The roar of the crowd was deafening. He stood, fists clenched, arms stretched wide, reaching up to the clear blue sky. He grinned maniacally, waving triumphantly at the thousands of happy, cheering people in the stands that rose tier upon tier from track level, up to the sky. His hands blurred as he waved faster and faster. The crowd cheered louder. Union jacks formed waves, giant swells undulating through the seething, multi-coloured sea. He felt the warmth of heart-felt congratulations washing over him.

He bent down so that the official could place the ribbon over his head, hang the solid gold medal from his neck. The scene slowed, blurred, the colours running together, a psychedelic soup

There was nobody there.

The podium rocked, he stumbled, falling forward. The hard, dusty, dry soil and parched grass dug into the skin stretched smooth over his knees. No improvement? That just couldn’t be right. He went back over the last three minutes forty-three seconds of his life trying to work out where he had gone wrong.
“Are you sure Charlie?”
“Sure Jimmy? Look,” said Charlie bending down, showing Jimmy the time on the digital stopwatch. “About as accurate as we can be unless we go to the track.”
“Bollocks.”
“It’s not as bad as it could be.”
“It’s worse. Six months, no improvement. I’m still six seconds off the ‘B’ group qualifying time of Three, thirty nine. Bloody Athens is miles away.” Jimmy shook his head. Sweat flew in all directions.
“How’s your concentration?”
“Not good. I’m seeing the podium again.”
“First curve, back straight, last curve, home straight, finish line. The medal ceremony’ll take care of itself.”
“I know Charlie, I know.”
“Concentrate then. One step at a time Jimmy, one step at a time.”
Jimmy shrugged, mopped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm and stood up slowly. “Again?” he said, knowing what the answer would be.
“Not today.”
“I can do it Charlie.”
“We both know you can do it, Jimmy,” said Charlie, turning away. “Put your track-suit on, collect the markers. I’ll beat you to the other side.”

Jimmy watched Charlie start off down the home straight, Charlie’s attempt at running accentuating his limp. At the first marker Charlie bent over, the arthritis in his back restricting his movements. The grey icing on his thick, curly black hair reflected the late afternoon sun. It was hard to believe that Charlie had been in the top ten, 1500m runners in the world at one time. Jimmy’s dad had been in the top five in the UK.

As the marker came out of the ground, Charlie’s head came up and he saw Jimmy was watching him.
“You got a problem?”
“Giving you a head start.”
“You’ll need one,” said Charlie. He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling, the skin of his face deeply creased like an old leather handbag, no, a black Mick Jagger; Jimmy hadn’t acknowledged the similarity before.

Jimmy laughed, turning away, jogging round the track they had laid out that morning, lifting the home made markers out of the ground. His long legs effortlessly covered the distance between markers, his body moving fluidly, with a dancer’s grace. He was tall, five ten, lithe, powerfully built. His long brown hair held back in a short ponytail, his skin tanned, courtesy of his Spanish mother. His brown eyes were bright and set wide apart beneath thick black eyebrows. His large nose dominated his thin angular features, honed by years of training.

One of the markers on the back straight didn’t want to come out of the ground. Jimmy looked nervously over at Charlie, recalling how the tortoise had beaten the hare. He heaved on the flat white board, nailed to a short stake, one of many that they hammered into the ground each day to form the inner line of a 400m track.

The race to collect the markers had ceased to have any real significance ten years ago, when Jimmy had turned fourteen years old, they still raced though, no quarter given, nor expected. Jimmy knew that Charlie would have it no other way. Charlie’s desire to win had never dimmed. His mind had yet to acknowledge what his body had been telling him for some time.

Distracted by watching Charlie, Jimmy failed to see a group of young men walk out of the trees towards him. They were led by a tall, thick set, black youth an insolent smile on his face. Baggy red T-shirts, baggy jeans, trainers, beanies covering their hair, no matter what temperature the English weather threw at them. They all wore the uniform.
“Hey Lynford, you left your lunch box out in the cold? Don’t look as big as it does on TV,” said a tall guy to the left of the leader. Jimmy recognised him, Col Vincent, his next-door neighbour and supposed best friend.
“That ain’t Lynford, Lynford a black man, that a white man, he just think he Lynford cause he wish he had a dick like a black man,” said the leader. The others laughed.
“Piss off Harding,” said Jimmy.
“Him a hard white man, from a black family, so he ain’t that white are you Jimmy?”
“Are you trying to incite me?”
Harding laughed.
“Is this where I call you a black bastard, you call me a white honky?”
“I don’t see colour, man, I see dedication. Admirable, man, admirable,” said Harding, sounding genuine. The young men watched, straight faced and waited for the punch line. He didn’t let them down. “Your girlfriend’s an athlete too isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy warily.
“Very attractive. I could dislike you for that, not your colour.”
“You lot got nothing better to do than take the piss? Go sell some junk to the kiddies.”
“You want some junk Jimmy, make you go faster, faster than the wind, make you fly boy, that gold medal be yours, Brixton be on the map.”
“It’s already on the map. Drugs hypermarket, courtesy of you Harding.”
“Well thank you Jimmy my man, good you appreciate the finer points of business.”
“See you Harding.”
“See you Jimmy. Anytime you want to fly, you come and see me, those specialist drugs you need to win, I can get them, anytime yo hear?”

Jimmy waved two fingers at Harding. Harding laughed and led his posse away. Col looked a little ashamed. Jimmy wondered how long Col had been part of Harding’s world. Training full time, Jimmy realised that he had begun to take Col’s friendship for granted. Col only lived next door. A bit of effort to stay in touch was all it needed. Jimmy made a mental note to call round later and talk to Col, find out what it was all about.

The marker Jimmy had been fighting with finally popped out of the ground. He continued down the back straight meeting up with Charlie in the curve.
“I win again,” said Jimmy.
“Those assholes giving you trouble?”
“Harding? No, he’s all right, so long as you’re not doing business with him.”
“And Col?” said Charlie. Could have been a good miler, he thought. Still, no use dragging that up again.
“Don’t know, never seen him with Harding before.”
“Just watch your step Jimmy.”
“Come on Charlie, does Harding have anything I want? I don’t think so.”
Charlie shook his head. “I wish we could use a track all the time. That little shit selling crap on The Common, it’s distracting.”
“Turn your head Charlie, concentrate, first curve…”

Charlie chuckled. Then they both started laughing, sharing the standing joke that outsiders would never understand.

They walked back to the start line where their bags were piled together. Jimmy took a towel out of his backpack and mopped at the sweat that covered his face. The late afternoon heat generated more sweat. He mopped some more then gave up.
“It’s taking a long time Charlie.”
“Sometimes it does. You can’t force it. Train hard, you’ve got the dream, application in the moment with intention and desire then let go of the outcome. It’ll come Jimmy, believe me it’ll come. You’ve done the hard work getting this far. County trials in three weeks, you stay focused, you’ll cruise those, there’s nobody in the same time zone. Then the AAA’s after that.”
”There’s not enough time. I’m getting too old to break-in Charlie. Maybe it’s not supposed to happen.”
“It’s not time. It’s attitude. You want to make the jump? It’s up to you. There’s a block in there somewhere. We’ve got to break through it and get you out the other side.”
“It’s like my dad.”
“It maybe is your dad.”
“How can it be him?”
“You walk like him, talk like him, run like him. He hit a plateau. Perhaps you’re frightened to beat him,” said Charlie feeling like he’d lit the blue touch paper and he was standing back waiting for the fireworks to explode and fly. He’d been wanting to say that for months, now was as good a time as any.
“That’s a bit deep for me Charlie.”
“Nothing deep about it. You’re running at his shoulder, have been for months. It’s time to kick, use your talent Jimmy; accelerate. He’s watching you, he’d want you to pass him by, he’d wave as you went by, then he’d ‘ve chased you, made sure you kept that speed up.” Charlie tapped his head. “It’s up here, Jimmy, the next step? It’s up here.”

Jimmy looked at the ground, studying the dry, yellowing grass. How come Charlie knew? Did you become a mind reader when you became a coach? Did watching people train, studying the movements of their bodies, give an insight into how they approached life? How they felt? How they ticked? At times Charlie appeared to be like some kind of ancient sage.

Jimmy shivered. The warm breeze felt cold on his sweat soaked body. It was eerie. Perhaps it was because Charlie had known his dad, raced him, beaten him. There had to be a simple physical explanation to his insights otherwise Charlie would have to be bestowed with magical powers. Jimmy couldn’t believe that explanation, he had witnessed Charlie demolishing a multi-topped pizza; gods didn’t eat like that.
“We’ve been together a long time Charlie.”
“I’ve watched you grow Jimmy,” said Charlie. He thought he might stop there. What the hell, open the floodgates; get it all out there. “Perhaps it’s time for a change?”
“We only just agreed the training pattern I don’t see we need to change. Perhaps after the Counties.”
Charlie re-set the digital watch. “I mean perhaps you need a change. A new challenge.”
“Not run?”
“Are you trying to be obtuse?”
“If I understood the word, I might be,” said Jimmy, winking at Charlie. “Come on Charlie, we’ve come this far together, we might as well go the whole way, however far that is.”
“I’m being serious Jimmy. Sometimes a coach can only get so much out of an athlete.”
“Do you think you’ve got the most out of me? All you can? If it’s a barrier we’ve got to find a way through it. Positive thinking Charlie, I’ve learned all that from you, no problems, only solutions in disguise. Over, under, through.”
“We’ve been here a while.”
“So we need something more powerful than desire.”
“There’s not a lot more powerful than that,” said Charlie. “I’ll think of something.”
“That’s my boy, Charlie. We give up on each other, dad would be even less pleased than if I don’t go past him.”
“He’d have wanted what was best for you Jim, nothing more.”
“I’ll agree to go back to visualisation. I’ll explain to mum about the foods. I’ll focus Charlie, give it everything for six months, if there’s no improvement, we’ll talk about it again.”
“If you weren’t so loyal they’d take you on to one of the Elite training programmes. They can see your potential, they’re not stupid, just bloody minded,” said Charlie.
“We’ve been through that,” said Jimmy, untying the laces on his spikes.
“It makes a difference. The top runners build teams. Surround themselves with experts.”
“We’ll work harder. I’ll work harder. I’ll listen.”
“You need a team Jim.”
“My decision Charlie. I’m twenty-four. At the end of the day it’s down to me.”
“If you really want to get there you’ll listen to me,” said Charlie.
Charlie’s insistence began to get to Jimmy. It was as though what Charlie meant was not what was coming out of his mouth. “I’ve listened. We’ll get there Charlie. We’ll do it. Fuck UK Athletics, fuck the whole shitty, close-minded lot of them. Dad was happy, so am I.”

Charlie shook his head, exasperated. None as blind as those who don’t want to see and probably none as deaf as those who don’t want to listen, and what was the other monkey? Charlie could see Jimmy had them all lined up on his side and they were the coaches he was listening to today.
“I’ll get my bike,” said Charlie.

They both looked over to where Charlie had parked his battered, rusted, mountain bike, resting against a mature London Plane tree. The tree’s bark seemed to be melting in the oppressive heat of the drought. Charlie often hoped someone would steal the bike, give him an excuse to buy another one. He couldn’t justify the expense all the while the squeaky, green, exhausted machine got him around.
“Who’s that standing by the bike? I’ve seen him before somewhere,” said Jimmy.
Charlie didn’t answer at first. “Could be anyone.”
“He looks relaxed, as though he’s waiting for us.”
“You get off home Jimmy. Don’t jog too fast.”
“Do you know him?”
Charlie thought about lying. “He’s been here before. Standing in under the trees over there,” said Charlie pointing to a clump of trees and bushes that surrounded a green painted, wooden drinks kiosk.
“Has he spoken to you?”
“No, just watched the training session then moved away.” As Charlie was speaking the man turned and walked away through the trees.
“Weird,” said Jimmy. “Perhaps he gets his kicks from watching young men in shorts sweating their balls off.”
Charlie grunted, unconvinced. “Same time tomorrow,” he said. He hung his dirty old nylon holdall with its Olympic rings, faded to sepia grey, over the handlebars. “And tonight, practice. Before you go to sleep, run those fifteen hundred metres, imagining every step of the way, like we talked about. Every night Jimmy. Every night you run, and you win, in the time you want to achieve.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, see you at eight Charlie,” said Jimmy, his mind already on the evening ahead.

*

Charlie made sure that Jimmy had jogged off the Common, down Bangor Road before grabbing his bike and following the man into the trees.

Charlie pushed the bike through the narrow gap in the tall bushes that grew between the mature trunks of a tall circle of London Plane and Beech trees. The trees had been planted in a time when boredom did not lead to the game of tearing the immature trees from the ground or bending them in half to see how flexible they were. The surprise was that they could take severe punishment before snapping. Used as a whippy sword, then discarded to dry out, die, adding to the suburban trash.

Sunlight dappled the shaded clearing within the trees, ice cream wrappers, soft drink cans and used condoms littered the flattened mud floor, a signature of the day and night time activities carried on, with equal enthusiasm, out of sight of the people who used The Common. It was cooler here. The ground still smelt dry and dusty.

The man who had watched the training session sat on a fallen, rotting tree trunk in the middle of the clearing, his large, crew cut head bowed. He stared at his highly polished black deck shoes. He lifted his head as Charlie’s bike squeaked to a halt, the front wheel almost touching his feet.
“Hello Charlie.”
“Zed.”
“Good session?”
“Could have gone better.”
“Has he got what it takes?”
“He’s a better runner than his father was.”
“Lenny…could have been a contender.”
Charlie chuckled at the American movie speak. “Have you thought about it?”

Zed eased himself off the log and stood up. His six foot two inch frame unravelled and he towered over Charlie. Dressed in tight black jeans and black T-shirt he exuded a menace that Charlie had never become comfortable with. Zed’s clothing accentuated his muscular physique. His movements flowed as though he was permanently practicing Tai Chi. He spoke softly.
“I’ve thought about it and I’ve referred the idea to the Board. They’re more inclined to control Jimmy’s development themselves…”
“We didn’t discuss that.”
“We didn’t, but it has to be a consideration.”
“He needs a team.”
“We can provide that.”
“But not for The Circuit. He wouldn’t want that. Initially its only sponsorship that he needs and some money so that he can help out his adoptive parents,” said Charlie.
“We can’t wait indefinitely. You know the younger they are the more use they are to teams on The Circuit.”
“He’s not ready to make that jump yet, if he ever will be. His mind’s still set on the gold medal.”
“He’s not ready or you’re unwilling? You’ve got baggage Charlie.”
“Both,” said Charlie licking his lips nervously. It was a fine line and he didn’t want to upset Zed or the company he represented, they were the only party willing to consider sponsorship and Jimmy needed that if he was going to achieve his dream.
“So, we set up a sponsorship package and then we agree a time period. If he improves we go with the full back up and provide the platform for his Olympic bid. If he doesn’t then we would expect you to convince him that his future and that of his family would be better served if he dedicated himself to The Circuit. It would guarantee the sponsorship that you already receive.”
“That’s non-negotiable.”
“Everything’s negotiable Charlie, I think someone wrote a book with that title, I should get a copy if I were you, it might improve your technique.”
“If that money dries up I could make it difficult.”
“Not anymore Charlie. It’s a moral debt that’s owed now, not one to bother Mr Benton. You try and take him down, you go down even further, it’s all bullshit, we’ve been here so many times before Charlie.”
“You’d better tell him not to test that theory.”
Zed laughed. “I’m sure Mr Benton’ll lie awake at night and worry Charlie. Just remember, you need him more than he needs Jimmy.”
“We’ll see,” said Charlie with as much confidence as he could manage. Zed’s threat unnerved him. He realised, too late, that he should have listened to his intuition. It had warned him not to approach Zed or his employers and he wouldn’t have had to if Jimmy had been sensible and walked away and gone with the top flight coaches who had sniffed around them at meetings over the last year. It warmed him to think Jimmy had that much confidence in him and it saddened him to know that Jimmy’s confidence was totally misplaced.
“Enjoy the cricket.”
“I will,” said Charlie taking the thin brown envelope from Zed’s outstretched right hand that contained a complimentary ticket to this evening’s England v West Indies limited over night match at Lords cricket ground.

As Zed walked away the bushes came alive with a group of young men walking through them rather than following the path.
“You two faggots finished your love play yet, I’ve got serious business to attend to.”

Charlie kept his head down and aimed his bike for the pathway. Zed stopped, turned round slowly and walked back to the centre of the clearing where Harding stood surrounded by seven of his posse. They sniggered and waited for the signal from Harding.
“You’re Oliver Harding’s boy aren’t you?” Zed drawled in a lazy, laid back manner that had a dark edge. The sniggers fell silent, replaced by a tense watchfulness. This was something new. Their attention reverted to Harding who looked embarrassed.
“What the fuck’s it to you?” said Harding to general murmurs of approval.
Zed smiled. “Nothing to me. A lot to your old man if he gets to hear about you slumming it with this trash.”

There was a buzz of conversation like a saw had snagged on a nail deep inside a piece of wood. Zed placed his clenched fists casually at the level of the pockets on his black chinos. Harding noted the action and saw that Zed’s eyes held no fear. Harding was confused.
“What do you say if I walk away and don’t say anything to him when I meet him and Mr Benton in half an hour?”
“You that scared?” said Harding, still trying to bluff his way out of the situation.
“You’ve got good odds, me and…” Zed looked around for Charlie and saw that he had crept away. “One of me, eight of you…”
“Could be fucked,” said Col, his voice constricted, unable to control his fear at possibly becoming involved in a real fight, even one as one sided as this, especially as one as one sided as this. He had read enough books and magazines to know that these unbalanced odds led to murder.
“Shut it Col,” said Harding into a sea of laughter.
“You’ve got a good man there.” Zed pointed at Col, laughing along with the rest of them. The gangly young man stood at the edge of the group, undecided, nervous, outside his natural habitat, ready to run while the others were ready to back Harding up.

Zed could turn away now, walk out of the clearing, the mood was right. He stood his ground, waiting for Harding to make his decision.
“We don’t like bum bandits but we don’t have the time to waste on them,” said Harding, holding Zed’s steady gaze.
Zed nodded approvingly. “Your father’s son,” he said and this time turned his back and walked away.
“Wanker,” said Harding to his retreating back. Zed let it go. He had more important things to worry about. As he walked out of the bushes he saw Charlie in the distance, by the road, presumably waiting to see if he had made it out alive. Zed waved at Charlie and walked in the opposite direction.

Charlie watched him go, climbed on his bike and cycled slowly away, trying to decide whether he should talk with Jimmy this evening. That could be a bad idea but it really needed somebody who wasn’t so involved as he was with the training. Someone close though. As he walked along he searched for the right person. Making up his mind he kept his eye out for a telephone box that hadn’t been vandalised and worried how much of the night match against the West Indies he would miss. He really needed to get himself a mobile phone.

The phone box was barely vandalised. Graffiti covered the inside and outside, that was expected. The phone equipment looked as though it was all still attached to the right bits. Charlie didn’t bargain with having to straddle a pile of light brown shit that filled the box with its nauseous stink. He ignored the smell as best he could, held the door open with one hand, kept a wary eye on his decrepit bike and hoped Dylan would answer the phone as quickly as possible. He was unlucky, the phone rang on and on and when it was answered it was by Louisa, Jimmy’s adoptive mother.
“Louisa. Hi.”
“Charlie, great to hear you,” she said then rushed on. “Nothings happened to Jimmy?”
“No, no. He’s fine. I just need a word with Dylan.”
“I’ll get him for you. Pop round soon, for dinner or something.”
“I will,” said Charlie checking his watch. He hated missing the first part of any match.
“Charlie, it is I, Dylan. What you want boy?”
“Cut the patois Dylan, it doesn’t suit you.”
“What’s up,” said Dylan, laughing.
“It’s Jimmy…”
“I thought you told…”
“Nothings happened Dylan. I need a favour. We discussed Jimmy reaching the plateau?”
“Yes,” said Dylan, sounding cautious.
“We need to move him on. You know he’s somehow frightened of success. It’s taken me too long but I think I’ve sussed it now. It’s his dad. I’m convinced. Lenny’s standing in Jimmy’s way.”
“Are you sure of that? It’s not just inside him, this fear?”
“It might be but he needs a jolt. He needs to understand he can go faster than Lenny. I’ve discussed failure with him, success.”
“Failure’s easier,” said Dylan.
“Not succeeding’s harder. He’s got the ability, he just needs to believe in himself and not be frightened of Lenny’s shadow. He needs to know everything. He needs to make a decision.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I’m too close to the problem, you know that.”
“I wasn’t so far away.”
“You were out of it before the end.”
There was a pause while Dylan thought about that statement. Charlie was probably right he had coached Lenny, Jimmy’s birth father, right up until Lenny’s death. “Jimmy gave up his childhood chasing that dream of his. Running all the time, like he was trying to catch up with something or somebody. He thought he was training seven days a week until you got hold of him Charlie.”
“His intensity frightened me,” said Charlie, aware that the muscles in his legs were getting sore where he was straddling the pile of crap.
“He worshipped his dad’s memory. Knowing the truth could destroy him,” said Dylan.
“He has to know that truth. He has a right.”
Dylan thought about that comment for a long time. “All right. I hear what you say. I’ll do it. I’m not convinced it’s the right thing to do though.”
“We’ll see,” said Charlie.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“It’ll be difficult for him to understand why we haven’t told him before.”
“He’ll cope Dylan. He’s got to. If he wants to win he’s got to go through the barrier. I think Lenny’s the barrier. Jimmy’s old enough to be told. It can’t do him any harm.”
“I hope not,” said Dylan.