Every step you take, p.16
Every Step You Take, page 16
Molly eases past him and points roughly at the door frame. He raises his glasses to see where she is pointing, stooping to examine the wall opposite.
‘If we put it on this side instead, you’ll have a better view of the whole corridor,’ he says, pointing at the opposite side of the frame. ‘Is that okay? Thea said you’re worried about men coming and going.’
Molly frowns at the suggestion. ‘Well, yeah, sort of.’
He nods without making eye contact.
‘There are some real monsters out there. Did you know the overall crime rate in City of London last year was 819 crimes per 1,000 people? The most common crime is theft, with 1,963 offences during the year, but that doesn’t include those offences not reported to the police. I’m always warning Thea that she needs to be more careful when she’s—’
‘Sorry, he’s really into statistics,’ Thea says, rushing over and pulling Molly away. ‘But he’s a real sweetheart, and would do anything for me.’
‘I need your phone,’ he says, following them and holding out his hand.
‘What did we say about saying please and thank you, Seb?’
‘I need your phone, please,’ he says, avoiding eye contact. ‘There’s an app I need to install so you’ll be able to see who comes and goes.’
Molly unlocks the device and hands it to him, relieved to have an expert on her side.
Molly is late getting to the track, because Seb insisted on showing her a number of safety apps that would help her should she be out alone and come face to face with an attacker. Despite Thea trying to cajole him out with eye rolls, he insisted that should she have any problems, he would be happy to return and adjust the settings. He’d warned her that the app would buzz every time someone came near the door, but she hadn’t realised just how often that would be. In the thirty minutes since she started her warm-up, her phone must have vibrated a dozen times, all of which were her neighbours coming and going along the corridor.
With just over eight weeks until the marathon, Molly is now regularly completing twenty-mile stints every two days, with plenty of rest and recuperation in between. Her coach has her using the swimming pool to work on breathing exercises and muscle stretches, but she’s always happiest when she’s back on the track, monitoring her times.
Thankfully, there’s been no sign of the cold snap meteorologists have been predicting for the last couple of weeks. The last thing Molly’s training routine needs is the disruption of ice and snow. She’s wearing thermals under her tracksuit today, the beanie hat providing additional protection to her head and ears as her Spotify playlist pumps through her earbuds.
Jamie continues to post on her behalf, and has spoken of a potentially huge opportunity with a leading shampoo brand, but she’s not so keen to pose for a video in the shower. Jamie promises it will all be tastefully shot, but it feels like waving a red rag at a charging bull. She only has to get through the next fifty-nine days, and achieve a qualifying time, and her reliance on endorsements will diminish.
At least that’s the plan. Of course, she’s nowhere near the standard to qualify in two hours twenty-eight yet, but she is focusing on running miles in under six minutes. To qualify she needs to maintain an average of five and a half minutes per mile, which is easy enough at the start, but much more of a challenge when you’ve been running for twenty miles.
‘Right, it’s time to up the pace now, Molly,’ Finn calls from the centre of the track, his stopwatch aloft. ‘I want the next mile as close to five minutes as you can manage. Let’s see what you’re capable of.’
She glances over her shoulder to acknowledge his words, but almost loses her footing when she sees he is not alone. She recognises the woman as Thea’s coach, but it’s her flirtatious body language that puts Molly off her stride. Turning back to face the track, she puts her head down, and pumps her legs faster, trying not to think about them. It shouldn’t bother her. Finn is free to flirt or date whoever he wants. And yet she can feel her muscles tightening as she grinds her teeth.
She glances back at them again as she takes the next bend. What is that woman’s problem? Thea said staff and athletes aren’t allowed to pursue relationships, so surely the same rule should apply to coaching staff too?
Molly tries to push the thoughts from her mind, but the more she tries to ignore them, the greater the struggle.
‘That’s great, Molly,’ Finn shouts out as she passes. ‘See if you can maintain that pace for the next mile.’
Molly doesn’t want to look at them, but dares to take another glance, wanting to confirm that her imagination is blowing the scene out of all proportion, but now the woman is rubbing his upper arm. Why is she doing that? Has he received bad news, and she’s comforting him? He didn’t mention any sour feelings when he spoke to Molly, so what does this woman know that she doesn’t?
Molly yelps as her foot lands, and she instantly pulls up. It’s like a knife has been slashed across the back of her left calf, and she sinks to the damp track, raising an arm in the hope of getting Finn’s attention. The pain in her leg is excruciating, and she knows instantly she’s pulled the muscle. Lying on her back, she tries to compose her rapid breathing, and tries desperately not to catastrophise just how serious this injury could be.
Finn slides over a moment later, asking what’s wrong.
‘M-my calf,’ she manages to stammer between breaths.
‘Can you stand? Let’s get you off the track so I can assess it properly.’
She allows him to put his arm around her shoulders, and leans in to him as he raises her into a sitting position. He’s so strong, and she picks up a waft of his cologne.
Stop it, she warns herself internally.
‘On three,’ he says, counting, before hoisting her up to her feet.
She winces, as she gently places her foot on the ground, and continues to lean in to him as he supports her weight and leads her to a bench at the edge of the track.
‘Was it instant pain, or gradual?’ Finn asks, gently running his hands along the injured leg.
‘Instant,’ she gasps, her breathing still haggard.
There’s no sign of Thea’s coach any more, though Molly can’t be certain where she’s disappeared to.
‘Can you roll up your trouser leg so I can take a wee look at it?’
Molly obliges, unzipping the cuff, and sliding the material up her leg.
‘Do you mind?’ Finn asks, as he presses his warm palms against her calf to examine the leg.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, straining a smile.
She closes her eyes and grits her teeth, as his hands work the muscle, the massage sore but not painful.
‘And you didn’t hear any kind of pop or snap?’
She shakes her head.
‘Good, well, I don’t think you’ve torn your Achilles tendon, so that’s good news. It’s probably just a strain of the gastrocnemius muscle. If it’s only a mild strain, it should be healed up in a couple of weeks, though you’ll have to properly rest and ice it. I can ask your physio to give you a regime of exercises to aid recovery. How is it feeling now?’
His hands are warm on her leg, but his touch is gentle. She snaps her eyes open, suddenly conscious that she’s enjoying the smoothness of his touch too much.
‘I’ll live,’ she says, slightly disappointed when he lowers her leg back to the floor, and sits down beside her. ‘What were you and Thea’s coach discussing?’
She instantly regrets the question, embarrassed by her own envy.
‘Oh, you mean Emma? Nothing, really. Just talking work stuff.’
It didn’t look very professional, Molly thinks, but doesn’t say.
‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
‘Sure.’
She bites her lip, and then bottles out of asking what’s on her mind. ‘How much do you think this strain is going to upset my rhythm?’
He looks as though she was going to ask something else, but doesn’t question it.
‘Well, as I said, it all depends on your recovery time. We’ve been stepping up your distances, and it’s probably that additional pressure that’s shown today. It needs to be properly healed before you start running, as otherwise you could strain it again, and worse next time. I think we should take it as a warning that we were pushing it too much.’
‘But I need to push, no? I’ll never hit the qualifying time otherwise.’
‘I have faith that you will, Molly. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not like you have never run a marathon before. You have muscle memory and that will help massively.’
She can feel his eyes watching her, and when she turns to look at him, his face is so close that she can smell his cologne again.
‘Can I ask you something else?’ she says quietly, and he nods. ‘Well, a little bird told me that you quite like me.’ She can feel the heat rising to her cheeks, but continues regardless. ‘And I just wanted to let you know that if you want to ask me out, you should.’
He’s so close that she’s sure he’s going to kiss her, so she closes her eyes and leans in, her pulse racing as their lips get closer, but rather than kissing her back, he pushes her away.
‘I’m sorry, Molly, we can’t.’
She opens her eyes and sees he has slid to the opposite side of the bench.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats. ‘The association has strict rules about this kind of thing, and I can’t afford to lose my job here.’ He stands, and turns his back on her. ‘I’ll go and get some ice for your leg.’
She watches as he jogs away in the direction of the main building then lowers her face to her hands, unable to understand how she could have misread the signs.
29
NOW
21 April 2024, Tower Bridge, London – Mile 13
My mind can’t get past the question: could Jamie have engineered my stalker’s return for commercial gain?
I know it’s a ridiculous thought, and it bothers me that I could even contemplate betrayal from such a close friend, but then can I really consider Jamie a friend? He was the one who approached me when I narrowly missed out on the bronze, telling me that he had the power to send my career into the stratosphere. I can remember laughing at him, rather than with him, but he continued to pursue me, sharing the financial earnings of other nameless clients, and how it was commonplace for professional athletes to have someone handling that side of affairs for them. I’ll admit I was flattered, and though I tried to play hard to get, it wasn’t like a hundred other agents were beating down my door, so I signed up. And, on the whole, he’s lived up to his word. The endorsement earnings to date haven’t been as big as he projected, but then I haven’t agreed to do everything he’s asked, so I can’t hold him wholly responsible. And if he’s right about the sports companies being on the hook, then he has lived up to that word, right?
But acting on my behalf in a professional capacity doesn’t make us friends. The only lunches we’ve taken have been business-based, and as he frequently reminds me, ‘tax deductible’. So, would his orchestrating something like this – regardless of how horrific it has been – really be a betrayal? Would he even see it in that way if he thought it made commercial sense?
Jamie was the one who suggested I sign up to Instagram, and he was the one who posted those first pictures advertising the sports bra; he was the one who brought this trouble to my door, but he was acting in my best interests, wasn’t he?
He volunteered to manage the account for me when the messages from Bistras and his aliases got too much, but could he have been the one sending the messages in the first place? I grind my teeth as I try to picture him playing the opposing parts of antagonist and confidante, but surely there would have been easier ways for him to cash in on me? Just because he had the opportunity and motive to lead this torrent against me, it doesn’t necessarily mean he did.
When I gave him full access to manage my account and messages, I then started receiving messages to my number. He is one of only a handful who had that number, and my new one too, but using it would make him an obvious suspect, so why would he run the risk of drawing attention to himself?
He was the one who set me up in that flat, and he was the one who handled all the rental charges, paying it out of what I was earning through the endorsements. I haven’t asked to see statements yet, but what if the rent wasn’t as high as he claimed, just so he could force me to do more promotions work, flaunting myself online? I dismiss this thought as quickly as it arrives; that would mean he’d been planning this for more than six months, and I just don’t believe he’s that organised.
But he was the only person who knew I was in The Clarendon last night – hell, it was his idea I stay there.
I shudder at the thought of him leaving the box of orchids outside my room. I can’t be sure he knew they were my mam’s favourite plants, but it’s possible I’ve mentioned it at some point over the last three years. And when I phoned to ask if the flowers were from him, he said he wasn’t home, which would be true if he was making his escape from the hotel. When I was toying with the idea of not running, wasn’t he the one who pushed me to go ahead with it, knowing that he’d already lined up the appearance on GMB tomorrow?
I try to chase the conspiracy theory from my mind, because I don’t want to consider that someone I know could be so cruel. And whilst I can’t escape the uneasy feeling that he is benefiting at my expense, I have no evidence that he’s involved in any of this. I know Bistras is behind it in general, but I can’t see how Jamie could know him or be connected to all of it. One thing it does show is just how all over the place my mind is right now.
I can feel my vest top sticking to the scar on my back, my increased sweat acting like adhesive. The sun is beating down on us, and without sunglasses, it’s making it difficult to see ahead without squinting. What rain was previously on the road has all but evaporated, but it’s leaving a muggy, damp smell in its wake.
I feel something brush the top of my shoulder, and start as Kat muscles past, slowing just as she is in front of me. I have no idea how she’s made up the time so quickly, and Finn’s prophecy that she would tire as we near the halfway point seems to have been in vain. And although I have also been pushing myself too much, whilst I’m struggling with the strain of running too quickly, she actually looks in good shape for this section of the race. Maybe I’ve underestimated her, and that spells trouble.
I glance over to Thea, whose attention is fixed firmly on the road ahead. She doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as I’m feeling. I probably shouldn’t be surprised as these two powerhouses have been training nonstop for well over a year for the Paris games, whereas I’ve had to battle back from the brink. Maybe my belief that I could finish ahead of Kat has been sorely misplaced.
Tower Bridge looms ahead, and this should be a sight that fills me with enthusiasm, knowing we’re almost halfway through proceedings, but all I can think is how on earth am I going to be able to keep up with these two for another thirteen miles?
Kat is making no effort to pull away and catch up with the lead group who are already over the bridge and out of sight. I just need to keep close to Kat and then hope I have enough in reserve to race her to the finish line.
The bridge is closed to traffic today, and barriers have been set up on both sides of the road to keep the public from getting in the way, but – my word – there are so many people standing there. I can hear bells ringing, cheering and applause, and am already feeling overwhelmed, but the worst part is that Bistras could be standing amongst them.
There are banners hanging from each barrier, advertising this, that and the other, a rainbow of balloons and too many faces to scan. I can’t see Jamie in the crowd, which I guess is a good thing, but the faces are largely passing in a blur, and it’s hard to make out specific profiles.
Somewhere ahead there is the flag of St Andrew being waved frantically. I feel dizzy with all the noise and attention, and put my head down, just trying to get through it. But ahead, I spot a waiting motorcycle, and recognise the mirrored Aviators. The bike moves forward as we begin to near. I really wish Zara would phone and rule this cameraman in or out of my investigation.
I hear Jamie’s words in my head: I need you to look like you’re enjoying yourself.
I force myself to stare down the lens of the camera, and adopt a determined and passionate stare, but without a mirror, I have no clue how it will come across on the broadcast, or whether they’re even filming at this moment.
I look down at my watch as it buzzes, telling me I have another picture message. I’m reluctant to check it, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I adjust the strap on my arm so I can see my phone’s screen. My heart breaks as I see a topless image of myself. I am in a shower cubicle at the Team GB training centre from what I can tell, and my eyes are closed as I wash shampoo out of my hair. I have no idea when it is or who has taken this shot, nor how without me realising. But it’s the second message that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand:
QUIT THE RACE OR THESE GO PUBLIC.
30
BEFORE
Sunday, 25 February 2024, Streatham, London
The smoke alarm blaring overhead has Molly tumbling out of bed in a heightened panic. At first, she thinks she’s dreaming until she runs her hands over her eyes, and blinks several times.
The alarm is deafening, and she’s forced to cover her ears with both hands, trying to make sense of why it is sounding now, and what she needs to do next. Unlike a hotel room, there is no list of instructions about where the nearest exits are.
Something must be on fire, she tells herself, immediately hobbling to the kitchen area, and checking the toaster for the whiff of burning, but there’s nothing obvious to suggest her flat has triggered the alarm.
So if it’s not her flat, it must be one of the others in the block. Probably a false alarm, but she can’t bear to stay in the flat with the ear-splitting noise any longer. She slips on a pair of sliders, and a coat, and moves to the door. At the last minute, she thinks about her keys and phone, and grabs them off the nightstand, slipping them into the pocket of her coat.
