20

Where’s Will?

We had our de-brief in Megan’s car, parked at the back of the police station. Nigel wanted to go over everything and tried pressing Megan about Gary, but she looked exhausted and exasperated, and ready to risk a manslaughter charge on him.

After twenty minutes, he gave up, told us to be at the police station half an hour early the next morning and left to find a taxi to take him back to Celtic Manor.

Megan grabbed a baseball cap and some dark glasses from the pocket of the driver’s door and put them on, tugging the cap down as far as it would go. She checked herself in the mirror and seemed pleased with the effect.

“I know a back way into Caerleon,” she said, her eyes darting in all directions as we pulled away from the police station.

“Let’s stop to pick up a takeaway,” I said, suddenly desperate for food. As the tension eased, the adrenalin was replaced by a realisation I hadn’t eaten since having those two hotel biscuits for breakfast. Megan drove into the city centre, crossing a bridge over the river and passing the blackened remains of a castle, before heading out again on a road lined with shops. A sign for Fish & Chips seemed to jump out from the rest, both of us noticing it at the same time, Meg giving me a hopeful sideways look like a child wanting a treat. Chips were normally banned.

“What the hell,” I said.

Meg waited in the car while I went in. I don’t know if it was the smell of the sizzling chips or the anxieties of the day evaporating but I felt strangely euphoric. It reminded me of exams ending, of that sense of a weight lifting.

I ordered extra-large portions of chips and picked the two largest fish from the golden pieces piled up on the display shelf. The woman serving was glancing at me as she shovelled the chips onto their trays and started wrapping everything. She was doing her best not to make it obvious, but she wouldn’t have made much of a spy.

“Aren’t you that man…?” she said eventually. “You know, the coach of that girl?”

‘The coach of that girl’ – maybe that’s how I would be remembered, the title of my memoirs. There seemed no point in denying it. I looked over my shoulder. No one in the queue looked remotely like a journalist.

“Megan Tomos, you mean,” I said, immediately regretting using her name and sensing a stirring of curiosity among the people behind me.

“That’s the one,” she said. “My word, she’s in a bit of bother, isn’t she? Poor dab. Local girl. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“I bet they are,” I said, putting enough cash on the counter to cover the order and picking up the two bulging parcels of food.

“Need a carrier bag?” she said.

But my back was already turned, and I waved to say ‘no’.

Megan’s alternative route to the hotel took us along a lane clinging to a hill above the river with Caerleon visible ahead, spreading out across the valley floor. The road was so narrow we had to stop half a dozen times at wider points to allow oncoming drivers to pass, giving everyone in each car plenty of time to check us out.

“Shit, this wasn’t such a good idea,” Megan said.

By the time we’d arrived at the hotel, my phone was buzzing with texts from Mimi.

Nice chips are they?

Tell Meg cap looks good too.

#MegMugShots is trending on Twitter

The last one made me bristle. I wasn’t expecting Meg to become an online sport. So much for the end-of-exams feeling.

We went to my room, slumped into one of the armchairs and started devouring the fish and chips. Meg was staring at the floor, looking downcast and preoccupied. I juggled between stuffing food in my mouth and discreetly checking the photographs of us on Twitter. There were a couple of unflattering sideways shots of me leaving the chippie, and one taken on the lane of Meg through the windscreen with her cap and dark glasses looking like a fugitive. The picture of Meg had already been retweeted dozens of times.

It was nearly eight. Mimi and Jackie would be starting their meeting with the sponsors any minute. I texted a ‘good luck’ message to Mimi, turned the TV on and switched channels to find the athletics.

The 100m hurdles was scheduled for eight-forty. The studio panel of athletes-turned-pundits was already talking about the race and Megan’s absence and speculating about whether or not she would go to the Olympics. It was hard to tell how much they really knew. The news was out about Megan being with the police all afternoon, and they were talking sympathetically about how they hoped ‘for the country’s sake’ she would be able to ‘clear things up’ – like it was a minor misunderstanding.

One said that, whatever happened, she couldn’t see Megan making it to the Olympics now. “This disruption has come at such a crucial stage, she’ll never be able to make up the lost time”. But another thought her fellow panellist was underestimating Meg. “She’s tough. Tough, tough, tough. A great competitor. I think she’ll bounce back.”

I sensed Megan tensing as they carried on along these lines.

“I can’t fucking stand this,” she said suddenly, leaping to her feet and tossing the remains of her supper in the bin. “Sorry, Liam, I need some space.”

I felt bad for turning the TV on, but she was gone before I could say anything. I heard her slam the door of her room and thought I’d give her some time before checking if she was okay.

The TV was now showing one of the races. Judging from the tempo, it looked like a 5000m. I hadn’t checked the programme and, at this point, didn’t much care. I sat back and watched as the women jockeyed for position in the leading pack.

Megan came back in the room and paced around, switching between watching the race and playing with her phone.

I was distracted by Megan and missed who won the 5000m. The panellists were back, and Megan flounced out again. They started speculating about who would win the 100m hurdles. Megan’s absence was a godsend for the Americans and the Russian, they thought, stating the obvious.

It was painful viewing in so many ways, and I was relieved when they finally went back to the track for the women lining up for the hurdles – ‘Megan’s race’ as the commentator called it.

My coaching instincts kicked-in, and I was interested now, sitting on the edge of my chair and mentally ticking-off Megan’s rivals as they appeared on camera. They were all there: three Americans, a Russian, a German - and three Brits for the home crowd to cheer. All of them looked in great shape, smiling to the camera, waving to the crowd and obviously relishing Megan’s absence. It was just as well she’d gone back to her room.

The commentator was saying the conditions were perfect, a glorious summer’s evening at Crystal Palace, with a slight following breeze for the athletes.

The starter brought them under orders, and they were away first time. The Russian led from start to finish, hurdling cleanly, crossing the line a clear metre ahead of the others. It was a comfortable winning margin for sprint hurdling. Her time was slightly faster than Meg’s at the trials but not as fast as her season’s best.

Mimi rang. “What did you make of that?” she said, sounding harassed and anxious.

“No worries for Meg,” I said.

“Ha! Can’t say the same for the sponsors,” Mimi replied. “What a nightmare – they want assurances we can’t give, and are bailing-out like they’re on the frigging Titanic.”

“Bailing-out? Already?” That was a shock, even by my low expectations.

“One’s suspended its contract, another’s given us until Monday. They don’t give a shit about Megan. It’s all, ‘Darling, we have every sympathy but her brand is in tatters and she’s not taking us down too’.” Mimi fell silent. I could hear her breathing softly. “The cap and dark glasses didn’t help either. They’d all seen it. She looked like someone on the run, like she had something to hide.”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling responsible. “How’s Jackie?”

“How d’you think? Pissed off – to put it mildly. She’s still haggling – as we speak – with one of the sponsors... So how did it go with Richards today?”

“I’ve no idea really,” I said. “Megan admitted being there when Matt died, and he didn’t seem too surprised. It helped to get that out of the way right at the beginning. Then there was the blood sample.”

“And?”

“It’s Matt’s blood apparently, and the sample was taken from the corner of the table. So it looks like he hit his head as he fell and the question is, was that the cause of death? They don’t know yet if he fractured his head. They’re waiting for a pathology report.”

“Holy fuck,” Mimi said. “And if he did and he was pushed…”

“Exactly, and that little bombshell was dropped after we’d been there for five hours, and he wants us back tomorrow.”

“Shit,” Mimi said. “Does that mean we can kiss goodbye to the Olympics?”

I didn’t know where to begin with that, and Mimi sensed it.

“You must be gutted,” she said. “After all the work you’ve done…”

“I haven’t given up yet,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “But, with them leaving for the holding camp on Thursday, it’s touch and go. It looks like it’s all down to Richards and his pathology report. I didn’t get a chance to ask him when that would come through. If this drags on through next week, even if Megan’s eventually cleared legally, it’ll be too late for her to go to Belo Horizonte with everyone else. I suppose she could go later, direct to Rio, but it’s not ideal, she won’t have a chance to acclimatise.”

Mimi fell silent, digesting the implications of that.

“Oh well,” she said with an ironic tone. “The sponsors will walk, and I guess I’ll have to find another client.”

I didn’t reply to that because ‘the client’ had walked back in. She was absorbed in reading something on her phone and didn’t seem to have heard Mimi’s last comment, which was just as well.

“I’d better go,” I said to Mimi. “Meg’s back, and she is still the world number one.”

“Ha, right – that’s okay then,” Mimi said, disconnecting.

“What happened?” Megan was nodding towards the TV, which was still showing the athletics, but with the volume on mute.

“Well, you are still number one,” I said, making an effort to smile and sound cheery. “Natasha Sholokhova won, but her time was nothing special, in the conditions.”

Megan was still distracted by her phone.

“I’ve been getting some really strange texts off Will, and I’ve tried to phone him but he’s not answering,” she said.

“What sort of strange?” I asked.

“Like last night, except worse. The media’s getting to him and he’s saying stuff about Gary.”

“What sort of stuff?”

She looked down at her phone. “About him being a back-stabbing bastard.”

I shrugged. I felt like saying: ‘So what do you want me to do about it, the two bastards deserve each other?’ But I didn’t.

Megan sat down and jumped up again almost in one movement. “I’m going over there,” she said.

I groaned, feeling weighed down by a long day and too many chips, but I knew I had no choice.

“Not on your own you’re not,” I said.

***

By the time we reached Will’s flat, the sun had gone, and it took me a while to get my bearings. We had passed the footbridge where I’d met Megan earlier in the week, and I realised we were on the same stretch of river as Graeme’s flat but the opposite side.

Megan was becoming increasingly agitated. She had tried the bell and was pacing up and down looking at the black windows of a flat two floors above, seemingly trying to find an angle to see if there was some movement inside.

I stood by the car peering into the amber gloom at the dark shapes across the river, wondering which one was Graeme’s building and imagining him sitting there, alone and brooding. It occurred to me suddenly, with a morbid jolt, that he may have consciously chosen a flat with a view of the place where his son died.

Megan had disappeared around the corner, but she was soon back, shaking her head, looking like she was ready to scream. We stood there for a few more minutes, Megan checking her phone and texting more messages until I suggested, tentatively, that this might be a lost cause.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” I said.

“But it’s not like him,” said Meg. “Not replying. Not replying to me.”

“Maybe his battery’s gone,” I said, though I really thought it was more likely he was in a pub or a club somewhere and couldn’t hear his phone or was too drunk to face a conversation with Meg.

Megan threw me a look as if to say I was a moron for not appreciating just how out of character it was for Will not to be responding instantly to her.

“Let’s wait a bit longer,” she said getting back into the car.

And so we sat there for a good thirty minutes, Megan in sullen silence and me trying to suppress my growing irritation.

“Look,” I said, my last reserves of patience now nearly exhausted. “This is a complete waste of time.”

She ignored me.

“And anyway, I don’t get why you’re so worried?”

Still no reply.

“For God sake, Meg, what is it?”

She looked across at me, her hands gripping the steering wheel like she was clinging to it for support.

“It’s just that I think there’s something going on between Will and Gary,” she said.

“Meg, so the fuck what?” I said. “Why is it any worry of yours?”

Megan had let go of the steering wheel but she was now chewing her lower lip and looking at me like she had something to say and couldn’t decide if she dared say it. I waited but with my eyebrows raised as if stay say ‘get on with it’.

She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “The thing is, Liam,” she said, “there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Something else?” I said, incredulous. “You mean something else you haven’t told me?”

Megan was sitting upright, turned towards me but with her back pressed against the driver’s door. It was as if she wanted to be out of reach in case my reaction was violent.

“Gary was blackmailing me,” she said.

It took me more than a few seconds to process that one. I let the words hang in the clammy air and played them back to myself a couple of times.

“He was blackmailing you…” I repeated, almost in a whisper. “What the fuck do you mean, blackmailing you?”

“Gary found out about the blood sample. He knew it had been overlooked and said to Will that it was a ‘smoking gun’ and he could use it to make trouble for us – unless we paid him a lot of money.”

“How much is ‘a lot’?”

“Ten thousand.”

“You’re kidding! Ten thousand pounds. And you paid it?”

Megan nodded, cringing at the same time at the force of my reaction.

“When was this?”

“Last year, just after the World Championships. He must have seen all the stuff about me being the highest paid female athlete, so he went to Will, and told him he could be done for manslaughter and I could be done for perverting the course of justice… and I panicked. I was worried sick. I couldn’t bear the thought, Li, the thought of people knowing I’d left Matt like that…”

“So you coughed-up ten grand?” I said. “For God’s sake, what were you thinking? It only makes matters worse.”

Megan fell silent, and we sat there for a few moments listening to our own breathing, Megan fiddling with her fingers.

“The money seemed like nothing – I suddenly had so much of it,” she said, still looking down at her hands. “But then he came back for more, a few weeks ago. Another ten thousand.”

“Shit!” I said, beyond exasperation, beyond words, even beyond anger.

I threw the door open, got out and paced around in a circle, unable to gather any coherent thoughts. I was tempted to walk away, to just get the next train to London. But before I could think anything through, Megan had pressed the ignition and was shouting, “Li, Li,” through the open window and gesturing for me to get in.

I looked at her, and she held my look like she was clinging to her last hope.

I got in.

She drove back to the hotel recklessly as if she was past caring what happened to her – or me for that matter – taking speed bumps like we were riding rodeo. I gripped my seat and closed my eyes, trying to think straight, wrestling with the implications of Megan’s latest bombshell.

Why hadn’t she come to me for help? How could she have carried on as if everything was normal? Okay, I could appreciate the shame she felt about running away when Matt died: how hard that would be to admit, and the effect it could have on her career, and the bloody sponsors. But, once it had degenerated into blackmail… why hadn’t she realised she was out of her depth?

The answer to all of it could only be Will. She seemed so blind in her loyalty him, naïve beyond belief. It was as if they were locked into a suicide pact by the events of that night.

When we reached the hotel, I was ready to give Megan a no-holds-barred grilling. I was determined to get to the bottom of everything before we had to face Richards again in the morning.

But Megan was too quick for me. She threw the door open and started to get out. I tried to pull her back, grabbing her nearest arm.

“We need to talk, Meg.”

“Fuck it, Liam,” she said, shaking me off. “I know I’ve been stupid, but what the fuck was I supposed to do? Let Will go down for something he didn’t do?”

I was about to say ‘Yes!’ but, before I could answer, she’d tossed the car keys at me and broken into a run, heading for her room.

My adrenalin was pumping so hard I could hardly breathe. I looked at my watch. It was nearly one in the morning. I wanted to phone Mimi and I fumbled for my phone, but I didn’t even have it on me. It was too late anyway.

In the distance there were faint rumblings of thunder. The air seemed alive with electricity. A few drops of rain landed on the windscreen. I sat there watching them multiply.