open was not clear.
Seven : Running
Tristan was sleeping, dreaming.
There was a knocking noise.
Tristan’s sleep was disturbed. He stirred, on the borderline of waking consciousness, and tried to snuggle deeper into the warmth of the thick winter duvet his aunt had recently bought to protect him from the cold in the small, bleak box room.
The knocking noise came again, louder this time, more insistent.
The noise broke through the protective cocoon of sleep and Tristan was awake. He heard the light, hurried tread of his aunt and the quiet murmur of her voice as she asked herself who it could be at this time – this was a habit of hers that Tristan had learnt to live with, rather than spending his time being confused, thinking that she was trying to speak to him – the muttering and footfalls flurried down the stairs.
Tristan rolled over, pulling the duvet over his head with a groan. What time was it?
The weak dawn light of a grey winter day was leaking through his thin curtains. His hand fell out of the duvet and dropped downwards with the subtlety of an axe, trying to find his mobile phone. His face was twisted to the wall as he desperately willed himself to still be asleep; his hand, like Frankenstein’s monster, given a life of its own, swept clumsily across the second hand cabinet beside his bed until it found its prize.
He could hear his aunt’s voice, distant and confused. Her rising high pitched tones wafted up the stairs.
His hand dragged the captive mobile to his face and a stabbing thumb brought it to life. A second groan escaped his lips similar to the noises made during cases of extreme food poisoning or the early stages of pregnancy.
6:48.
6:48 on a Sunday.
He was still getting used to routines. He was still getting used to his fresh start. School was still a shock to his system.
The unusual home-schooling option his mother had taken had given him certain benefits that he missed. The benefit of doing pretty much whatever he wanted whenever he wanted was a benefit that he missed. Staying up past midnight to watch whichever channels were available did not meet his aunt’s approval. The benefit of travelling around the country, living his life and seeing Europe was also sadly missed, even though he had been dragged around on the whims and caprices of his mother. He no longer travelled anywhere, unless accompanied and now he, and his aunt, had commitments. As she said, ‘they couldn’t just up sticks and run off anytime they felt like it.’ He felt trapped in the estate and he missed his old life. He missed his mother, despite her selfish ways. He missed his freedom. But mostly, at this current moment in time, he missed the benefit of not having to get up early in the morning. Not having to get up and get ready for school at seven o’clock was a massive benefit that he missed every morning.
He had dutifully got up every day for the five dreary days of school at the clearly unnecessary time of seven o’clock and now, at the weekend, on the last day of the weekend, Sunday, his last chance for a lie in, he was cruelly woken at 6:48 – 6:48! – before, before, seven o’clock.
He swore in frustration and closed his eyes to protect them from the thin dawn light and pulled the duvet halfway over his head to protect his ears from the muted voice of his aunt one floor below.
He settled down to resume his broken sleep with his senses happily dulled.
He heard his aunt’s soft, hurried footsteps coming back up the stairs and thought the disturbance was over.
He heard the footsteps pause outside his room.
He waited.
His aunt waited.
He wanted her to carry on walking. He willed her to carry on walking.
Instead she knocked on his door in a strangely gentle knock as though she didn’t want to disturb him too much while she was waking him up.
“Tristan,” her whisper was as loud as her normal speaking voice. She needed to wake him up, but wanted to be considerate about it. She whispered louder, “Tristan,” as she was opening his door.
As the door slowly opened, the bright yellow electric light from the hall spilled into his room. She let herself into the shadows of his room. “Tristan, dear, there’s a boy at the door for you.”
Tristan wasn’t fully awake, but he was quickly waking up.
“He says you’re expecting him.”
He was unpleasantly confused and increasingly alert. Expecting him?
“He says his name is Max.”
He felt his stomach lurch and heave within his chest.
Max?
Questions and adrenaline coursed through his blood and his brain.
The taciturn, self graffitied Max? Why?
The twitchy, scratched and unpredictable Max? What did he want?
The exceptionally, if loyally, violent Max?
Why would Max come to the house he lived in? How did he even know where he lived?
“Would you like me to tell him you’ll be down in a moment, dear? Or shall I tell him you’re sleeping and you’ll see him later?” his aunt’s voice was trying to remain normal and keep any obvious concern out of it and, as always, she was supportive of Tristan.
He let the question hang in the air.
He looked up at the ceiling caught between the harsh yellow electric light and the grey seeping twilight.
Why? That was the question. He felt the adrenaline rush surging and let his mind surf the wave, let the panic settle. The calming waters of his mind found an answer bob to the surface.
Lucretia.
Lucretia had said that she would talk to Max about… what was it? It had been a conversation about Stephanie. About being more confident. Had she arranged this? If she had arranged it then perhaps Max thought he was expected. Max was here to help – in some way.
The final answer to bob to the surface was that one thing was certain, he didn’t want to annoy Max.
“Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes, please,” Tristan said with a sigh.
“Ok, dear, and I’ll pop the kettle on,” his aunt said with a fragile carelessness.
When Tristan had hurriedly thrown on some clothes and splashed cold water on his face and gone downstairs, he saw the strangest sight. Max was sat, smiling and nodding at his aunt with some half eaten toast in his hand, a range of jars spread before him, jam, marmalade, marmite, honey and a cup of tea steaming by his right hand. His aunt was waving a piece of toast as she talked animatedly to Max. They were both laughing as he came into the kitchen.
“Oh, Tristan, here you are,” said his aunt. “Max tells me that he’s agreed to be your personal trainer. I was just telling him about when I joined the gym.”
“Oh,” Tristan said, nonplussed. “Yeah.”
Max looked over at Tristan. There was a glint in his eyes and the smile faded from his lips. “Those clothes will be fine. One slice of toast, a drink of water and then we go.”
“Right. Yeah,” Tristan said blankly. Go where?
Tristan ate his toast and drank a glass of water in silence while his aunt told a story about a lady who had been to
ld that drinking olive oil was good for you so, on the principal that if some will do some good, more must do more good, had taken to drinking half a pint a day and gained a stone by the end of the month. Max laughed, a genuine deep, hearty, growl of a laugh.
Then his face became serious. He walked over to Tristan and clapped an arm down on his shoulder, forcing Tristan to take a step forward to stop himself falling over.
“Time to go, Tristan.” Max steered him out of the kitchen and towards the front door.
Tristan heard his aunt’s voice give a cheery, “Bye, dear. Have a nice time,” and the door slammed closed behind them.
They stood in the dim, grey light of dawn on a cold, cheerless, winter morning.
“Run,” Max said.
Tristan ran.
He was out of breath by the end of the street.
Two roads further on he had a stitch.
He pulled up, puffing and panting, “Just… need… to… stop… a while.”
“No stops.” Max’s voice was harsh, brutal. He wasn’t even out of breath, “Run.”
Tristan started running again, fear of Max driving him on.
Tristan ran and ran. He had run further than he had ever run before. The grey dawn light turned red and golden and then to clear daylight before they returned to the door of his aunt’s house. Tristan’s legs were shaking. He was dripping with sweat, red faced, gasping for breath and coughing like an asthmatic who smoked sixty a day.
Max hadn’t broken a sweat. His breathing was completely normal. He looked at Tristan slightly perplexed, “You don’t do much exercise.”
Tristan felt the need to cover his embarrassment and make small talk, “Thanks, Max… Good run… Needed that… Good… workout… See… you in… school… tomorrow.” He turned to go into the house.
Max’s voice sounded vaguely amused, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tristan, before school, for another run.”
Tristan was unpleasantly surprised yet again that day. “What? No! No need,” he wheezed out. “That was good… I’m good… Don’t need… to go running tomorrow.”
Max was emotionless, but emphatic, “You’re not good, Tristan. You need to go running tomorrow. Running is the quickest way to get a basic level of fitness.”
“No, Max… I’m fine. Don’t worry about it… I don’t want you,” a hacking cough took his limited breath away, “to get me fit.” Tristan was not sure he could do this again.
Max again was impassive, “Yes Tristan. We go running tomorrow. You need me to get healthy. I said I would make you healthy. I gave my word.”
Tristan was relieved. The answer to this problem was simple.
He just had to give up.
“It’s ok, Max. I don’t want to get healthy any more. You’ve cured me of that. I let you off your promise.”
Max stared at him, without reaction, “I didn’t promise you. I promised Lucretia.”
The bleakness of the statement sank in. Max wouldn’t let him off. He wouldn’t let him give up.
Max continued, “I’ll be here tomorrow at six. Be ready.”
Tristan wheezed a response and shut the door on Max. He shut the door and leant heavily back against it. Keep him out.
He staggered upstairs on wobbly legs and collapsed on the bed.
As he recovered over the remains of his Sunday, he felt both concern over Max’s arrival at the inhuman hour of six o’clock on Monday, a school day, and the strange exhausted feeling of having accomplished something.
He had never run as far as he had today and something felt good about that.
His aunt’s Sunday roast and roast potatoes, crispy on the outside yet deliciously soft on the inside, made him happy and forgetful of his concerns. He felt he had earned the deliciously filling food.
When Monday came he set his alarm for just before six o’clock but the banging on the door still woke him.
Tristan opened the door with bleary eyes, but a mostly positive mood.
Max waited for him to eat a slice of toast and then they were off.
Running again: feet plodded like lead, step after heavy step, street after lengthy grey street, stumbling up and down kerbs, Tristan coughed and wheezed and sweated and heaved his lardy body around the streets and roads of the estate, glad it was too early for people to be around to see him. His positive mood quickly disappeared. Each painful step filled him with resentment and anger that Max was forcing him to run. Each strained, thudding heart beat pulsed fury through his brain. Why couldn’t Max just let him give up?
‘Why?’ thumped his feet into the pavement.
‘Why?’ screamed the blood through his brain.
When he walked into school that day, Tristan could still feel his face burning with the heat of exercise. He felt conscious of the burning red face all morning at school.
The other, more pressing, concern that was running round and round and round in his brain like a manic gerbil in a wheel were the final words Max had left him with as he had been bent doubled, almost retching with stomach cramps, his hand stretched out against the wall feebly to support him, a line of saliva bungeeing down to the floor. “Same time tomorrow, Tristan.”
For a week, Tristan was woken by Max’s knocking at his door. Regular and consistent, Max was there at six o’clock, every morning.
Tristan tried to give up again; Max refused to let him.
Tristan tried not answering the door; his aunt let Max in. She actually liked Max and thought that it was good for Tristan to have a friend. And Max seemed to like her. Tristan could hear them chatting and joking together before he was there, before Max turned serious and cold with him.
Tristan tried talking to Lucretia to get her to call Max off; she laughed at him and said he needed to get fit.
It was at the end of the week, during the precious weekend, his sacred chance to lie in, that Tristan decided enough was enough. His legs were tired and exhausted, his torso was strained and pulled; moving was painful and the idea of running filled him with fear and made him want to vomit.
He had tried being subtle and it had not worked. He knew he was going to have to be more direct. He was going to have to say no to Max.
This was not something he wanted to do. The image of Max stamping down on the prostrate form of Ryan Sankey flashed into his mind. Saying no to Max was his last resort, but he had reached it.
It took him Saturday to make up his mind completely, but when the knock came on Sunday morning he was decided. The knock came as usual, but he was already awake. The word, “No,” quietly and firmly formed itself on his lips.
He didn’t wait for his aunt to answer the door. He wasn’t going to hide. The course of action was clear and direct.
Tristan almost leapt out of bed, alive with adrenaline, and was down the stairs at a dash.
He opened the door in a smooth and swift motion to the familiar, stern face of Max. Tristan looked into his eyes and said, “No.”
Max merely looked at him for a moment, then, “Get dressed.”
Tristan now stood looking at Max. This was a standoff, a battle of will, neither wanted to give in.
“No, Max,” Tristan said.
Max sighed, although whether with frustration or boredom, Tristan couldn’t tell, “Tristan, you need to get fit.” Max spoke in statements. You couldn’t argue with him. “You have important things to do.” What was this? Had Lucretia told him about Stephanie? Max continued inexorable, “I’m going to help you get fit.”
Tristan realised this was an impasse. Max was not able to be reasonable about this. Well, too bad. It wasn’t his choice. Tristan was ready to end the conversation and go back to bed, “No, Max. No, you’re not. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” And with that he closed the door.
Or he would have closed the door if Max’s foot hadn’t wedged itself in the doorway. His heart quickened and he was undecided between partly opening the door to smash it closed on Max’s foot or fully opening the door again.
The image of Ryan Sankey on crutc
hes with his various damaged limbs hobbled through his mind and he opened the door to carry on the pointless conversation.
The words forming on his lips were stopped by the sight of Max smiling at him. It was only the second time he had ever seen the angry young Max smile.
Max didn’t wait for Tristan to speak, “I like you, Tristan. I never expected to like you. Lucretia told me you were alright. I didn’t believe her. Not many people would have the balls to say no to me.” Max looked down, and when his face came up his smile had become wider, showing his teeth. It had become dangerous, wolfish and when he looked up at Tristan again there was a fierce glint in his eyes, “But I have to tell you, I made a promise to get you fit and healthy and when I make a promise, I keep it.” The words hung in the air as Max stared intently into his eyes.
Tristan believed him.
Max’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, “And it will make me sad, but I will break your little finger if you don’t get yourself dressed and come running today. Another finger tomorrow if you don’t get yourself out of bed and come running.
I am sorry, but this is important, Tristan.”
“Why Max? Why is it so important?”
“Trust me, Tristan. It just is.”
“Is it about Stephanie?”
“Who?”
“Is it important to Lucretia?”
“Yes. She likes you too. She made me promise.”
Tristan waited, uncertain of his response.
Max waited, his foot was still in the doorway, although he did not seem to be trying to intimidate or threaten, simply waiting.
Tristan looked down and made his decision. “Give me a moment to throw on some shorts and a t-shirt.”
Eight: Strange Questions
It’s important.
Trust me.
The phrases were given as plain statements of facts by Max. He spoke and expected to be believed.