Page 111 of Runner 13
Once again, I don’t touch the rope but use my hands, clambering up the sand itself on all fours. Maybe they’ll change my nickname to ‘sand goat’. Better to have faith in my own body right now, rather than depend on an external crutch.
I know I’m moving slowly. I can’t ask for more from my muscles right now. What’s equally tiring is keeping my mind on high alert for danger. My anxiety is heightened, every nerve ending on edge. Even the hairs on the back of my neck seem at attention.
I’m not hallucinating any more. Some food and drink did the job – but I almost wish I could get the visions back so I could talk more with Yasmin. Have the conversations with her that I never got to. In another world – another lifetime – she would be the woman running this race, under the guidance of someone she could truly trust and who would help her achieve her potential. Hot & Sandy seems designed with her in mind. A tribute.
Maybe it was. Stella was her half-sister, makingBoones a relation too. Maybe not by blood, but by familial ties. He could have set this all up in her honour. If he had, I want to win even more. Another ‘why’ to add to the pile.
When I get past the sand and on to the jebel itself, on the narrow path cut through the middle, I feel overwhelmed by the silence. No other runner’s footsteps echo off the high walls. No snap of cameras. I might even take a snake for company at this point. I have nothing left to focus on but how my entire body is quivering with pain. Every joint is swollen, my feet battered inside my shoes, the sores on my back bleeding, my neck and shoulders tense and knotted. Every few steps my head swoons and I have to grab hold of the wall to steady myself. But still I push up, up, up, refusing to stop. I’m walking half hunched over, pressing my hands against my quadriceps with ever step. The pain is fuel. It’s temporary. No matter what, in another day, it will all be over. One more sunset. One more sunrise.
It doesn’t matter how much I’ve endured already. All I know is that the end is coming. It will come whether I like it or not. That’s the beauty of a race. Time out, injury or a finish are the three paths ahead of me.
I reach the top, the wind howling around my head. I stay low, pulling up my buff so it covers my hair and ears. The ridge feels familiar to the second day. I know I can move quickly here, confident in my ability to handle loose rocks, scree, precipitous drops. I need to stay alert, stay focused. This technical running is my specialty.
I don’t see anyone up here. I take a moment to gauge the wind, but then I start running, leaping from rock torock, allowing momentum to propel me faster than caution could.
Only somethingdoescause me to lose my footing, a stone rocking beneath my running shoes. I throw my arms out to steady myself, then, once I’m safely down on my bum, I cover my mouth to stifle a scream.
Someone emerges from the other side of the rock, their face slick with blood. He lurches towards me, his arms outstretched like a zombie.
Before I can move, he grabs my shoulders. ‘Adrienne. Thank God.’ He hugs me.
‘Rupert!’
‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.’
If it wasn’t so horrifying I would laugh. Rupert looks terrible. His eyes are so wide I can see their whites. Apart from the blood, his hands are streaked with dirt. ‘What happened?’
He pulls me down low, off the route, so we’re hidden by large boulders. ‘There’s someone out there,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’ I start to stand, but he yanks me again.
‘He’s got a gun,’ he whispers, but his teeth chatter with fear.
‘What?’
‘It’s my fault. It’s my fault.’
‘Rupert, calm down. Tell me what you know.’
‘This is Boones’s ultimate race. The race to end all races. He must have told you something to bring you here, some reason you’re still running despite all the fucked-up shit that’s happened.’
I blink. ‘He did. He promised me answers.’
Rupert nods. ‘Of course yours would be something good. Not like mine. I’m a bad person. And now I’m going to die because of it.’
I stroke his arm. ‘You’re not a bad person, Rupert. You’re a brilliant runner. You’re loved by your fans, your peers, your sponsors. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say a bad word about you. Whatever Boones has said …’
‘He has the proof. And he’ll release it if I don’t finish.’
‘Proof of what?’
Rupert leans in. His breath reeks from days without brushing. I’m certain mine smells no better. ‘That I am a killer.’
50
Adrienne
‘You’re not making any sense,’ I say. I can’t believe that of him. Not Rupert. Not ultrarunning’s golden boy.
