Hurt (6 page)

But Walsh is trying to play down expectations. ‘I am really looking forward to the Games,’ he said. ‘Getting any medal is going to be tough though: the Chinese are going to be really hard to beat.’

Walsh shows absolute devotion to his sport, even training on Christmas Day! Within 24 hours of winning gold in Berlin he was back at school, studying for A-levels and training three hours, five days a week.

At competitions, Mathéo makes it all look so graceful and easy, but every time his toes leave that board he is literally taking his life in his hands. In the nanoseconds before he hits the water, at more than 34 miles an hour, there is the potential for so much to go wrong. ‘I’m always scared, but that’s part of the rush,’ says Walsh. ‘I’ve gone through stages in my training when it’s gone wrong, and it’s terrified me. It takes time to build up that courage and go again. But you can’t let it affect you.’

by Jim Rickets

Lying in bed, his arm bent beneath his head, Mathéo finishes reading the article and then flings the paper across the floor, in the vague direction of the filing cabinet that houses all the articles about him since he first started competitive diving. Switching off his bedside lamp, rolling onto his back and staring up at the darkness, he knows he will not sleep. Still riled by his father’s attitude, he is tempted to pick up the phone and call Lola. But Jerry goes to bed early, he doesn’t want to risk waking him, and anyway, he feels the need to move, to stretch his legs, to run. With one swift motion he swings his legs off the side of the bed and reaches for his clothes. He has to get out – of this room, of this house – before it stifles him. Crossing the floor, he opens the French windows and steps out onto the narrow balcony. Night has fallen; he feels the thick blue dark gently pressing its fingers into his eyes. The air is mild, the sky made of velvet, so soft and heavy it seems you could gather it up in your hands. A few streaks of colour remain tucked into the folds of the night; the lights have come on in the garden below. But the conservatory is dark, Consuela has left and his parents must have turned in.

Opening his door quietly, he strains for sounds from below and, hearing none, begins his careful descent down the three flights. Letting himself out of the conservatory, he walks quickly down to the end of the garden and exits through the door and out onto the footpath.

Streetlights smear behind him like neon streamers as he jogs the nine blocks to Lola’s house. Beneath the orange glow of a lamppost he skids to a dizzy halt, staring up at the darkened windows. The heavy silver watch on his wrist indicates that it is gone midnight. Shit. Even though he knows Jerry would be cool about it, he can’t possibly go waking him up at this time. But he aches to see Lola. She is the only one he can talk to about the stuff at home.

Pulling out his mobile phone, he runs his thumb over the screen and begins to text:

Awake?

A long wait. He leans against the trunk of a tree, suddenly spent, his eyes flicking hopefully from his phone to her bedroom window, praying for a light or a reply . . . Nothing. Her window remains dark.

Damn. He is about to return his phone to his pocket when it starts to vibrate, startling him so much he almost drops it.

No.

He smiles in relief and empties his lungs with a sigh, feeling better already.

Flashing thing in sky!

What???

UFO? Look quik!

Suddenly her curtains part and he feels his face light up as her ghostly silhouette appears behind the window. He can just about make out the contours of her face, tilted back to look up at the sky. His thumb skims the screen of his mobile again:

Beaming up from ground!

Grinning, Mathéo watches in amusement as Lola glances back at the phone in her hand and then down into the street below. He begins to quietly chuckle as she heaves open the heavy sash and leans out, blinking down at him sleepily, her long dishevelled hair catching the moonlight.

‘Oh, fuck off!’ She is laughing.

‘Shush – you’ll wake your dad!’

‘You know he sleeps like the dead.’ She brushes her hair back from her eyes and yawns. ‘Jeez, I was just dozing off, you know. You do realize you have to be up in less than six hours? Where are you going at this time, anyway?’

Her tone is jocular, but Mathéo suddenly realizes he has no idea. Has he woken his girlfriend just to have a moan about his spoiled little rich boy’s life?

His sudden silence seems to catch her attention, because all at once the tone of her voice changes. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Course.’ He peels himself off the tree trunk. ‘Just passing by. Checking to see if you still felt threatened by UFOs.’ He forces a laugh. ‘I see that alien abduction is still posing a real danger. I’ll come round tomorrow after training.’

‘Mathéo, wait.’ She isn’t buying it, he can tell. ‘I’ll be down in a sec.’

‘No, don’t, it’s late—’

But she has already slammed the window shut, retreating from view.

The sound of the key in the door makes him start, and Lola slips out, pulling it gently closed behind her. Her white cotton nightdress hangs over a pair of skinny jeans and she is wearing what appear to be hiking boots, forcing a smile to return to his face.

‘Don’t you dare laugh!’ she hisses. ‘Couldn’t find my shoes in the dark!’

‘I didn’t know we were going mountain climbing.’

‘Shuttup – you’ve just dragged me out of bed. You’re lucky I didn’t come down in my underwear.’

‘Wouldn’t have complained.’

She thumps him on the arm and he finds himself envying her lightness, her apparent lack of gravity.

He empties his lungs with an audible sigh. ‘D’you want to – I dunno – walk around for a bit?’

‘Sure . . .’ She pins him with a quizzical look, concern registering in her eyes. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Nothing different from the usual.’ He starts walking fast, too fast. Lola has to break into a clumpy trot to catch up, and grabs his arm to slow him down.

‘Hey, you said a walk, not a marathon sprint! Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

He forces himself to walk at a more reasonable pace, and for several minutes they just trail along the tree-lined terraced avenues, the silence between them broken only by the clump of Lola’s boots.

‘You sound like an elephant in those things.’ Mathéo manages a weak laugh, but the words catch in his throat.

‘Hey! You should know better than to compare your girlfriend to an elephant! Are we headed anywhere in particular?’

He rubs his forehead. ‘I dunno. I’m being stupid, I shouldn’t have woken you. I just – I just had to get out of the house . . .’

‘I know,’ Lola declares suddenly, pointing to the twenty-four-hour supermarket across the road. ‘Let’s get some booze!’

‘Here’s to a crappy life, a stupid school, brain-dead teachers, endless diving competitions and fascist, dictatorial parents!’ Mathéo shouts out across the river, and takes another heavy swig of vodka, holding the bottle aloft by its neck and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The alcohol seems to be going straight to his head, filling his body with a warm buzz, blurring his thoughts and blunting his emotions. He takes an unsteady step forward and feels Lola grab the hem of his T-shirt.

‘Sit down, will you? If you fall into the water, don’t think I’m gonna dive in and rescue you!’

Despite her jocularity, Mathéo detects a note of alarm in her voice. They are sitting on the flat stone rooftop of a boathouse overhanging the Thames – one of their regular hangouts. The two of them have been coming here ever since they started dating, seizing whatever scraps of time could be salvaged from Mathéo’s busy training schedule. To sunbathe or watch the rowers or just chat, expanses of unscheduled time receding towards the horizon. However, it’s the first time they have been here at night with the sole purpose of getting wasted.

Lola is still tugging persistently on his T-shirt, nagging at him to sit down on the roof beside her. ‘Come on, you’re making me dizzy.’ Cross-legged at his feet, she looks wild and windswept in the moonlight, her green eyes flecked with gold, the vodka making her cheeks glow, the shape of her long, slim arms visible through the sleeves of her nightie. ‘Mattie, come on, you’re too close to the edge.’

Ignoring her, he continues to hold his arms aloft, as if presenting himself on stage. Taking another deep swig, he feels the satisfying burn of vodka in his throat. He laughs down at Lola, teasing her by balancing on the edge of the roof on the balls of his feet. The river snakes away below him, reflecting the lights from a nearby bridge, the water’s surface black and wrinkled.

‘Stop it, I’m not looking.’ Lola covers her eyes with one hand and holds out the other for the bottle. ‘And it would be chivalrous to share that, you know.’

‘Whoa—’ For a split second Mathéo loses his balance as he attempts to take another swig. Lola extends her arm just in time and he grabs her hand, allowing her to drag him down beside her, suddenly shaken by his near-fall. She takes the bottle from him and thumps him hard with her fist.

‘Ow!’ Mathéo exclaims, rubbing his arm for effect and scrunching up his eyes. ‘What the hell was that for?’

‘Showing off and trying to scare me,’ she replies matter-of-factly, placing the bottle out of his reach.

Side by side, they sit quietly now, legs dangling off the edge of the roof. Mathéo stares down at the inky water scissored with flashes of neon light, transfixed by the shimmering interplay of light and dark. For a few moments it brings him peace and he feels the inside of his mind fill up with the absence of thought, until there is nothing but static inside his brain. He is overcome by a sense of being nowhere – for a few minutes at least he can forget who he is, forget the endless treadmill of his life.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ Lola leans back on her hands, staring up at the moonless sky. ‘It’s true what they say: vodka
does
warm you up, and having a boyfriend
is
overrated. Thanks for offering to lend me your jacket, by the way. Such a gentleman you’ve turned out to be. I should have let you fall in. In fact I should have pushed you in myself . . .’ But when Mathéo fails to respond to her ribbing, her voice melts away into the darkness.

He continues to stare down, transfixed by the dancing lights on the water. Moonlight trickles on the river’s surface and a small boat bobs in the distance. The weight in his chest has returned suddenly, and he feels drained and heavy and slow, unable to even keep up the banter.

He heaves a sigh.

Lola moves closer, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘What was that for?’

‘Wish I didn’t have to go away this weekend.’

‘But it’s the Nationals.’ Lola sounds surprised. ‘At least you know you’re going to come back with a medal. Everyone in the press has you tipped for gold.’ She raises her head to scrutinize his face. ‘Hey, what’s happened to all that self-belief you’ve had drummed into you over the years?’

‘I dunno. I just don’t have a good feeling about this one.’

Silence. He can tell that Lola’s searching for the right words to say.

‘It’s probably just ’cos you’re not coming,’ he says lightly with a laugh. ‘You’re my lucky mascot!’

‘You’ve no idea how much I wish I could come,’ Lola says quietly. ‘If I hadn’t agreed to be on that damn committee—’

‘I know, it’s fine,’ Mathéo says quickly. ‘It’s not that. Dinner tonight was just another embarrassing attempt at playing happy families . . .’

Lola exhales slowly. ‘So, your dad said no to Hugo’s holiday?’

‘Of course.’

She looks deeply despondent for a moment. ‘Don’t they realize you need some kind of a break?’

Mathéo snorts. ‘Clearly not. And my father rang the head and arranged for me to have private maths lessons next year with that fucker, Harrington-Stowe.’ Staring down at the inky water to avoid her gaze, he is nonetheless aware of her eyes on his face, her look of astonishment.

‘Oh, you’re kidding. I thought the whole point of deferring your university place was to train full-time for next summer’s Olympics.’

‘So did I. And speaking of training – he’s already on my case about the new schedule. Perez is still drawing it up for September, but my father thinks I should be starting it now. Oh, and he’s also suddenly decided that spending time with you is affecting my focus.’ The kaleidoscope of lights on the water’s surface is hypnotic. Suddenly he feels horribly tired.

‘Do
you
think we spend too much time together?’ Lola asks. The question is posed lightly, almost teasingly, but it pulls him sharply out of his growing stupor.

‘What?’ He meets her gaze, feeling mildly stunned, and narrows his eyes as if to read her thoughts better. ‘No . . . No way! Why – do you?’

Her face looks very white in the moonlight, contrasting sharply with her dark hair, and her eyes are bright, almost luminous. She appears ephemeral, as if she might suddenly disappear, and for a brief moment he is paralysed by a fear so strong, he can hardly breathe. He wants to reach out and touch her; feel the warmth of her skin against his, her breath against his cheek; hear the beat of her heart, the sound of the blood thrumming through her veins.

‘You brought it up,’ she counters, her tone reflective, pensive. ‘Sometimes I just wonder . . .’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ The words come out sounding angry, defensive.

‘I know how much you want to make the Olympic team, Mattie. I know how hard you’ve worked for it!’

‘I’d give up diving tomorrow if you asked me to.’

She stops and looks at him as if trying to gauge if he is serious. ‘Really?’ Her voice resonates with disbelief. ‘But it’s your passion – it’s the most important thing in your life. You’ve been competing since you were a kid. Hugo told me you would even skip school trips just so you wouldn’t miss out on training.’

Mathéo raises his eyes to meet hers, so bright and intense in the moonlight, framed by her wild, tangled hair. And is aware of a pain, somewhere deep inside him, a stab of longing, a fear that she could one day be taken away from him.

‘I do love diving,’ he tells her, quietly now, struggling to keep his voice steady. ‘More than anything. Except for – except for you.’