Gold (39 page)

He poured the girls’ drinks into their bottles and added them to the cooler. It was twenty to ten, and his hands were shaking with nerves. He lugged the cooler up to trackside and watched the juniors warming down. Their faces were aglow and they were larking about. They were the under-sixteens, and they still believed they were pretty lucky to be there.

When ten o’clock came, he got the crew up from the maintenance room to sweep the track and run the machine around it to clean off
every trace of sweat, lube, and grease. He phoned the control room and got them to put on the full floodlights, the way they would for an evening competition. He had them initialize the Lynx photo-finish camera on the start/finish line. At ten thirty the physio came in and set up two stationary bikes to Kate and Zoe’s dimensions, at opposite ends of the warm-up area.

With everything ready, Tom lowered himself into a trackside seat where he could see the main entrance. He waited for Zoe to arrive first.

Kate arrived at ten to eleven, skipped down the stairs, and dropped her kit bag at the side of the track with a boom that rolled around the space. She kissed Tom on both cheeks.

He said, “I don’t need to ask you if you’re ready.”

“I feel great. This was a good idea.”

“You sleep okay?”

She smiled. “I can sleep when this is over. Is Zoe getting changed?”

“She’s not here yet.”

Kate blinked. “Okay.”

“Yeah, I know. Think she’s found a whole new way to mess with your head?”

Kate laughed. “Oh come on. We’re over that.”

Tom held out his hand. “Still, you’d better give me your phone.”

Kate sighed as she handed it over. “There’s no need, really.”

Tom pocketed the phone. “Race day rules. We’ll keep the two of you apart till start time. We’ll run this just like a big event. No contact. No psychology. I’ll have you use the changing room one after the other, then I’m going to isolate you and have you warm up at opposite ends of the space.”

“Okay.”

Tom put his hand on her elbow. “Just for once, let’s make it all about what happens on the track, shall we?”

He sent her off to change, then sat down to wait again. Kate was out of the changing room at eleven, and he sent her off with the physio to
warm up on her stationary bike. At ten past eleven he phoned Zoe, but her voicemail picked up.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re meant to be here.”

At twenty past, three blazered officials from British Cycling arrived to witness the race. A shower was intensifying outside, and they came through the doors shaking out umbrellas and bitching about being called out. Tom briefed them on the race rules: best of three sprints, the winner to remain subject to the new Olympic selection procedure, the loser to formally announce that she was not available for selection. No journalists, friends, or family supporters to be present, no press conference, no recording equipment besides the photo-finish camera. He gave each of the officials a copy of the governing documentation, and all four of them signed. Tom explained how the sprints would be organized, with one official to act as the approved starter while the other two would hold the girls’ bikes steady at the start. The three officials would then umpire the sprints, with Tom recusing himself from the process.

Tom settled the officials in their seats and organized coffee and biscuits for them. At half past eleven, Zoe was still nowhere. To calm himself he checked the girls’ bikes over again. He brushed invisible spots of grit off the track. He tested the photo-finish equipment, walking across the line and calling the control room to check that the image was being triggered and displayed on their screens.

He called Zoe and got her voicemail again. He left a message that he struggled to keep unemotional. He went up to the reception area and looked out. The sky was graphite gray, the rain wasn’t letting up, and there was still no Zoe.

Kate was fully warmed up now, and Tom went over to the mat where the physio was taking her through some light stretches.

“All good?” he said breezily. “Legs still attached?”

She looked up at him. “Any news?”

He shook his head.

“What if she doesn’t show up?”

He looked at his watch. “She’s still got twenty minutes. You know her. She’s just playing with you. She’ll be hiding around the corner, doing her own warm-up.”

Even as he said it, he was aware of the heavy rain hammering on the skylights high above their heads. Kate peered up into the glare of the floodlights, shielding her eyes with a hand.

“Yeah, but what if she doesn’t come?”

Tom sighed. “The officials are here. The papers are signed. If she’s not through these doors by noon, then you’ll go to the Olympics and she won’t. She knows the rules for today. You both agreed to be bound by them.”

Kate shook her head quickly. “If something’s come up, I wouldn’t hold her to the rules.”

Tom nodded his head at the officials. “These guys would. Unfortunately nine-tenths of the race is about making it to the bloody start line. You should understand that better than anyone else on earth.”

He watched her face as she took in the information.

She said, “Let me call her, okay?”

“No. See? This is how she’s getting into your head. She’ll be here. You just need to keep your mind on your own race.”

Kate closed her eyes and took a breath. “Okay.”

At ten minutes to twelve, Tom heaved himself up the stairs to the reception area and stood looking out through the doors at the street. His chest was tight and he felt nauseated and angry. Why did Zoe have to be like this? Why couldn’t she just use the talent she had to win on the track, without wrenching everyone to bits beforehand?

Outside, the rain was ending and the April sun glittered on the wet tarmac. Cars sent sheets of water arcing over the pavement.

Zoe came splashing through the puddles on her training bike, threw it down at the curb, and burst through the doors of the velodrome at eight minutes to twelve. She was soaked from the rain, her hair hanging
wet and her kit bag dripping water onto the hard-wearing industrial flooring of the reception area.

She stopped six feet from Tom and stood looking at him, breathing hard. Steam rose from her wet jeans and her sodden black hoodie.

Tom’s anger dissolved and he rushed to close the gap between them. “What the bloody hell happened?”

She looked down and sniffed. “I nearly fell.”

“Off your bike?”

She shrugged. “Off my tower.”

He didn’t know how to react. After a long pause he said, “At least you’re warmed up.”

“Tell me what to do.”

He looked at his watch. “Can you change in four minutes?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it. Your bike’s ready for you. I’ll see you at the start. We’ll talk about this afterwards, okay? You and me. We’ll go for a coffee. But right now, I just want you to go to that place in your head where you go when you race. Nothing else exists, okay? Don’t look at Kate on your way down. Don’t look at the officials. Just get changed and walk to the start line and keep your eyes on me. I’ll look after you, Zoe, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice betrayed the faintest of tremors.

He held out his hand. “Phone.”

She dug it out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to him compliantly.

He put it in his own pocket. “Why are you still standing here?”

She jogged away down the stairs, and Tom followed her. Even in distress, there was a grace to the physics of her. While Tom hobbled on his ruined knees, Zoe flowed easily down the stairs, like oiled light. There was an unself-conscious sense of entitlement in her movement, as if space and time sucked in their guts to let her through, like starstruck bouncers on a nightclub door.

“Shit,” Tom whispered to himself. It wasn’t till now that he’d realized how badly he wanted her to win.

A phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Kate’s, and Jack’s name was on the screen.

He picked up. “Mate,” he said. “It’s me. I’m fielding Kate’s calls till after the race.”

There was no answer from Jack.

“Jack,” he said, more loudly. “It’s me, Tom.”

When Jack’s voice came, it was choked and unnatural. “There’s a situation here. There’s a fucking situation. I’m here at A&E and they’ve rushed Sophie away and I need to tell Kate to—”

“Right. Okay. Slow down.”

He’d reached trackside now. He turned his back towards Kate and the warm-up area and the officials and cupped his hand over the phone.

“What are you doing in A&E? Kate didn’t say anything.”

“She doesn’t know. Sophie had a fever and I was taking her in for a checkup and it suddenly got worse. I mean it’s really bad. I don’t know what’s going on, so can you please tell Kate that she needs to get here? Or, no, can I talk to her please?”

Tom hesitated. “You know what we’re deciding here today, right?”

“Yeah I know, Tom, but this is… shit, I mean it’s…”

“Yeah yeah, okay, I get you.”

Tom looked back towards the warm-up area. Kate was hopping from foot to foot, keyed up with adrenaline, watching for Zoe to come out of the dressing rooms. Her helmet was on, her eyes were hidden.

He exhaled deeply, to calm himself. “Listen, it’s your call. We’re five minutes away from racing here. I’m going to be honest and tell you that Kate’s looking pretty good for the win at this point. Do you need her there, or do you need her to do her thing here? It’s your family. You need to decide what’s best for it.”

There was a short silence on the end of the line. Then Jack said, “Not tell her, you mean?”

“I’m saying tell her after the race. If she takes it in two and skips the shower, she’ll be out of here in forty minutes. During which time you’re there with Sophie and you can handle it. Kate’s here and it’s the biggest race she’ll ever ride, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah but if something… you know…
happens,
and I didn’t tell her?”

“Yeah, and what if everything turns out fine, and you told her this now? That’d be the third Olympics she’d miss. I’m her coach, Jack. I’m keeping count even if you’re not.”

“That’s not fair, Tom.”

Tom sighed. “I know. I’m stressed, you’re stressed. Look, like I said, it’s your call.”

Jack said, “Can I talk to her?”

Tom looked over to the warm-up area. Zoe was there now, up from the dressing rooms, suited up and pulling on her gloves. He caught her eye. She looked at him desperately.

“Okay,” he said quietly into the phone. “I’ll put you on.”

He pointed for Zoe to go to the far end of the warm-up area, while he carried the phone over to Kate. As he handed it to her, it felt like a betrayal.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He kept his face neutral. “It’s Jack.”

“What is it?”

He shrugged. “It’s Jack.”

She took the phone in her gloved hand. “Jack?” she said. “Is everything okay?”

Tom watched his own face in the mirror of her visor. He watched the uncertain line of her mouth. Then, as she kept the phone pressed to her ear, he watched her begin to smile.

“Oh Jack…” she said.

She listened some more, and he saw how her face blushed beneath the visor and her smile became a full grin.

“I will,” she said softly. “Thank you. Yes. I know I can.”

He saw how she leaned in to the sound of his voice, pressing it to her cheek.

“I love you too,” she said, and he watched two small tears appear from beneath the lower limit of her visor and course down to her jawbone.

When the call was finished, she turned to Tom. “Thanks,” she said.

“What for?”

“For letting him wish me good luck.”

Jack put his phone back in his pocket and collapsed into a chair. Static popped and hissed through his neurons. He didn’t know if Sophie was asleep or unconscious, and the ICU nurses were too busy to tell him. His daughter was silent but her body still talked through the monitoring machines. They bleeped and took dictation. Jack watched as they traced out vital signs on-screen. According to Siemens Instruments, Sophie’s heart rate was eighty-eight. She was breathing, unassisted, twenty-two times per minute. He found his feet tapping along to the rhythms of the monitors. His body swayed to strange syncopations as it willed her to live.

On the phone to Kate just now, he’d been close to telling her everything. It was unbearable to have all this responsibility.

Watching Sophie with her breath misting the inside of the translucent green breathing mask, there was a terrible acceleration. The idea that Sophie could die had always been there, ever since the first diagnosis, and yet it had seemed like a bad place on a map, an Ivory Coast, somewhere not urgently frightening because fear itself kept you away from the place. You thought of it as somewhere braver people went, or at least as somewhere you’d have plenty of time to pack your bags for.
And yet here he was, suddenly, in his tracksuit, with the house keys, the car key, his phone, and five pounds seventy-three in the pockets, watching Sophie do something that might actually be dying. This was the nature of time: it was a wide, elegant, and gently descending spiral staircase whose last dozen steps were unexpectedly rotten.