The Edge (2 page)

‘The rest of you, back to your rooms,’ Krantz said, shutting off his phone. ‘I know it’ll be hard to forget . . .’ His tone suddenly softened. ‘Er . . . I’ll post some details in the administration block about grief counselling. I don’t want anyone to feel they
can’t come to me with their problems. But, please, I can’t stress this enough, don’t talk to
anyone
outside the complex.’

Jake’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket. His dad’s number. He couldn’t take it now. Not when all this was happening around him. He put it away, letting the call go to answerphone.

As Jake was walking away with his roommate, Dr Chow called after him.

‘Jake, don’t forget your physical this afternoon,’ she said.

‘The show must go on,’ Jake muttered so that only Tan heard.

‘One death not enough to close the camp,’ said Tan, shaking his head.

They joined Ree and Dom and made their way out of the stadium as the ambulance drove straight across the middle of the new pitch. Outside, a tree-lined path led to the dormitory buildings and canteen. Surrounding the stadium were more sports pitches of all descriptions – tennis courts, an Olympic-size swimming pool and a lake for sailing. Beside the football practice pitch were the medical centre and physio rooms, where Jake was due to meet Dr Chow after lunch. The whole complex was surrounded by a wire fence. Apparently the Everglades to the south were infested with alligators.

‘Do you think they might send us home?’ Dom asked.

Jake shrugged.

‘I don’t understand,’ Ree said. ‘He seemed so strong. So
healthy.’

‘Maybe it was drugs,’ Dom said. ‘A boy shouldn’t be so big. Maybe steroids. Or maybe –’

‘I think we should not say these things,’ Tan interrupted. ‘It is too soon to know.’

Jake’s phone went again. His dad. He had promised to stay in a hotel in neighbouring Miami. Even a whiff of Bastin Senior at Olympic Advantage and Jake knew any chance he had of making a name for himself, based on his own skill, would be lost. Jake drifted away from the rest of the group. ‘Hey, Dad,’ he started, but his dad didn’t let him finish.

‘Thank God, Jake. Are you all right? Why didn’t you answer?’

‘I’m fine, Dad, but –’

‘I was worried sick. I heard a report that a young male athlete had been badly injured at Olympic Advantage.’

‘He’s dead, Dad,’ said Jake. ‘It was horrible.’ He told his father what had happened, but another part of his mind was wondering how his dad had found out so quickly. They couldn’t have despatched a press statement in such a short time. He doubted even Otto’s parents had received the awful news yet.

‘Are you spying on me?’ he asked.

‘What? No,’ his dad said. ‘I just keep my ear to the ground, that’s all.’

‘And does MI6 keep tabs on Olympic Advantage?’ Jake whispered into the phone.

‘They keep an eye on any international gathering of this calibre.’ His dad paused. ‘Yes, all right. I asked them to keep me informed if anything unusual happened. With everything that’s gone on in the last few months . . . I’m just worried about you.’

‘Well, you don’t have to be,’ Jake said. ‘It was an accident. And I think I’ve proved I can take care of myself.’

This was no overstatement. In the last few months, Jake had discovered his dad was a spy for MI6, he’d teamed up with him to apprehend a murdering father and son in Russia and stopped a diamond tycoon’s killing spree. Death and destruction had seemed to hunt Jake, but he’d dodged them as skilfully as he’d ridden bad challenges on his school football field.

‘OK, son,’ his dad said. ‘You be careful. And enjoy yourself. In that order. Understood?’

‘Understood.’ Jake spotted Veronika leaning against a wall off to one side of the stadium. The others didn’t seem to have noticed her. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He hung up and walked towards her. They might have got
off on the wrong foot, but she must be as traumatised as the rest of them by what had happened.

He was twenty metres away when a black Mercedes 4x4 pulled up beside her. Veronika stood straighter, but didn’t move as the doors popped open. Three white guys, all in suits, stepped out. One faced her, the other two flanking.

‘Hey, Tan,’ Jake called over without taking his eyes off Veronika. ‘Come here, would you?’

The lead man tried to take Veronika’s hand and kiss it, but she pulled it away. He spread his arms and began speaking, but Jake wasn’t close enough to hear. She shook her head, and the man said something to his friend. All three started laughing, and he reached again, this time grabbing the top of her arm and pulling her towards the car. Veronika jerked free.

Tan arrived at Jake’s side.

‘Veronika’s got trouble,’ Jake said.

As they watched, Veronika unleashed a vicious slap across the man’s face. All three stopped laughing. Jake expected them to retaliate, but nothing happened. The man smiled and spoke again. He pulled open his jacket, which Jake thought was an odd gesture until he caught a glimmer of gun-metal inside.

A
s quickly as he’d flashed the weapon, he covered it again. How had they got past security? Olympic Advantage had armed guards at the gates.

Veronika didn’t seem impressed, and cocked her chin.

Jake strode over with Tan in tow. ‘Follow my lead,’ Jake muttered, then called out: ‘Hi, Veronika, you coming to get that pizza?’

Veronika’s face creased in confusion. The three men stared at Jake with a complete lack of interest.

‘What pizza?’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed
pizza.’

Jake paused. Is she naturally difficult, or just dumb?

‘Y’know,’ said Jake. ‘That high-protein, slow-burn carb one the nutritionist was going on about.’ He tapped his watch. ‘It’s ready, like,
now.’

‘Too good to miss!’ Tan added, playing his part to perfection.

Veronika’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. ‘Oh,
yes! Right.’ She brushed past the man at her side, and he said something in a language Jake didn’t recognise.

‘Don’t count on it,’ Veronika replied.

The guys climbed back into the 4x4 and drove away at a crawl.

‘Who was that?’ Jake asked.

‘Mind your own business,’ Veronika said, stalking off.

‘Hey!’ Jake called. ‘How about a thanks for the save?’

She spun round, walking backwards and flashing a smile. ‘I don’t need saving.’

A few hours later, Jake stood in a tiny bathroom cubicle, wondering if humiliation was part of the Olympic Advantage experience. A guy was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Trouble was, knowing this made it even harder to go.

‘You all right in there?’ said the guy, his accent American. ‘There’s a line, y’know.’

‘All right, all right,’ Jake said. ‘Just give me a minute . . .’

He heard the next in line tapping his foot, and closed his eyes.
Think of water. Gushing rivers. Waves. Floods.

At last, Jake managed to go, half-filling the plastic cup. Then he flushed and turned to the basin where he washed his hands.

Outside the toilet, he passed another athlete – a long-distance runner called Matt – who was waiting with a cup in his hand.

Dr Chow was sitting at the desk in her office, scribbling something in a file.

‘Erm . . . where do you want this?’ Jake asked, feeling a bit weird presenting another person with a pot of his urine.

Dr Chow looked up for the briefest of moments and pointed to a tray on one of the counters. ‘Over there with the others,’ she said. ‘Then hop up on the examination table.’

Jake did as she said. ‘Is this really necessary? I mean, every day?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the doctor, still scribbling. ‘If we’re to establish the progress levels, then we need to know exactly what you guys are putting into your bodies. No unapproved beverages, no supplements, no drugs. Not even paracetamol, got it?’

Jake nodded, even though the doctor wasn’t looking at him. ‘I read the brochure.’

‘Make a fist,’ she said, brandishing a syringe. He did as she asked, and she slid the needle into the bulging vein in the crook of his arm. It didn’t hurt a bit. He smiled to himself when he thought of how afraid his dad was of
needles. He used to hate away matches in exotic locations.

‘Something funny?’ the doctor asked, as she drew blood into the syringe.

‘Just thinking about my dad,’ he said.

Dr Chow gave him a cotton ball to stem the blood, and dropped the syringe into a transparent bag. ‘Your father was a famous soccer player, wasn’t he?’ she asked.

‘He was,’ Jake said. ‘But he was a defender.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I’m a striker,’ Jake said. ‘Completely different.’

Dr Chow nodded, but didn’t look interested any more. ‘Can you take your top off, please?’

Jake pulled his T-shirt over his head, feeling the cool air on his skin.

‘Hmm,’ the doctor said, placing a stethoscope to his chest. ‘Very good. Your resting heartbeat’s about sixty a minute.’

A mobile phone rang across the room, and Dr Chow walked over to pick it up.

Jake had been at the medical centre for nearly an hour now, answering questions and having tests run. Fat ratios, grip tests, lung capacity, flexibility, vision. It all seemed a bit over the top, but Dr Chow had assured him it was all necessary. Jake just wanted to get out and kick a football around in the Florida sun.

Over in the corner of the room, a fridge hummed. Through the glass panel, he saw it was filled with bottles of Olympic Edge. In Bruce Krantz’s introductory speech, he’d been clear that part of the testing was to ascertain if the drink had any physiological benefits. That was the price of sponsorship, Jake supposed.

Dr Chow giggled, and Jake tried not to listen to her conversation ‘. . . I can’t . . . Not now, sweetie . . .’ She smiled as her eyes caught Jake’s. ‘. . . I can’t
wait
. . .’

The doctor blew a kiss down the phone and hung up. Jake tried not to show his irritation at being held in this clinic while she acted like a sappy schoolgirl.

‘Sorry about the interruption,’ she said, suddenly businesslike again. She scribbled a few notes on a pad, and told Jake he could put his top back on. ‘You’re in exceptional shape.’

Jake thought straight away of Otto Kahn. He’d seemed fine – until he’d dropped dead.

‘Dr Chow,’ he said, hopping off the bed, ‘what do you think happened to Otto?’

Dr Chow looked up from her pad with an expression of concern. ‘It could be any number of things,’ she said. ‘Maybe the climate . . . Maybe he had a hidden heart difficulty. It sometimes happens in those who show unusual growth. But it might just have been an accident. The autopsy should tell us more.’

She opened the fridge, and offered Jake a bottle of Olympic Edge. It was the green version – ‘Evolution’. He shook his head. ‘I don’t like the taste.’

‘Take it anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s much better than water for hydration.’

Jake took it, but dropped it in the first bin he passed as he exited the medical centre.
I’ll stick with water
, he thought.

Jake was heading to the dormitories when he heard a noise he’d recognise anywhere. Leather on leather.
Football.

He followed the sounds and came out at the artificial hockey pitch. A dozen or so guys were knocking a ball among themselves on the AstroTurf. One guy stood in the hockey goal, playing keeper.

There were several footballers at the camp, but Jake hadn’t had time to meet any yet. It would be good to check out the competition. He pushed open the gate and jogged towards the group.

One of the highlights of the camp was a game at the end of the fortnight. The footballers would play a full ninety-minute friendly against the US soccer team. There were twenty potentials at the camp – a good size for a squad but, of course, there were just eleven starting places. Competition would be fierce – especially since the audience would be
filled with scouts from some of the world’s biggest clubs.

‘Over here!’ he called, holding up his arm. The guy with the ball looked up, and directed a pass along the ground to Jake.

Another player intercepted the ball with his foot when it was halfway. He flicked it into his arms. Jake recognised him from the Australian under-19 squad who’d got to the semis in the World Cup the year before: Oz Ellman.

‘Sorry, but we were just leaving,’ Oz said. ‘Weren’t we, fellas?’

The others grunted in the affirmative. Jake shrugged. ‘No worries. But give me a call next time. I’m dying for a game. I’m in room fifteen B.’

As he turned to go, he heard Oz say: ‘I’m sure Baby Bastin is used to getting his own way.’

Jake stopped – his temper flared. He turned to face them. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.’

Oz’s face set into a sneer. ‘Listen, pom, don’t start throwing your weight around, expecting a free ride. We all got here on
merit.
Not because our daddies pulled strings.’

‘My dad had nothing to do with it,’ Jake said.

This brought a round of guffaws from a couple of the other players. Most were silent, though, all eyes on Jake.

‘Yeah,’ Oz said. ‘You getting picked for the commercial was just a coincidence, I guess?’

Jake didn’t have an answer for that. Maybe his name did
have something to do with it. He hadn’t even wanted to be in the commercial, but there was no point saying that now.

‘I could name about fifty guys who should be here instead of you,’ Oz added, throwing the ball hard at Jake’s chest.

Jake caught the ball. It stung his chest, but he didn’t flinch. Part of him wanted to rush at Oz, fists flying, but he’d seen enough pointless fighting.

‘Leave it, Oz,’ said someone from the back, his voice French maybe.

Jake felt a tingle of relief – not everyone here was a git.

But Oz wasn’t leaving it. He was eyeballing Jake, looking for any kind of rise. Jake wasn’t going to give it to him. Instead, he dropped the football and kicked it back, over the Australian’s head and into the hockey goal. As he walked away, Jake grinned to himself. He’d show Oz Ellman that he was more than just a name.

A
fter a high-carb dinner in the canteen, Jake and Tan took advantage of the recreation time to get out of the complex. The whole atmosphere was tainted by Otto’s death. The afternoon’s festivities had been cancelled and everyone seemed to be at a loose end. Krantz reminded them of the strict curfew – if they weren’t back by ten, there’d be serious trouble. They signed out at the front gates and took the exit road out into town on foot. Tan was sipping a bottle of purple Olympic Edge called ‘Cloudburst’ as they hit the main street of Redford.