Katherine rolled over and stretched: arms, torso, legs, toes. Remembered mornings when she would be out of bed at or before first light, splash water on her face, pull on her running clothes, her shoes, and out. A few stretches and then a steady jog, building as she went and hitting a steady pace before picking up speed into a final sprint. Then more exercises, warming down, using weights, and into the shower. Feeling exhausted, refreshed: ready for the day.
Three evenings a week at the track, being put through her paces by the coach; Sunday mornings unless there was a race in prospect. Nervous always as it came closer, the adrenalin starting to kick in. Glancing round the changing room, weighing up the opposition. Girls she’d seen before, seen before and beaten; others from out of the county, tall, sleek and self-assured. All the time the coach’s words bubbling under: keep calm, keep cool, keep your form.
Christ, she’d hated it sometimes. Nerves chewing at her gut as she got down into her starting position, spikes pushing back against the blocks. Head up. Head down. The gun. Sixty metres before she seemed to open her eyes, know what was happening, where she was. Runners on either side. Going past. Seventy-five, eighty. Fuck!
The coach with his arms around her shoulders. You did well, you did great. Can’t beat everyone, can’t expect to win every time. Knocked something off your PB, though, I bet. Second or two at least. His hand for a moment on her back, ruffling her hair. Don’t worry, you’re getting better all the time.
Another person: not her. A life she’d left behind.
‘You used to be a runner, right?’ Chrissy had said one day. ‘Like what’s-her-name? Dina something-or-other?’
Katherine shook her head. ‘No, not me.’
Feet on the floor, she waited for her breathing to steady and made her way to the bathroom. Abike had left the radio playing, something classical, Radio 3. A note from Chrissy, lipsticked on to a napkin from Itsu: Off to get my tits out again - back soon.
Out of the shower, Katherine dressed and dried her hair. Put bread in the toaster, coffee in the pot. Chrissy’s coffee but with any luck she wouldn’t notice. Warm enough, maybe, to sit out on the balcony. Someone down there in a parked car, radio turned up loud, the bass echoing upwards. The yapping of a small dog. Police sirens fading into the distance. A plane overhead. Balancing coffee and toast on a couple of upturned flower pots, she unlocked her phone, checked for messages, swiped right for Top Stories in the news.
Suspected terrorist attack in Amsterdam.
Hot, twenty, and the world’s youngest billionaire.
Escaped rapist and murderer on the run.
Katherine doubled forward as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Dropped her phone and covered her face with her hands. After several moments, she arched slowly back and sucked in air.
Adam Keach, sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of sixteen-year-old Emma Harrison and the rape of. . .
Katherine stood up abruptly, stumbled, tried to right herself and stumbled again, losing her balance and falling towards the balcony edge. Pitching forward, she grabbed hold of the rail.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Chrissy called through the open balcony door. ‘’Cause if you’re thinking of jumping it’s a long way before you hit the ground.’
Chrissy held her while she cried. Listened as Katherine told her of her ordeal, words spilling from her mouth like stones. The imprisonment, the pain. Waking from some impossible nightmare to the sound of her father’s voice — Katherine. Kate, it’s me. Then another voice, laughing, cruel. Beautiful, isn’t she? At least she was. After that she could recall nothing: nothing until she was in the ambulance, woozy from gas and air, clinging to her father’s hand. Alive when she feared she would be dead.
Katherine’s phone rang where she had left it, out on the balcony, and Chrissy picked it up.
‘Kate,’ she said, going back into the bedroom, ‘it’s your dad.’
Katherine shook her head.
‘She’s just lying down now,’ Chrissy said. ‘Why doesn’t she call you back in a little while?’
‘I was wondering if she’d heard . . .’ Elder began.
‘About the guy escaping? Yes, she’s heard.’
‘And she’s okay?’
‘She will be.’
Chrissy broke the connection and crossed into the kitchen, filled the kettle at the tap. She was still trying to process what Katherine had told her. Wondering how you ever got over something like that happening to you. Realising you never did.