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The Ghosts of Twenty Twelve
Graham Hurley
For Freya and Milo
with love
First published in 2009 in Great Britain by
Barrington Stoke Ltd
18 Walker Street, Edinburgh, EH3 7LP
www.barringtonstoke.co.uk
Copyright c. 2009 Graham Hurley
The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
ISBN (print version): 978-1-84299-663-8
Sometimes in life you get stand-out, unforgettable moments…and this was definitely one of them.
It was July 2010, a couple of years back. The UK team had been at the European Athletic Championships all week, and we were at the airport in Barcelona waiting for an early flight home. The team as a whole had done well and a handful of us had done even better than that. In the 3000 metres steeplechase, I’d won with a PB of 7.54.02, just half a second outside the WR. PB means Personal Best. WR stands for World Record. The steeplechase is a really challenging race – twenty eight hurdles and seven water jumps – and no one in Europe had ever run that distance as fast as me. With the London Games barely two years away, an Olympic medal was a definite possibility.
At the airport, they’d put us athletes in the VIP suite. The flight was due to leave at 06.10. I’d phoned Anna straight after yesterday’s race and told her what had happened but she’d seen it already on TV. Anna hates getting up early but no way would she not be at Heathrow to give me a hug when we got back. That, at least, was the plan.
Six’o’clock came and went. There was no sign of the flight being called. Then a Spanish official came in and had a brief conversation with our team manager. As soon as he’d gone, the manager shut the door and told us to gather round.
“Guys…” He said, “It seems there’s been some kind of takeover back home. I can’t give you details but UK airspace has been closed. No flights in. No flights out. Until things are clearer, I’m afraid we’re stuck here. Enjoy…”
We stayed at the airport, awaiting developments. There were a couple of big TV screens in the VIP suite and both of them were showing news reports. The top story was what was happening in the UK. At first there was a total blackout – no news at all – but just after ten’o clock a shot of Downing Street appeared. A couple of armed soldiers were standing outside the door of Number Ten and the reporter announced that we’d be going live to join someone inside.
That someone was a Field Marshal. He was sitting at a desk with a portrait of the Queen behind him. He talked for about five minutes. He said that the country was facing an unprecedented crisis and that something called the Interim Military Council had taken over. He used the word temporary. He said that there was no reason for anyone to panic and that things would just carry on as normal. As soon as possible, the new government would be back in office but for the time being the UK would be under the control of the military authorities.
A couple of minutes later, the Spanish told us that our flight was ready for boarding. UK airspace was open again and we’d be back at Heathrow by lunchtime. That was obviously good news but most of us were still staring at the TV screens. How come a bunch of generals could suddenly sieze power like that? In the UK, of all places? And what on earth would happen next?
All this, of course, is now history…one of those moments that anyone English will never forget.
Anna wasn’t at the airport when we got back from Barcelona, which was a big disappointment. I said goodbye to the rest of the team and took the train to Bristol. Despite the overnight military coup, everything looked pretty normal.
Home is a top floor apartment near the docks. I let myself in and dumped my bag. Anna was hunched over the telephone, talking to her friend Kelly. Kelly is seriously bad news. I waited until Anna was off the phone. A hug for winning might have been nice. Instead, she nodded up at the telly. More shots of Downing Street.
“You know what they’ve done now?”
She told me everything that had happened since we’d stepped onto the plane at Barcelona. The suspension of parliament. Strict media censorship. Even rumours of mass arrests of people supposed to be a danger to the new regime. To be honest, much of this stuff passed me by. It sounded like the script of a movie that would never get made. I made the mistake of saying so.
“You don’t believe me? You don’t think it’s important? Centuries of civil rights? Gone…” She clicked her fingers, “…just like that?”
Anna’s always been an activist. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with her. Show her a good cause and she’ll be organising a protest within seconds. She was still staring at me, still demanding an answer.
I did my best to explain.
“I’m an athlete,” I said. “I just get on with what I’m good at, what I’m best at. And just now it’s really working for me.”
Anna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So it’s fine by you, then? A load of fascist generals taking over?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just all…” I frowned, trying to find the right word, “…a bit sudden.”
“But that’s the way it happens, Joe. That’s the way they plan it. And you know the saddest thing of all? No one cares a stuff.”
I thought about this for a moment. Even I knew that things hadn’t been brilliant in the UK lately. The banking crisis, the unemployment figures, rocketing food and power prices, the news just seemed to get more and more depressing. My dad said recently he’d never expected to see soup kitchens and food parcels back in British cities. Turned out he’d been wrong.
“Maybe it’s for the best.” I said quietly. “Maybe we need a bit of a sort out.”
To my surprise, Anna agreed. The new coalition government, after all, had proved even more pathetic and hopeless than the last lot.
“You heard about the thing in Afghanistan last week?”
I nodded. The Taliban had flown a plane full of explosives into Camp Bastion. More than two hundred of our blokes had been killed. No wonder the generals had taken control.
“So what can we do about it?” I asked.
“I dunno. Something. Anything. Kelly’s got some ideas.” She shrugged. “I dunno.”
We stared at each other, lost for words. Then I suggested a drink to celebrate my medal in Barcelona. Last time I’d looked, there were cans of Stella in the fridge.
Anna shook her head. I’ve seen this same expression on the start line in countless athletics meets. Total commitment. Total focus.
“I’m out of here, Joe. There’s no way we’re not going to fight it.”
She was gone in minutes. I didn’t see her again for more than a year.
I missed her. Badly. The last time she’d done this, she didn’t come back for a couple of months. On that occasion we’d had a monster row, and I was so angry that I didn’t try and get in touch, but this time was different. We’d been living together since Christmas. We were good for each other, made each other laugh. She’d always put up with the kind of crazy dedication you need if you’re going to make it big time in athletics and we fitted perfectly around each other’s lives. Losing her like this was what I’d least expected.
I gave it a day, then put a call in. A recorded voice told me that her mobe number had been discontinued. Either she really had left me, or there was some other reason to put herself beyond reach. My only option was to be patient and wait for her to get in touch. Nothing.
By the end of the week, with still no word, I was desperate. I knew where Kelly lived and after the day’s second training session I
drove over. I knocked a couple of times and finally a bloke came to the door. I’d seen him with Kelly at a couple of music gigs recently. I explained about Anna.
“She was here a couple of days ago, mate. Stayed over. Then Kelly told me they were both going underground. Haven’t seen them since.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. No shit.”
I stared at him as he stepped back into the house. Underground?
Autumn arrived. My training was going from bad to worse. I was failing to hit the times I needed and some days I could barely get myself out of bed. My coach announced I had a glucose deficiency and gave me special supplements to take but his diagnosis was wrong. I was lonely. I realised that Anna had been the biggest part of my life. We’d grown up together in a remote part of East Devon. Her brother, Rob Capper, was still my best mate. I’d taken her for granted and now she’d gone I was desperate to find something – anything – to ease the pain. The only thing I knew, the only thing I could trust, was my sport.
Elite athletes live in a bubble. You dedicate yourself to running faster than anyone else on the planet over a certain distance and you target a specific race – eight minutes of your life – to take on the best guys in the world and beat them. That race had to be the 3000 metres steeplechase at the 2012 Olympics.
The stadium, in London, was already taking shape. I had photos of it pasted up all over the apartment. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning. I had another shot in the bathroom, impossible to miss when I used the mirror to shave. I even had a photo on the back of the loo door. The running track itself had yet to be laid but I could half close my eyes, imagine the nine lanes curving away at the end of the straight, hear the roar of the crowd as I fought through the field and headed for the line. That image sustained a winter of the hardest training I’d ever done. In a year’s time, the steeplechase gold had to be mine. Nothing was more important. Not even Anna.
Then I met Carmen. She was new on the UK team. She trained, like me, in Bristol but lived in Bath. Carmen ran the 200 metres and had posted some brilliant times. She was half-English, half-Caribbean, and the media loved her because of her looks. She was tall and slight, and her skin tone - a silky dark olive – had twice put her on the covers of upmarket mens’ mags. I began to adjust my training schedule so we’d bump into each other on the track. Then came the evening when I suggested a drink. We talked lap times, split times, sponsorship deals with the big sports companies, locker room gossip about who was shagging who. By the summer arrived, we were living together.
By now, on the track, I was back in the medal zone. I went to loads of meets that summer and won every race. Carmen was running fantastic times, as well, and in the eyes of the media we’d become the Golden Couple.
My sponsor loved this kind of coverage. He’d taken the train from London to invite us both out for a meal. His big surprise was the brochure he laid on the table the moment we walked into the restaurant. Neither Carmen nor I had ever dreamed of owning a Porsche Carrera. What was the catch?
The sponsor was an American, Nico. Americans tend to be blunt.
“Listen, guys.” He was looking at me. “The deal’s simple. You get the loan of the Porsche in return for selling that bike of yours. The last thing we need right now is an accident. OK?”
Anyone half-sane wouldn’t have given the decision a moment’s thought but Carmen loved my old Kawasaki as much as I did. We used to bomb out of Bristol at weekends and ride the country roads up across Exmoor. I’d even bought her a set of sleek black leathers which she wore like a second skin. We both looked at each other and asked for a couple of days to think about it. Big mistake.
Next day happened to be Saturday. For once, I’d taken a day off training. After a long conversation in bed we decided to say yes to the Porsche but treat ourselves to one last mindblowing ride on the Kwacker. The beauty of Exmoor is the lack of trees and hedges. The roads up on the moor wind and dip and you can see for miles. At top speed, the Kwacker can hit 130 mph.
Towards the end of the afternoon, I badly misjudged a corner. There was loose gravel, too, but the fault was mine. The ambulance got us both to hospital within the hour. My own injuries were superficial but Carmen didn’t regain consciousness for two days. At the end of the week, the specialist took me aside and told me that she had multiple fractures in both legs. Her left ankle was a mess and her left knee would have to be rebuilt completely. She’d be lucky to walk again, let alone run.
For reasons I don’t understand, Nico still went ahead and ordered the Porsche. Maybe, under all that Manhatten aggression, he was a nicer bloke than I’d thought. Or maybe he was just heading off the day when I went out and bought another big bike. Either way, I rapidly became an expert in folding Carmen into the passenger seat of this beautiful car. She was aware of the glances in the street when we idled in traffic and she said the pain was good for her. Brave girl.
Slowly, over that winter, she began to walk again. She had physio sessions four times a week but by the time summer came round I think we both knew that she’d never get back to competitive running.
Hours on the internet had given her the contact details for an orthopaedic surgeon in Phoenix, Arizona. She talked to him on the phone a couple of times, and sent over a thick envelope of X-rays. This guy specialised in sports injuries and after he’d taken a look he told her that the real problem was the knee. He’d developed a new hi-tech operation and promised a 70% chance of retrieving full mobility. The only problem was the price tag. $65,000. Plus expenses.
At this point I should add that the Interim Military Council had now been running the country for a full year. Not only had they created jobs but they’d also enabled local councils to buy up thousands of the repossessed homes that were still for sale. That meant money in peoples’ pockets and roofs over peoples’ heads. Parliament was still suspended, and politicians were a dying breed, but no one seemed to miss them. Foreign investment was pouring into the country. The pound was strong again. We at last counted for something in the world.
The best news for us was a big pat on the back for UK Sport. Our performance back at the Beijing Olympics had surprised everyone and after the England football team had bombed disastrously in the 2010 World Cup, the generals had realised the importance of sport in their crusade to put the Great back into Britain. With the 2012 games happening in London, and the Olympic village taking shape by the day, they decided to double financial support for the squad of Olympic contenders. As far as I was concerned, on top of all the media and sponsorship fees, that meant I stood a fighting chance of getting Carmen to Phoenix.
And not before time. Slowly, day by day, she was becoming a different person. The sunshine had left her. The light had died in her eyes. She just lay around the flat, doing nothing, and began to put on weight. It wasn’t that I minded doing the cooking, or anything else for that matter. It was just the wierdness of living with someone who was fast becoming a stranger. Then Anna turned up.
She appeared at the door of the flat on a Sunday evening in early November. Carmen was asleep in the bedroom. It was pouring with rain and Anna was soaked. One look at her grin and I knew exactly why I’d fallen in love with her.
I got her a towel. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she was wearing Carmen’s dressing gown. There was lots of Carmen’s medical stuff in the bathroom and she asked why. The question threw me a bit. Our accident had been all over the press and TV but Anna obviously wasn’t tuned in. When I explained about what had happened she said she was really sorry. Bad shit.
I asked Anna what she’d been up to but she wouldn’t tell me.
“Doesn’t matter.” She said. “Just stuff.”
“Is Kelly still involved?”
“Yeah.”
“But you won’t tell me any more?”
“I can’t. I just wanted to catch up, find out how you were.”
�
�I’m fine.” I shrugged. “I’m on schedule with my training. I run silly distances every day, just like always. Everyone seems to think I’m a cert for the Games. They might even ask me to carry the flag at the opening ceremony.”
“And you’d say yes?”
“I might.”
“You’ve heard about the internment camps? The exiles? All that?”
I nodded. There were plenty of rumours if you could be bothered to take an interest. How most of the country’s intellectuals had fled to mainland Europe. How the rest of these guys had been banged up in special camps.
“And you’re happy with all this stuff?”
“Of course I’m not. But life goes on.”
“Sure. And yours couldn’t be sweeter.”
That was a cheap shot. Training isn’t pain-free, not the way we have to do it. Neither is living with someone you’ve turned into a cripple. I began to protest but Anna beat me to it.
“Listen…” She put her hand on mine. “…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just the whole thing, the Regime, what they’re up to, what they’ve done to us. It’s not the generals any more Joe, it’s the guys behind them, the people from the City. This has become a country run by businessmen. They control everything, even you. The generals are a front. In a way they’re as helpless as we are.”
I was still trying to work out how Anna could get under the skin of our new masters. Newspapers, after all, had become a voice for the Regime. Same with TV. They controlled what we did, what we thought, everything.
“I use the internet.” She gave me a couple of websites, both registered in France. “Be careful when you log on. They’re scanning everything these days.”
She got up. Carmen’s dressing gown fell open. Anna was naked underneath. She grinned down at me, then returned to the bathroom. Back in the sitting room, moments later, she’d pulled her jeans on, still soaking wet.
The Ghosts of 2012 Page 1
