Page 50 of Runner 13
When the minute is up, Boones speaks again. ‘I know this is hard to process. Take time this evening. The race will continue tomorrow as planned – as I know Nabil would have wanted.’
I don’t know what emotion is more powerful for me:revulsion or relief. I don’t want to race knowing a man has died. But at the same time I’m surprised to feel glad I have the chance to run again. That tiny spark of competitive fire is burning brightly.
Boones has made the decision for us all. And he’s not done yet.
‘Nabil wasn’t the only medical emergency out there. In total, two hundred and three people pulled out today, including seven elites. That brings our number to around two hundred and fifty continuing to stage two. That’s almost a fifty per cent dropout on day one. Tomorrow’s stage is another twenty-five miles, and it needs to be completed in eight hours. Miss the cut-off and you’re out.’
He climbs down from the car, apparently finished.
Mariam and I drop our hands and I rub at my wrists, where sweat has gathered the sand into small clumps. As the sun goes down, I feel a chill too.
‘Fuck,’ says Mariam.
I agree with her.
‘Farouk must be heartbroken.’
‘Everything broken. He was like a brother to Nabil. An uncle to his children.’
‘Nabil had kids?’
‘Three.’
My hand flies to my mouth, tears springing up in my eyes.
As we walk to our tent, Mariam grips my upper bicep. There’s a crowd of people round tent number one. I flashback to what happened to Jason – surely there can’t have been another accident? We can hear Farouk yelling and there’s a scuffle, a cloud of dust as a volunteer stumblesout of the tent holding a backpack. Then Farouk appears, his face thunderous with rage.
‘What’s happening?’ Mariam asks, as she rushes forward.
Except it’s no volunteer. It’s the main Blixt guy himself.
‘Henry? What’s going on?’ I ask.
Henry pulls himself up, pushing his floppy hair off his forehead. ‘As Farouk is the current leader, we’re doing a gear check.’ He sets the backpack down on the ground, as someone else holds Farouk back from protesting.
I vaguely remember being told that we could be subject to random bag checks – to make sure we’re still carrying all the mandatory items and haven’t ditched anything for the sake of weight. But to choose Farouk seems exceedingly insensitive.
Henry has a checklist of items that had been in Farouk’s bag at the start. He opens every single pocket, diligently taking things out and checking them against the list. In one of the drinks pockets, stuffed underneath the water bottles, are a few energy bars.
He consults his list, frowning, then asks another volunteer to double-check. She shakes her head after reviewing it. I glance at Mariam, whose mouth is set in a firm line. Farouk’s nostrils are flaring, his hurt barely concealed.
‘These weren’t in your bag at the start of the race,’ Henry says.
‘Those are not mine,’ he says. Then he switches to rapid French, gesticulating wildly.
‘He doesn’t know how those got in his bag,’ says Mariam, translating in case Henry is lost. ‘He’s never seenthem before in his life. They don’t even sell that brand in Morocco.’
‘OK, well, he needs to come with me,’ says Henry.
‘What? Where are you taking him?’ asks Mariam.
‘To see Boones.’
Farouk follows without protest, still muttering.
‘Do you want us to come with you?’ I ask him as he passes.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s a mistake.’ He leaps forward, grabs Mariam’s hand. He says something to her, too fast for me to understand, and his eyes flick to me as well. She reaches up and touches his cheek, nodding. Then he lets her go and follows Henry, his posture hunched, resigned.
