The Talisman (20 page)

Barker, lighting the gas stove, grinned, saying that Vic Morgan was pretty good on the football field, so he had heard.

‘I’m not talking about that pig-headed bully Morgan – it’s Stubbs, the boy’s like lightning. You realize what it would mean for this place if we came up with a champion? Just in morale alone. I’m going to push Stubbs and see how much he can take, and if I’m right we can enter him in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country.’

Alex was rubbing down his legs in the shower. He ached all over but he didn’t mind, it had been worth it.

‘Hey, Stubbs, swot-face, I wanna talk wiv you, yer listenin’, Stubbs?’

Alex swished back the shower curtain and found Vic Morgan lounging in the doorway, his wet towel in his hand. He flicked it hard, and it lashed Alex’s back. It hurt. Alex went to pull the curtain across but Morgan yanked it back, flicked the towel again. Alex grabbed it.

‘Think yer somethin’, don’t yer, Stubby boy? Swot! Special education one minute, the next taking over my sport. Well, I don’t like it, understand, makin’ meself clear? So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll just get back to yer swottin’ like a good girl and leave my sport to me, understood?’ Morgan yanked his towel from Alex’s grasp and Alex overbalanced, slipped on the soap in the bottom of the shower and fell heavily, cracking the side of his head on the tiles. Morgan laughed and walked away, and Alex got up, shook his head and stepped out to fetch a dry towel. His own was lying, sodden, at the bottom of the shower.

Morgan’s friends were lined up in the corner of the shower room, sneering at him and telling each other what a well-endowed poofter he was.

‘Here you go, Alex, use mine, it’s almost dry.’ Eric Motley, a small, skinny lad, handed Alex his towel, and with his back to Morgan and his friends whispered that Alex should ignore them, they would only cause trouble.

Alex gave the funny little Eric a wink, towelling himself dry. ‘I can take care of meself, Eric, but thanks anyway. Good to know I got someone tough on my side.’

Eric beamed with pride. He was a runt, and jokes were always directed at his misshapen body and his inability to play any sport. Now his face shone – he had a pal, his hero.

Due to all the excitement over Alex’s astonishing performance, the head gave permission for everyone on the running teams to attend the official record run. This was to take place on the track in their own grounds, not on the beach. Morgan was seething, but he and two others were delegated to run alongside Alex to act as pacers.

‘I’ll fucking pace him, the son of a bitch, it should be me out there. You know what he’s doing, don’t yer, he’s butterin’ up that ponce of a teacher. Well, I’ll show the friggin’ bastard, I’ll pace him right off the fuckin’ track.’

Saturday was a good, clear day. The Governor’s wife came to watch the race and all the inmates were told they could watch. This made Alex quite a hero, as any excuse for not doing their mundane jobs was cause for celebration.

Alex concentrated on keeping calm and blocked out everything else around him. He didn’t want anything to throw him – this was one of the best moments of his life.

‘Okay, Stubbs, let’s have you. And keep on the run, there’s a nip in the air. Get yourself warmed up . . . and you, Morgan – come on, move it. No foul language – just keep your mouths shut and let’s see if we can make Stubbs a champion.’

Alex ran on to the track, his breath steaming in the chilly air, and was greeted with a cheer from the spectators. He began doing press-ups to warm his muscles.

‘Okay, come on, let’s get you in line, check your shoes, and get into the traps . . . come on, Morgan, stop talking.’

Morgan was whispering in Alex’s ear, ‘Watch your heels, Stubby boy, because I’ll be right on ’em, an’ I’m gonna fuck you over.’

They lined up, with Alex on the inside lane. He bent down to fit his left foot into the running trap. His trainer knelt in front of him, telling him to pace himself. When the flag waved for the finish he wanted Alex to take off and keep on running, just as a tester. They were only interested in the record for today, but he wanted to see how far Alex could go it alone. It was a chance and he wanted Alex to take it. ‘The prison record’s one thing, let’s see if you can take the long-distance one at the same time?’

Alex could hardly hear him, he was blocking out all distractions. He could hear nothing, and all he could see was the track ahead of him.

The starting pistol cracked and they were off, Alex pacing himself and hugging the inside lane. At the first bend they were all lined up behind him, very close, and Morgan was too close. Alex put on a spurt of speed and Morgan followed, right on his heels again.

‘What the hell is Morgan doing, he’s pushing him too hard too early, the stupid bastard.’

The runners had reached the farthest point of the track, a linesman waved a flag and they were heading down towards the starting line again. Now Morgan was virtually treading on Alex’s heels. The trainer swore, then clocked the stopwatch. They were already ahead of time on the first lap.

Alex felt the studs rip into his ankle and overbalanced, then righted himself, but Morgan moved up ahead. A cheer went up as he took first place, and Alex was being elbowed by the second man. He put on speed again and crept closer to Morgan. He could actually get heel to toe, but instead he gave Morgan a wide berth and moved again into the first position.

‘That just lost him a second, he’s crazy, and I’ll crack Morgan’s head when he comes in.’

The trainer was running, yelling, along the side of the track, but Alex didn’t hear him. They were on the third lap, with three more to go, and Morgan was still pushing Alex from behind. By trying to bring Alex down he was driving him far harder than he should have, and Alex was taking it. One runner dropped out and collapsed on the grass, heaving for breath. He sat up in time to see the field split in two – Alex and Morgan in the lead, the other two way behind. As the leaders went into lap four, the stragglers dropped out, leaving just the two of them.

Eric was on the sidelines with his cheap Woolworth’s watch, trying to time them. He was beside himself, shouting and cheering his hero on. Round they came, and Morgan was tiring, but both were coming in under the record for the fifth lap. The trainer was jumping up and down. Morgan was neck and neck with Alex, he had two possible contenders, not just one . . .

The final lap, and they moved into a last-minute sprint. Alex’s heel was streaming blood from Morgan’s studs, but nothing was going to stop him. They crossed the line, both inside the record, and Morgan caved in, fell on the track and lay gasping, snorting for breath. But the cheers had stopped, and he looked up, expecting to see Alex close by, only to stare in disbelief. Alex was still running, and running at a crazy pace. Morgan’s moment of glory passed, he was hauled unceremoniously off the track as everyone watched the lone runner continue.

‘If you put your mind to something, son, you can do it, it’s all a question of will . . . and now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to give a warm round of applause for the ex-British Heavyweight Boxing Champion, Freedom Stubbs!’

Alex ran on, still hearing the applause on the day his father had walked with such pride on to the grammar-school platform. He could hear his mother’s voice, urging him on and on, her arms open, and he just couldn’t get to them, couldn’t reach her. She was standing by the white cross, wearing her old brown coat, her flat leather handbag over her arm, and her beautiful hair was braided around her head. She smiled at him. ‘Come on, my love, you can do it, you can be anyone if you want. Put everything you’ve got into it, my son, my own love.’

The trainer stared at Alex, back at his watch, then back at the track. The lad wouldn’t be stopped, round he went again and again, never letting up his pace. The crowd waited quietly as they watched the lone runner, and even when the trainer waved the flag for Alex to stop, he continued to run. They couldn’t cheer, and no one knew exactly what to do. They could see as he passed that his face was like a mask, set, his eyes staring vacantly ahead, his limbs working by themselves.

‘He’s going to run himself to death. For God’s sake, somebody stop him.’

The trainer took off, running at top speed along the track, but it took him all he had to catch up with Alex. He shouted that it was over, Alex had done it. ‘It’s over, Alex! It’s over . . . Alex!’

Alex collapsed in a heap and lay face down, his chest heaving, his hands clawing at the gravel. He felt his head being rubbed, and a voice told him it was all right, it was over, he had done it, he had done it.

The matron bathed his feet and put disinfectant on his cut heel, bandaged it very carefully, and checked his pulse. He was lying with his eyes closed, still, and she pulled up a chair and sat close to him.

Down in the canteen the group of boys whispered, and Morgan, his nose out of joint because he realized he was losing his position as the ‘Guv’nor’, knew he had to do something to reinstate himself. Drinking his cocoa he rolled a thin cigarette, clicked his fingers for one of the lads to snap to with a match. ‘I’m gonna have ta show that creep Stubbs, wipe him out, he won’t make that run, I’ll bloody see he doesn’t.’

‘Pssst, Alex, Alex, a few of the lads thought you might fancy half a Mars Bar . . . You okay?’ Eric’s sweating face was close to Alex, his bad breath swamping him. Alex propped himself on his elbows and gave the thumbs-up sign. He accepted the half Mars Bar and a packet of five cigarettes. Two more boys crept in and whispered, ‘We’re all gunnin’ for yer, Alex, an’ we got a few suggestions, like. If the Chief, the boss man like, asks yer if yer want anyfink – we all bin discussin’ it – we wanna learn how ter dance, like. Yer know, ballroom stuff. Will yer suggest it? We’re serious, like, all of us wanna dance, so will yer put it ter the Chief, Alex?’

Alex thought they were joking, but they insisted they were serious, so he gave them his word that should the Chief offer him any perks he would ask for a gramophone and a dancing instructor.

The Governor did appear the following morning, in high spirits, and wanting detailed medical reports on his prized boy. The matron assured him Stubbs would be up and about in a day or so. Alex watched the man stride down the row of empty beds, wearing suede boots, his Merchant Taylors’ old school tie, blue shirt with stiff white collar, the creases in his trousers like razors. ‘Well, you gave us all a good day, I must say, never seen anything like it, congratulations! You know we had the clock on you, Stubbs, bloody marvellous.’

The Governor wandered around the ward, coughing and picking his nose, then stared out of the window. ‘Inter-Counties race, what you reckon on your chances, Stubbs?’

Alex shrugged, he had no idea of the times set by other runners.

‘The other schools happen to have some of the best running clubs, son, Merchant Taylors’ best, and the Harriers . . . I think you can take them on, all of them.’ He moved around the bed and sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a smoke ring. ‘Thing is, to date we’ve not had a chap good enough or trustworthy enough to try for a place.’

Alex sat up and hugged his knees, saying that no matter what, they could trust him. He gave his word, which was greeted with a hearty slap on his shoulder. The Governor had reached the door before he turned to ask if there was anything Alex wanted.

‘There is something, sir. The lads I’ve been training with, they sort of asked if I’d put in a word . . .’

When Alex mentioned ballroom dancing the Governor almost keeled over. ‘Ballroom dancing? You serious, Stubbs? You any idea what the rest of the lads’ll do if they hear about it? Good God, I’ve been asked for some odd things in my time, but this takes the medal. Ballroom dancing? How many lads want to do this fancy footwork, then?’

Alex shrugged and said about eight of them, with a gramophone.

‘You’ll take a hell of a ribbing, you know that? But if it’s what you want then I’ll see what I can arrange.’

Vic Morgan roared with laughter – friggin’ ballroom dancing! Ponces headed by friggin’ ‘Goody-Two-Shoes’ Stubbs. This he had to see to believe. Stubbs’ popularity was eclipsing Morgan’s, and his hatred was intensified when he discovered that three members of his inner circle had joined the ‘fairies’.

Fully recovered, Alex returned to classes a hero. Along with eight other boys, all serving long sentences, he was called into the Governor’s office.

He had kept his word, they were to have the use of a gramophone two nights a week between tea-break and dinner, and there were four records – a waltz, a foxtrot, a rumba and a tango. They would be taught by the Governor’s wife. Mrs Dennis stood by her husband’s desk, a pleasant, plain-looking woman in lisle stockings and brogues. ‘You will start with the waltz, and work your way through the other routines. But any boy abusing this special privilege will ruin it for the others.’

The sarcastic references to the ‘pansies’ special brigade’ were ignored, and twice a week the ballroom-dancing lessons took place in the drill hall. But before long the other lads began to envy the group as they marched across the quad to the hall and the sound of the Joe Loss Orchestra belted out. Mrs Dennis’ strident voice was heard, ‘One, two three, one, two three, one, two three . . . No, no, you must walk backwards . . . One, two three and fishtail, one, two three . . .’

The eight members of the formation dancing team became friends. They laughed as they partnered each other, but they were obviously dedicated to learning. Ted Smith took it upon himself to divide the group into male and female so they could learn to move backwards as well as forwards. Alex, being so tall, rarely had to be the lady. Ted, a small-time spiv, was mastering the tango, and encouraging the others. ‘When ya get out, all of yer, yer gonna need ta know how to move on the floor, best way of pickin’ up girls, right? Yer come out not knowin’ one move from the next an’ yer sunk. We gotta learn, only way yer can pick up the chicks, I’m tellin’ ya . . .’

The lads laughed a lot, especially at poor Eric, who tangoed across the floor on his own.

More and more, Alex was becoming the hero, and Vic Morgan slunk around trying to find any way he could to sabotage Alex. He managed to steal a small file from woodwork class, and every night he worked on carefully sharpening the spikes on his running shoes. He cajoled and threatened one of the lads in the mailbag section to get some thick cotton and a strong needle without saying what he wanted them for.