It was snowing the day Marcus came back to the moors. He so much wanted to have returned in triumph, walking though a crowd that parted before him like the red sea. He wanted banners to be unfurled and a brass band playing “Congratulations” and “Welcome Home”. There would be photographers with film noir cameras jostling with each other to get the best picture of the returning hero. And finally he wanted to arrive at the village cross where his sweetheart would be waiting for him to sweep her up in his arms. That was the homecoming he once pinned above his bed.

Today the only greeting was a brisk snowfall and a bouncing wind that made discarded crisp packets and sandwich wrappers chase each other like fish in a tank. A couple of tourists dashed across the village car park to the warmth of the tearoom. A solitary walker could be seen passing through the churchyard. At the far end of the village the moor stretched away into snow and confusion. Constellations of grazing sheep were there as always. The whole scene would most likely appear on next year’s supply of fudge boxes.

Even covered by snow, Marcus knew which paths he had ran across as a boy. It was a time when the moor fostered his talent and made him strive to become a real champion. Cold air and fiery lungs were constant companions back then. This was his rite of passage, like a Spartan child he had conquered the wilderness to become the great hope of his people.

If he had known where his ambition would take him all those years ago, he would have burnt his shoes and sat at home playing Tomb Raider instead.

Marcus opened the door of his car and stepped out into the snow. Sweet flakes wet his lips and pinched his face. He shouldered his sports bag and then walked across the road and up to the gate in front of his parents’ house. A small trail of grit led to the front door. Marcus took a deep breath before rapping the doorknocker. The brass hoop chilled his fingers, letting wetness seep through his glove.

The door opened. His father, Gerry, was there, stooped and prudish like a Victorian curate. “At last,” he said.

“Hello Dad,” Marcus replied, “I am sorry I did not have my key.”

“Come in then, before someone sees you.” Gerry stepped back to let Marcus inside the hallway. The door was quickly closed. Inside the hallway, Marcus could see the photographs of his school day triumphs, but pictures of the family collie, Judy, had now taken up the spaces that had originally been saved to celebrate his future victories.

Marcus dropped his bag to the floor. “I am sorry dad.”

“It’s too late for that now.” Gerry did not even turn to face his son. “Much too late.” He moved into the sitting room and sat down in faded armchair. A cigarette was balanced on the edge of an ashtray that rested on one of the arms. Gerry returned the cigarette to his mouth. His attention once more captured by the antics of daytime television.

Marcus sat down on the sofa. “What else do you want me to say? I have said all I can.”

“Thought you might have been on the these programmes here,” Gerry said waving his arm at the television. On the screen a former soap actress and an ex footballer were being challenged to decorate a children’s day centre.

“I don’t get asked to do that sort of thing, I only used to get offered humiliating charity shows.”

“Humiliating!” Gerry snorted, “How humiliated do you think we felt about all of this? All those reporters camped outside, asking questions. You know we wanted to say how wrong it was for everyone to accuse you. How they got it all wrong, how you were innocent.”

“I know Dad.”

“Why couldn’t you ask for help?”

“There was nothing you could do,” Marcus snarled. “I got myself into that mess. How do you think I felt? Having my career wrecked before it began.”

“You were a bloody idiot,” Gerry stubbed out the cigarette. “You ought to have known what that fucking trainer was up to.”

Marcus leant back, his hands covering his face, “I didn’t come back home for this. Just shut up about it.”

“Why didn’t you come home straight away? We could have helped.” Gerry had lit a fresh cigarette.

Marcus had suspected his temper would get the better of him. “Oh yeah I forgot you could help, what with your have an independent drug lab in the kitchen? Or maybe inviting your best mate Dick Pound down to the Red Bull. Hello Dick fancy a pint, by the way my lad is being stitched up. He is a bit slack you know but honest as they come, schoolboy champion and all.” This was what Marcus expected. “Come of it Dad, I was guilty of taking THG. After Dwain Chambers how do you think a junior like myself would get out of it? And you know something? It was the only time I ever appeared on the sport news!”

“You should have known what he was doing.” Gerry could remember the words of Marcus’s trainer as if it was five minutes ago.

Marcus Deane is a dedicated young man, nearing his peak and he is going to be the future European and World 10,000 metre champion. In no way do we condone the use of banned substances in our sport. We back the position of the IAAF. This affair has caused great distress for Marcus and his family. We ask that you respect their privacy in this matter. Ask any of his fellow athletes and they will tell you that Marcus Deane is dedicated to training for victory not pill popping.

And then it emerged that both Marcus and his trainer had met with representatives from Balco, a company suspected of providing THG. The ‘B’ test was positive and Gerry’s heroic son became another tall poppy cut down. The support of fellow athletes evaporated and Marcus was consigned to the borderland where even achieving D list celebrity status was an accolade.

Marcus could also remember the words and how he looked at the ground while the statement had been read. “Yeah well maybe I should have known. But I still took it.”

It was the first time both men were glad of silence. Marcus looked idly at a copy of TV magazine. Gerry stared at the end of his cigarette. The television buzzed and a ticking carriage clock rose above everything.

Marcus’ eye was drawn to a small pile of videos stacked behind his father’s chair. Each video was marked with a date and a programme title attributed to Marcus. This must have been the only contact his parents had with him over the last few years. They had traced his journey through the gulag of cable chat shows and desperate reality programming. Now, even those chances had gone.

“Did you get your Christmas presents alright?” Marcus asked.

“Why bother to ask, you don’t even care how much this hurts your mum.”

“It’s not that, I just couldn’t face it.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN COULD NOT FACE IT? How do you think we feel when the last we see of you is in some Sunday newspaper being fondled by some blonde tart.”

“No you don’t understand I have to stay there.”

Gerry lurched from his chair, his hand outstretched ready to strike. Marcus was once more a child and he recoiled from the oncoming blow. But it did not. Gerry was slumped back again, not caring that cigarette ash was speckled over his trousers. “Just go son.”

“Help me dad,” Marcus knelt before Gerry. He swept away the fallen ash from his father’s knee. “It’s too much for me. I don’t think I can go on.”

Gerry looked at his son. It was a shock to see how pale his skin was, how fat his cheeks had become and how his chin was now riddled with acne. He was no longer a rival to Apollo. All sense of purpose had been driven away. Gerry saw that all their fingers had become entwined.

“I have cancer.”

Gerry thought Marcus had said this.

Marcus thought Gerry had said this.

It had been both of them.

“It was the drugs dad, by the time I sue them it will be too late.” Marcus was now stroking his father’s hands.

“I have a lump.” Gerry moved a hand so that he could stroke Marcus’ head.

The ticking of the clock resumed it’s mastery of the room.