by Geoff Wolak
A dark outline approached, and Kate stiffened.
‘What are you worried about?’ I calmly asked her, but she did not answer, the man close now.
‘Got any spare change?’ his dark outline asked, his hood up.
‘Fuck off and get a job,’ I told him.
‘You what?’ he hissed.
‘Get a fucking job,’ I repeated, taking a step forwards.
He moved closer, a pointed finger thrust towards me through the dim light. Wrist grabbed, I sprained that wrist as I yanked him down, a punch to the jaw sending him rolling down the stone steps of the promenade and into the sand. He rolled over, swearing, and would be bruised in the morning and hurting.
I led Kate on as she glanced back. ‘No big deal.’
‘I do feel safer with you,’ she said, linking arms as we ambled back to the pier and the short distance up to the hotel. I had to work at not calling her Trish.
In the room we tackled the sparkling water and I got the kettle on, small coffee sachets and sugar packets tackled, powdered milk. Thirst quenched, we sat on the small balcony, Kate wrapped up warm and sat on me, and we were still there chatting as the dawn came up, street cleaners earning their keep below, a few people walking to work, so we headed in to bed after I put the ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob.
I woke around 10am, wide awake, and left Kate sleeping as I made myself a tea, complimentary shortbread biscuits my only breakfast for now, and I picked up my paperback.
Kate stirred around noon, and I handed her a tea in bed. She liked black no sugar, a drop of cold water. After her tea we enjoyed a hot shower, but no sex, got dressed and headed out hungry, a walk down the to the pier, a cafe found.
After a reflective moment she said, ‘We’ll have to be careful when we get back.’
‘No one will know unless you tell them. So relax, Ma’am.’
She shot me a look. ‘Sounds odd now, you calling me that.’
‘I am a lot younger than you...’ I teased.
‘Hey! I’m past my sell-by date, so don’t keep reminding me.’
‘You have a young bit of rough for company, so that should keep you thinking young.’
‘Bit of rough? You’re smarter than I am. I read your file, remember.’ After a moment chewing her food, she said, ‘I was going to ask you to stay on longer, there are more programmes they want to benchmark, more drugs.’
I shrugged. ‘Fine by me.’
‘Brize Norton is a waste of your abilities anyhow.’
I sighed. ‘True.’
After lunch we strolled along the beach, and I held her hand, which came as a shock to her. She admitted to liking it, but had not held hands much with past partners and suitors.
The sun came out, the day warmed up, and we sat listening to the waves and chatting.
‘I feel relaxed now, not going to go through with what I had planned,’ she said.
‘What ... did you have planned?’ I puzzled.
‘His family home is not far, and they have vintage cars. I was going to damage a few. Silly really, a doctor thinking like that.’
‘You were thinking like a scorned woman, not a doctor. You are allowed to be human. So, let’s use my car late tonight and go take a look at these cars.’
She laughed. ‘We can’t. If we get caught I’d be kicked out of the RAF.’
‘Trust me, I won’t get caught.’
‘Done this before?’
‘Well ... once or twice.’
I got back at 2am, the key used to open the door, and she was asleep as expected. I used the bathroom to wash off a few specs of paint, checked I had no paint on my clothes, and eased into bed next to her, cold hands on her boobs. But when she was asleep a bomb would not have woken her, that I had learnt early on.
We woke about the same time, and she enquired after my nocturnal activities.
‘Ma’am, I was here the whole time,’ I quipped.
After breakfast we drove over to Swanage and strolled along the beach, kids playing, seagulls gliding past on the breeze and looking for scraps, and we again sat and stared at the waves for a few hours. I did not want it to end, and a chill went through me when I considered the future.
I was the outsider to her world, the bad boy, not allowed to play with the nice children; the outcast, but not of my own making, and I was suddenly very angry at a great many people for the way I had been treated.
She had to get back, so we kissed and parted, separate cars, and I wondered if she would change her mind next week. I set off with an empty feeling in my gut, and a rage in my chest. If someone had cut me up on the road I might have killed them.
I got back at 7pm Sunday night, Smurf enquiring after my barmaid. I told him, ‘I paid for the hotel and the trip, but she was on her period and no fan of blowjobs.’
‘What? What a fucking bitch eh, I hate girls like that. You dump her?’
‘Yeah, moved to another bed and breakfast, went out and met a girl. Might go back down to see her.’
‘More like it.’ And he did not enquire further.
On the Monday we all met at 9am as normal, Kate just as efficient as normal, all business, but a few people were cautious of what they said to her.
At lunchtime I heard her shout to someone, ‘He was a prick, I hit him, now get it sorted before I hit you!’ It made me smile.
At 4pm she managed to squeeze my cock without anyone noticing, which cheered me up. Tuesday morning and I was back on drug trials, which did not cheer me up. Injected with a clear liquid, not told what it was, I jogged slowly, my benchmark twenty miles, stopping to give samples every twenty minutes, my performance dead average – no effect.
On the Wednesday I was again injected, this time my performance right up till I collapsed with strong palpitations, Smurf voicing his opinion to the doctors. I recovered quickly, Kate worried for me, and on the Thursday I was again injected, soon struggling to keep going and having to stop. It felt like I was walking through treacle.
On the Friday I was given a day off to recover, and she cheekily told me to think of the money, a sly wink for me without anyone noticing. At 5pm she slipped me a note, and at 7pm I met her in Lydney, Gloucester, a small bed and breakfast on a pond, a dated waterwheel turning, ducks calling out.
We were soon under the covers – Kate having downed a large red wine before I got there, and unlike most girls I had shagged I liked kissing her and cuddling. I wondered if I was getting soft.
After an hour of sex we showered and went down to the bar, a nice meal laid on, and retired after several glasses of red wine had been downed. I made her moan at length, but got a bang on the wall from the old couple we had seen going into the next room. It left Kate giggling.
‘I’m becoming a common whore.’
‘What do you charge?’
I got a punch to the shoulder.
She had to leave by lunchtime the next day, so I drove the short distance to my parents, soon helping my father with his garden, getting back to the Programme at 9pm. I occupied my lonely room and pulled out a book, quite content to just be alone right now, no strong desire to head for a pub – and to find a barmaid.
On the Sunday night the lads were enquiring about my lack of sex drive, and I pointed at the drugs. They were now wary of the drug programmes, very wary.
On the Monday Kate found me alone. ‘According to Smurf the drugs are making you impotent?’ She stood with hands on hips, an amused grin on her face.
‘I was winding them up, an excuse why I never went out drinking Saturday night.’
‘And why did you not go out drinking Saturday night?’ she teased.
‘Happy enough with the rough wench I have to hand.’
‘Rough wench?’ She slapped me.
‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I loudly stated, the colonel having appearing the doorway.
She spun around. ‘Ah ... uncle.’
‘Hitting enlisted men is, I believe, frowned upon.’
‘He’s a cheeky little bugger sometimes,’ she to
ld him. ‘And a few slaps won’t damage Superman here.’
‘Still, decorum and all...’
‘OK, OK.’ She faced me. ‘Will you be pressing charges?’
‘In later life I’ll probably pay good money for a lady like you to slap me.’
I got a pointed finger close up. She joined her uncle. ‘See what I mean, he’s a cheeky little sod.’
‘Wilco, behave please,’ the colonel called as they left.
That weekend I met her in a bed and breakfast hotel just outside the historic city of Bath, and we strolled hand in hand a great deal, cuddled a great deal, and spent a lot of time in bed, the hotel staff shooting us looks.
On the Sunday we sat having lunch overlooking another pond and water wheel, this one not turning. I threw bread for the ducks, aiming at their heads.
‘Feels odd,’ she said.
‘What does?’
‘I never felt like this before.’
‘Like ... what?’ I pushed.
‘All the hand holding and cuddling. I like it, but just not used to it.’ She sighed. ‘So this is what it feels like to be normal.’
‘For most people, yes.’
She stared into my eyes. ‘I look forwards to seeing you on the weekends, but sometimes my mind wanders in work. This week my uncle noted that I was humming to myself.’
‘Humming? Oh, a bad sign,’ I teased. ‘But good sex with a hunk like me will do that to a girl.’
She slapped my arm and looked away, down at the ducks. ‘It’s a worry – what happens next.’
I felt a chill, and some anger. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t cause any fuss if you stop seeing me.’
‘Would you ... be hurt?’
‘I would be ... disappointed, and would miss our time together.’
‘Well I’m not planning on giving you up, so the world can fuck off.’
‘Wow, you swore. I’m turned on.’
‘Behave...’ she quietly admonished. ‘And stop hitting ducks on the head!’
That following week, myself, Smurf and Smudger were subjected to a bland grey porridge that had been made in secret, three times a day, our performance noted over the benchmark distance.
A team of Army doctors appeared on the Friday.
‘Which day was the best?’ a major keenly asked.
‘Wednesday, by far,’ we all agreed.
They looked at their notes, faces falling. ‘Bugger.’
I laughed so loudly as they left I got threats from a captain and a pointed finger, Kate hiding her grin as she escorted them out, the guys grinning.
‘Fucking egg-heads,’ Smurf let out after they had gone. ‘Just hope I can still get an erection this weekend.’
That weekend Kate had her period, and avoided me, being a bit grumpy when we met for a quick lunch. She did not do periods well, despite being on the pill. I was not about to suggest that she could still give me a blowjob, she would have killed me.
The three month marker came and went, and no demand came from Brize Norton that I return to them, somehow expected.
The Guinea Pigs were now doing well, fitness levels way up, and the marathon team was hitting four eight-mile slots plus a little gym work, and during those eight mile slots they would sprint and slow down a few times, working on capacity. But all admitted to being dead bored.
I nagged at Kate and they would have weekends off, a trip organised for them all to Cheltenham’s night spots, the programme paying transport and drinks, and the mood lifted.
Unfortunately, two of the nurses got together with two of the lads, and a week later there were a few frosty moments and harsh words between lovers. Fraternising was banned by Kate, but within military law that could not be enforced – I pointed out.
That weekend I met Kate in Reading, and we fraternised a great deal in our high-floor hotel room, trips to a cosy local wine bar and cafe interrupting long sex sessions, the staff thinking us newlyweds. I paid a maid to change the sheets twice in one day, leaving her smirking at me.
The Army returned the following week, and asked me all about the Guinea Pigs and the marathon team, and I explained the basics of QMAR, which was simple enough. More than three runs a week, distances and speeds the same, one longer run, or runs on alternate days, distance noted.
And, with the arrival of the Army that morning, the marathon team had all started a marathon. Three hours later, and the Army officers – coffee mugs in hands - were glancing at tired sweaty men as those men hit twenty-six miles in reasonable times, just under three hours.
I took the lead from Kate and described just how steep the training curve had been, and why running in slots was better for the men’s attitude – and that all-important pain barrier.
The Army went off happy, and keen to implement a few test programmes in a few regiments, financial incentives to be offered to the men due to be in those programmes. The marathon team went off with sore feet.
With Smurf mentioning the Three Peaks race, a hill climb race up Welsh hills, I mentioned it to Kate, and she was keen. I had never been fitter, but I also now had the benefit of these fancy treadmills, so I ran an hour a day on a gradient, my back often aching afterwards.
Holly, the nurse, had tackled the race a few years back, or at least attempted it, and so a week later the two of us drove off to a bed and breakfast near Snowdon, and twice a day we ran six miles – all uphill on crappy tracks, broken ankles a worry.
Holly could not keep up with me, so he would run with me the route in the mornings – all roads and no off-track for now, and I would run it again in the afternoons, sometimes spotting other runners in training, and I tackled some of the better tracks, trying hard not to twist an ankle.
Kate got my entry in, and the Centre sponsored us, a modest amount earmarked for charity. But, thinking about the race, I asked if anyone had ever attempted it in full kit. Holly had not seen anyone in full kit on his attempt. We discovered that many Army units tackled the Three Peaks, but on separate days, sometimes in full kit and walking.
Plans made - letters sent and permission granted, training being pushed hard, a week later I drove off with Smurf and Holly, my support team.
This race was odd in that it involved driving quickly from one race to the next, some 200 miles. We would start at a pub car park, the Storey Arms near Brecon, and run up a road, then a good track, then a narrow track to the peak of Pen-y-fan, home of the SAS’s basic training area.
Having set off at 5am, we got there at 6am, traffic heavy already, and I registered. Some of the runners were in gym kit, most in tracksuits and wrapped up warm, some had ski poles to help on the mountain tracks, and some would be walking and not running.
I was the oddity, full combats, boots, and a backpack – plus my bit of wood. And I got plenty of odd looks and questions, not least from an SAS team that Smurf knew. Oddly enough, they all knew my name, questions fired about the marathons – and about my heavy bit of wood. They thought me mad.
Whistles blown, shouts given, and a road backed by tall hedges was soon crammed full of runners, but I managed to get near the front when I explained who I was. Fit-looking men in running gear puzzled me as they checked watches.
‘Nice day for it,’ I quipped as we got ready.
In a complete shambles, and rubbing shoulders, we set off, and I had to push my way through, but after ten minutes the line of runners spread out as we ran along a road through lush green countryside, the rain holding off for now, a bit of a breeze.
I sprinted when I could, and I passed many runners, most of whom were saving themselves for the steep parts to come.
The road ended, a track began, and we penetrated woods, soon out the other side and onto a ridge, and now it would get interesting, a steep incline, everyone slowing. At least the sane runners were slowing. I put the power on and elongated my stride.
Twenty minutes later I was being careful where I stepped, rocks underfoot, the exposed track good in places, dangerous and narrow in other places, a wicked side-wind comi
ng in.
I rudely told a few runners to get out the way, and was soon behind the lead runner – no chance of overtaking him till we hit a flat section, then I sprinted past. And I kept the power on, my arms hurting due to my bit of wood.
On the peak the wind was howling at me and pushing me sideways as I displayed my badge and number to perplexed officials wrapped up warm - and spectators all wrapped up warm, soon turning and heading back down, but not the same route.
Back at the Storey Arms I was sweating, but had come first - and by a long way, my number given, and I was soon in the car with Smurf and Holly, driving west and then northwest towards Cadair Idris. We had a set time to get there and to register, baring accidents and traffic police, but since I was first we were hopeful.
I spooned meat from a tin in the back of the car, sipped tea from a flask, and rested my legs from the jolts they had received on the way down – which had been ten times harder than running up the hill.
By time we got to Cadair Idris I was rested, and I registered, more odd looks and more questions. I explained who I was, which resulted in the usual barrage of questions.
I stood there in a stiff cold breeze as other runners finally turned up, and we finally had a crowd, many of the runners not pleased with me, not least the lead runner and favourite, a Welsh Guards corporal. After I offered to smash his teeth out he shut the fuck up.
The SAS team appeared, also whinging, but they seemed to be fans of mine, and they were close behind at the start. Roads led to steeper roads, followed by very steep roads, soon tracks, following by damn steep tracks, single file tracks, and at times I was in danger of being blown down a thousand feet of cliff.
The Welsh corporal had been ahead of me for the first few miles, but I beat him to the peak, badge shown and number given, and we were soon on our way down, the corporal light and nimble and determined to beat me.
He stumbled on a track but got back up, pushed himself hard, but as we found a nice flat wide section he slipped in a puddle and went down hard, few others about.
Back on his feet, he could not put any weight on an ankle.
‘On my back, on the webbing,’ I told him.
