Shooting Elvis (2 page)

But a car accident destroyed the dream. Her right knee was shattered and her confidence torn to shreds. Surgery and rest repaired the knee, but when she tried to train again it let her down. When I met her she hadn’t run for six years.

You’ve got to learn to walk before you can run. She’d done some rock climbing as a teenager but wasn’t as familiar with the hills as I was. I took her to the Dales, the Lakes and down into Derbyshire. We tramped all over Wensleydale, Swaledale, the North York Moors and the Peak District. If the weather was bad we stayed nearer home, trudging up onto Saddleworth and Withens Clough in our waterproofs, grinning at each other’s discomfort as the occasional trickle of rain found its way down our necks.

But before all that I took her to see John Wesley Williamson, better known as Dr Bones. The Doc is physiotherapist to the stars, and his hands have restored the flagging careers of more football and rugby players than Grecian 2000 and Viagra. I don’t know what his written qualifications are, if he has any, but his hands work magic. They say he was a major league basketball player in the Caribbean until a brain tumour robbed him of his sight.

I hadn’t told Sonia that he was blind when I persuaded her to see him. She said she’d had the best medical advice available, paid for by the AAA, but it hadn’t worked. I said she hadn’t seen Dr Bones. He rose to greet us when we entered his consulting room and extended a hand. I felt Sonia hesitate as I made the introductions. She shook his hand and we sat down.

‘First of all, how are you, Mr Priest?’ he asked.

‘Fine, Doc. I’m fine.’

‘Still got the pellets in your back?’

‘Yes, they’re still there.’

‘But no trouble?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, after all this time I doubt if they will be.’ He paused for a beat, before saying, ‘I won’t charge you for that,’ and throwing his head back in laughter. ‘And now,’ he went on, ‘let’s have a look at Miss Thornton.’

Sonia was wearing her running shorts and a baggy T-shirt. He walked around his desk, trailing a finger along its edge, and Sonia reached for his extended arm, telling him where she was. ‘I’m here.’ He took her hand and he asked her to turn round and stand up straight. He put his hands on her neck, massaging it, feeling for knots in the muscles, abnormalities in the bones. Slowly he worked over her shoulders and down her spine, hips and legs. ‘Could you lie on the couch, please?’ Sonia did as she was told and now he concentrated on her knees: first the left one and then the right.

‘Does this hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Any discomfort?’

‘No.’

He flexed her legs, holding each ankle with one hand, the knee with the other, his face pointing away, as if something on the wall was demanding his attention.

He said, ‘Your patella was shattered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they clean it up?’

‘They took some bits of bone out, I believe.’

‘Any other fractures?’

‘The top of my tibia.’

‘That’s a typical dashboard injury.’

I’d carried my chair off to one side slightly, out of the way. I watched the Doc stretch Sonia’s legs out and rest them on the couch before feeling his way back behind his desk. ‘Come and sit down, please, Miss Thornton,’ he said. She swung off the couch and took her seat facing him across the desk.

‘Did you play games at school?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘No sports at all?’

‘None. It was a convent school. They didn’t consider it proper for girls to do sports.’

I sat up and smiled. I’d never realised she was a convent girl. I’d heard about convent girls.

‘And you believe that your knee problem is due to injury to your cruciate ligament?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that what they told you?’

‘Mmm.’

‘The anterior cruciate ligament?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘It’s an easy diagnosis to make, probably owing more to statistical probability than clinical judgement. Female athletes are more prone to
injuries to the anterior cruciate ligament than men, partly because they do not strengthen the supporting muscles by playing games when young, and partly because of the wider hips, although that’s obviously not a problem in your case. But your injury is not a strain, caused by strenuous activity. It was traumatic damage, caused by a motor accident. The injury is to your posterior ligament, not the anterior. In other words, the one at the back of your knee. Generally speaking, this is a stronger ligament, much bigger, and does not usually fail. It’s the weaker, front one that goes. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that we can deal with.’

‘We can?’

‘No problem.’

Rest and then exercise was the solution. She’d had the rest, so now it was a strict regime of exercises to strengthen up the supporting muscles around the knee. Running hammered the joint, but it did little to strengthen it. When the Doc learned that Sonia had access to a million pound gymnasium, you’d have thought he’d won the lottery.

‘You’re a remarkable young woman,’ he told her. ‘God has given you a perfect physique and a remarkable talent. You can conquer this. OK, so you probably won’t ever run at the Olympics, but you can beat the injury and run again. Maybe even
win races. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

Sonia nodded, then said, ‘I think so, Dr Williamson.’

‘Give me your hands,’ he said, and she reached across the table towards his outstretched ones. He took hers and held them, gently.

‘I remember your accident,’ he told her. ‘Your not going to the Olympics was a disappointment for all of us. We shared it with you. Look at me.’

Sonia looked at him.

‘What do you see?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘I see a very kind man. And a wise one.’

He smiled, big teeth flashing in his dark face. ‘I can be really mean at times, my wife tells me. And foolish, too. But if there is one thing I know about, it’s disappointment. It takes time, but you have to move on from it. Do the work, Miss Thornton, and I’ll listen out for The Gazelle on the sports channel.’

It’s an old army trick, spitting on your shoes when you polish them.
Spit and polish
, that’s what they call it. At first it dulls whatever shine you’ve achieved, but then, as you buff the leather, it begins to reflect its surroundings back at you with increased intensity, taking on their colours until the blackness is defined by its absence. Newton declared that the colour black was caused by the total absorption of light, but he never considered an old soldier’s boots. Or maybe he chose to ignore
this contradiction to his theory. The man gave the shoe a final rub with the yellow duster, held it up for inspection for a moment and placed it on the floor tiles, next to its glowing partner. He pulled on his leather slippers, looked at his watch, and went into the parlour, where the television stood.

He’d listened to local radio throughout the day, when he had the opportunity, but there had been nothing about the strange and untimely death of Alfred Armitage, just the usual gossip about sport. TV news was, hopefully, more comprehensive. After the montage of activities that the people of the area ceaselessly indulge in – fell running, hot air ballooning, white water canoeing – the familiar, slightly embarrassed, face of
Look North
came onto the screen. The presenter gave his nervous smile, swung round to the next camera and launched into his script. A woman had been stabbed in Harrogate; a terrier was trapped down a badger sett near Selby; police were hunting a
hit-and
-run driver in Bradford. No old men had been found electrocuted.

The man stroked his chin and wondered why the news hadn’t broken. Alfred’s home help came on Monday mornings and should have found the body, which left plenty of time for the story to leak out. Perhaps the police were withholding the news deliberately while they pursued their lines of enquiry. He smiled at that thought. If that was the case, they were wasting time. It was possible, of
course, that the home help never arrived – everybody knew how unreliable social services were – and Alfred was still sitting there, undiscovered. He wondered about making a phone call to speed things up, then decided against it. Patience was the word; he’d give it another
twenty-four
hours. He killed the BBC and switched to a video he’d made of
Top Gear
.

Sonia had done the work, spending hours after her shift ended on the cycling machine and all the other contraptions that look as if they were modern-day equivalents of Inquisition instruments of torture, until her knees were strong enough to kick over a JCB. Apparently the exercises were designed to develop her slow-twitch muscle fibres. It’s the
fast-twitch
ones that bodybuilders are fond of, so Sonia’s legs didn’t change shape, for which I was grateful. We’d done the Three Peaks and I’d had her on the Mosedale round in the Lakes, over Pillar, Scoat Fell and Yewbarrow. The descent from Yewbarrow is a real knee killer. When we arrived back at Wasdale Head our knees were throbbing like cobblers’ thumbs, but the pain came in matched pairs, hers and mine, so that was OK.

And tonight we were going running for the first time.

Sonia had checked the casserole in the slow cooker and declared it still edible, and was already changed into her kit when I arrived home.

‘It’s just over three miles,’ I told her. ‘At a slow pace. In running circles I’m known as the Mr Toad. We’ll park in the golf club car park and do a circuit through the woods. That’s good fun. Then we’ll skirt the golf course until we come out on Rhododendron Drive, which is a straight blast back to the clubhouse. Tonight you are learning the route, that’s all. Then you’ll be able to come and run it at your own speed, all by yourself. Do you understand?’

Sonia was tying the lace of her trainer. I put my hand on her head and said, ‘Are you listening?’

‘Yessir!’ she exclaimed, standing up. ‘I’ve got to keep my place behind you. Now come on, let’s go.’

It really is fun, running through the woods. Frankly, it’s rare that you can describe anything about running as fun, but in the woods you are more concerned about keeping upright than travelling fast. The path is narrow, snaking in and out, up and down, between the trees. Fallen branches have to be skipped over, twigs scratch your legs and brambles tug at your clothes. The sunlight slanting down through the branches flickers across your face and if there’s been rain lately, and there usually has, the air smells of leaf mould and wild garlic.

‘Log!’ I shouted over my shoulder as I adjusted my stride to step over it.

‘Got it!’ Sonia called back to me.

We burst out of the shadows of the trees onto the
rolling fairway of the golf course and she moved alongside me. The sun was low, casting long shadows, and three golfers making their way towards the next hole gave us a wave.

I tried to glance at her without moving my head, so she couldn’t see that I was watching her. Sonia’s style of running is unusual. Her head pecks back and forward with each stride, like a chicken, as if she’s urging herself on. She holds her hands in front of her rather than by her sides, and lifts her knees higher than necessary. Sonia Thornton doesn’t run puffing and blowing, head rolling, face contorted with effort. She prances, like a fancy pony in an equestrian show.

‘Are you allowed to tell me all about the suspicious death?’ she asked, as casually as if we were sitting down for our evening meal.

‘It’s…an old man,’ I replied, between breaths.

‘What happened?’

‘It looks…as if he…electrocuted…himself.’

‘Poor man. So why is it suspicious?’

‘Do you…mind if I…tell you…about it…later?’ I gasped.

We dropped off the grass onto Rhododendron Drive. This is about half a mile long, the first bit slightly downhill before it levels out and becomes a climb. We speeded up slightly on the firmer ground, my big feet going
slap-slap-slap
as they pounded the surface, her smaller ones making a soft
tch-
tch-tch
as they skimmed over it. I was feeling tired now,
the chest hurting and the legs wobbly. As the slope turned against me Sonia edged away and the gap between us widened. I thought of an elegant yacht leaving the quayside, and I was the hapless fool who had cast her loose, left behind on dry land.

I was over a hundred yards behind when she reached the car. There were about six vehicles parked near the clubhouse and another four at the other side, near the trees. Three of these belonged to dog walkers and the other was mine. I padded up to it and rested my head on my folded arms on the car roof, sucking in air like a black hole. After a few seconds her arm fell across my shoulders and I turned to her, our faces barely an inch apart. Perspiration was glistening on the side of her nose and she smelled of perfume and something else. Something that I thought I liked.

‘Are you OK, love?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I managed to mumble. ‘I’m OK. I’m very OK.’

After we’d showered and eaten I cut the orange wire into four equal lengths and bared the conductors on one of them, just like I’d seen earlier in the day. I asked Sonia to sit in an easy chair and gave her the ends of the wire.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘The cat has choked to death after eating the goldfish, the milkman has left you
semi-skimmed
instead of full cream and that new dress you’d ordered from Grattan’s catalogue for the
company Christmas party is the wrong colour, so you’ve decided to end it all. By electrocution. I want you to wrap the wires around your thumbs, nice and tight, please.’

She took hold of the cable. ‘Like this?’

‘Um, no. The copper bit. Round the thumb first, then twist it. And we’ll do it like he did, for the sake of accuracy: put the blue around your right and the brown around your left. That’s the way.’

Sonia held her hands up. ‘Are you going to turn me on?’

‘Ah! Any other time, yes, but tonight your luck has changed. Your last payment to the electricity people was lost in the post and they’ve cut off your supply. You live to fight another day. Let me just make a sketch of the way you’ve done it.’