Page 9 of A Face in the Crowd
It doesn’t take long for the field to thin as everyone settles into their respective paces. There’s a comforting rhythm to the steady beat of my trainers hitting the tarmac, but my stomach is grumbling, possibly because, in the previous 24 hours, I’ve had only two bowls of porridge. I’m almost certain it’s not the best way to prepare for a run.
The air is cool and bites at my throat and lungs. This was much easier in the summer months. I’ve never been much of an athlete. Running, swimming or cycling were the confines of someone else. It was when I turned thirty earlier in the year that I figured I should probably make an effort to get fit. I’m not completely sure why – I think it’s something that happens when a person reaches a certain age. We spend a decade getting fat and enjoying ourselves, then another decade trying to right all the wrongs we’ve foisted upon our poor bodies.
It was never quite like that with me, not after what happened with Ben. I stopped eating entirely, working my way through an eating disorder and back out the other side. I think this is part of me taking control of my life.
Karen is six years older than me and had been talking about running and going to the odd fitness class. It was when I found out that Parkrun was free that I agreed.
And here we are.
I up my pace as I reach the first slope. The cold air is beginning to stab into my lungs as breath spirals up into the air. Billy doesn’t seem to mind as he remains at my side. I stay with Karen every week, but today, for once, I allow myself to go at my own speed. I pass half-a-dozen runners on the incline and, even though I’m not particularly competitive, it’s hard not to feel satisfied. Billy starts to pull at his lead, enjoying the pace – and so I kick again until the cold air suddenly feels hot within me. No matter. I can do this.
It’s only as I’m crossing the finish line for the first time that I realise I’ve only been overtakenonceby the leaders. It’s so unexpected that I almost stop to make sure something catastrophic hasn’t happened to those at the very front. I twist to look over my shoulder and, sure enough, one of the skinny lads in a vest is a few metres behind, ready to charge over the line himself.
I’ve completed one lap in the time it’s taken him to do two – but it’s better than what usually happens, when I’m overtaken twice. It might be silly but it feels like an achievement. It’s a confirmation that I’m in a better place than I was a week ago.
I should be tiring, but, as I get to the slope for the second time, I feel surprisingly fresh. As I clasp Billy’s lead tighter, I press on, knowing I should beat my best time. Everything is going fantastically until, from nowhere, my shoe comes off. I take two steps without it until I fully realise what’s happened. My socks are little protection against the scratchy scattering of small stones underfoot as I hop to a stop. Billy strains on the lead before turning to look back over his shoulder, giving me an angsty,Why-have-you-stopped?look.
As soon as I retrieve my shoe, it becomes apparent why it came off. It’s not because the laces were too loose, or that one snapped, it’s because – somehow – the entire leather has split from the tongue at the top, through to the sole. I find myself staring at the wreckage, wondering quite how it could have happened. Runners start to overtake as Billy completes the humiliation by sitting on the grass. Even he’s given up on me.
Something sinks within me. The trainers were a charity-shop find. A miracle of circumstance in that the cashier was putting out a new set of donations and I got hold of them before anyone else could. I paid £15 for something that should have been £140. I know that because I looked them up afterwards. It sounds pathetic – I know – but finding the bargain feels like one of my greatest achievements of recent years. I don’t really get to have nice things, not any more. If I need a new item of clothing – actuallyneed– I’ll go through sale racks and hope to find something that isn’t either enormously huge or microscopically small. The £15 for these trainers were a stretch but I wear them for everything – work, getting around, and, of course, running.
Karen slows as she passes, huffing ‘You okay?’ in my direction. I hold up my broken shoe for her to see – but she’s already past, perhaps on for a personal best herself. I don’t blame her.
The grass is dewy and the water soaks through my sock as I set off to walk back towards the start line. I can hear myself wheezing – but it’s not from the exertion of running. Panic attacks used to come regularly, but it’s been a while since I’ve been overwhelmed by one. That’s not who I am any longer. I can control it.
I stop and crouch, smoothing the hair on Billy’s back as he stares up at me with confusion. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Concentrate.
It’s hard to describe the desolation. They’re only shoes and yet they represent so much more. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to replace them. The fact it’s all so stupid, that it’sshoes– of all things – that are getting me emotional, only makes it worse.
I am almost back at the start line, one shoe on, one off, when I feel my gaze being pulled towards one of the benches over by the trees at the entrance to the park. A steady stream of runners are jogging past, but it’s not them I notice. It’s not any of them who are staring back at me. I spot the red anorak first and, before I know it, I’m drifting across to the woman whose eyes have not wavered from me.
‘Melanie,’ is the word I go with as I stand over her. Say what you see and all that. I don’t know what else to come out with.
Her face is craggier than I remember, the wrinkles deeper, her hair a wiry scrubbing pad of grey and rusty brown. Some things never change, however. There was always spite and fury in her eyes – and, if anything, it burns brighter in the years since we last saw one another. Billy must feel it, too. He sits behind my legs, not daring to look at her.
Melanie continues to stare but says nothing. Eventually, she twists away to gaze out towards the water on the far side of the park. Red-faced runners continue to bob past, huffing and puffing their way to the finish line.
‘I didn’t know you got to this end of town,’ I add. The silence between us is agonisingly awkward.
Melanie tugs her red anorak away from her collar and gasps a loud gust of breath.
‘Are you, um…?’ I’m not sure what I’m asking; not even particularly certain why I’m continuing to talk to her. It’s been four years since we last saw one another. She was a venomous inferno of anger then. I’ve moved on and I suppose I’m wondering if she has.
In a flash, she spins back to me, eyes blazing. ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
She spits the words with such spite that I take half a step backwards, almost treading on poor Billy.
‘Like what?’ I manage.
In a blink, Melanie is on her feet. She glares daggers and then turns with a swish and stomps off towards the park exit. I watch her go and it’s only as she disappears out of sight that I feel able to move again.
I suppose I thought she might have moved away from here and found herself some peace elsewhere. A little place near the seaside, or a flat in a city centre where everything and anything is on the doorstep. It’s no surprise she’s still around, of course. It’s not like I moved; not like I found peace elsewhere. We live in the same big town, but it’s easy to get lost among so many people. To be invisible. Her in her space, me in mine.
It’s only as I release a large rasp that I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I shiver with relief and, suddenly, it feels as if I’m still the shaky, traumatised woman I was in years gone by.
The thing is, it’s not that I don’t see her point of view. There’s a part of me that understands exactly why she is how she is. Melanie doesn’t like me, which is completely reasonable given that she believes I killed both her sons.
Chapter Five
