Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  The accident meant I was out of action for two months. The charity event intended to save my reputation was postponed, and my upcoming competitions were canceled. And then, just a few days after my cast came off, I’d gotten into more trouble involving Hassan.

  Chapter 10

  Fencing is an interesting sport in that it can be played by almost any age group, and you get a whole lot of different shapes and sizes succeeding in it. The only rule is that epee fencers tend to be taller—height gives you an advantage in that category—although having said that, the men’s epee World Championships was won a few years back by a fencer who was much shorter than average.

  But it’s not a sport you have to be skinny to play. You can be normal weight, or even carry a few extra pounds—if you’re not also required to model clothing for your sponsors, of course; in which case, welcome to a life of starvation.

  Generally, fencers have to do their time practicing. Five to six hours a day with the sword is imperative to stay on top form, but beyond that, there’s not much other training that is going to help you, because only fencing can make you better at fencing.

  I, however, was in the unlucky situation of having to try and stay on top of my fencing game, and also remain underweight for the cameras. This meant that after I’d finished doing my hours of practice in the local sports hall, I had to spend another hour or two at gym. It didn’t escape me that I was probably overtraining as a result of all of this, and that the more I worked out and the more weight I lost, the more my fencing performance suffered. It was a lose-lose situation, really, but my modeling commitments and appearances were happening so frequently that they had to take priority.

  Hassan was based in Newark for most of the year, and trained at the same international sports and athletics center as I did. More than that, he was also fanatical about working out. All that training didn’t seem to do him any harm, though—he was ranked third internationally in epee. He was tall and muscular, so iron-hard in appearance that the joke in competitive circles was he didn’t even need a fencing suit. It was only when I got to know him better that I realized his bullet-proof physique concealed a gentle nature and a deep sensitivity.

  “What gym do you go to?” I asked him one day, when we were side by side in the fencing hall, practicing our moves. “I go to the one on Dawson Road, but it’s so badly ventilated, and always too full; I’m sure I’ve been picking up viruses as a result.”

  “I used to go there. I know a better place. It’s a private gym where most of the Moroccan team train when they’re here. It’s further out of town, but very clean and never too full. I can give you the address if you like.”

  Grateful for the information, I wrote down the address, and from then on I became a regular at the gym, which was far better than the other one I’d used. I often saw Hassan there. Frequently, he trained with a fellow athlete, Ahmed. Ahmed was a tall, handsome professional sprinter with a flashing smile, who was the most famous sportsperson I knew—as an Olympic gold winner, he was well off financially, with a few lucrative big-name sponsorships.

  When Ahmed was not there, Hassan would sometimes help me with my weight training. Once, when I told him about a shoulder muscle that was bothering me, he gave me a massage, his strong fingers skillfully finding the tight fibers and kneading the knots out of them so that I sighed with relief.

  We had lots of opportunities to talk, and we became good friends. And yet, I felt that Hassan was holding something back; that despite our closeness, he was not telling me everything in his heart.

  One evening after I’d trained late, I’d left the gym and headed home, exhausted. I was depressed that it felt familiar to be spent with weariness, flat-footed with physical tiredness, aching all over, worrying that I was coming down with yet another bout of flu.

  And despite all this, despite the dieting and the gym and the religious adherence to my program, I was not gaining the crucial edge of speed I needed; my rankings were slipping, and I was consistently being bested by Monika in our matches.

  Despondently, I’d trudged down the two flights of stairs to street level, where I walked a couple hundred yards to the grocery store to buy some essentials, before crossing to the other side and walking back to the parking lot. It was only when I was standing next to my car, holding my bags of low-fat milk, fruit and oats, that I’d realized my keys were not in my purse.

  Where were they? With weary resignation, in the growing darkness, I retraced my steps. I hadn’t dropped them anywhere I could see or left them in the grocery store. That meant they must be in my locker at the gym.

  I was sure the gym would already be closed—the only two people there when I left had been Hassan and Ahmed—but I had no other choice. To my surprise, although most of the lights were off, the building’s security door was unlocked, and the glass-paneled entrance door swung open when I keyed in the access code.

  I tiptoed down the short passage way, past the door to the admin office, which was closed, and up to the gym’s access door, which always stood open. I was aware of how dark it was, suddenly realizing that this gym felt spooky at night when it was empty. The machines looked like lurking monsters, and without the usual music playing, the room itself was creepily silent…or was it?

  What was that noise? I could hear something coming from inside the main gym.

  Where on earth was the light switch? I’d never had to turn the lights on. I felt around on the wall, my fingers moving over the smooth plaster and catching on the edge of a thumb-tack that held up a poster. No light switches on this side, nor on the other.

  And I needed them. Especially since I could definitely hear a noise, and it sounded human. Sighs, and the soft, ragged sound of breathing, were coming from somewhere ahead. Oh, God, what if a psychopath had crept in here just before lights-off and was waiting in the shadows to pounce on me?

  I caught my breath, freezing in position, because this was not just my imagination at work. There really was somebody there. I could see a shape silhouetted against the faint light from a street-side window opposite. Or was it really a human shape? Something didn’t look quite right with it. Adrenaline surged through me, temporarily banishing my tiredness. And at that split-second, I remembered where the light switch was. It was behind the reception desk.

  I edged toward it, my heart pounding, every muscle in my body tensed and ready to flee if I pressed it down only to reveal a raggedly dressed, snarling intruder, his upraised knife gleaming as he spun round toward me…

  With my hand trembling, I located the large switch and pressed it.

  The room flooded into light, illuminating the grey tiles, the shiny vinyl and chrome of the machines, the clean white window blinds—and my mouth literally fell open as I saw the couple near the window, who had been locked in a passionate kiss and who were even now separating hurriedly, guilt and fear written all over their faces.

  Hassan and Ahmed, still dressed in the gym outfits they’d been wearing earlier. The picture I’d seen when the lights went on was etched on my mind. Their bronze, muscular arms had been intertwined, their sculpted bodies pressed together, their lips touching. There had been so much beauty in that moment of love I’d witnessed, but they were obviously mortified that I’d seen them, and that fact was making me embarrassed.

  I should have known. I should have guessed that the two of them were lovers. Now, looking back, it all made perfect sense. I felt a little hurt that Hassan hadn’t confided in me, but perhaps he’d been unsure about my views on gay relationships. Some people were prejudiced…maybe he hadn’t wanted to risk spoiling our friendship.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Their obvious discomfort was making the situation so awkward and I didn’t know where to look. “I forgot my keys in the locker room, I think. I didn’t know anyone was in here. I’m so sorry to not…uh…to not have knocked first.”

  I could sense they wanted me to leave, and as fast as possible. Well, I’d get my things and be off. We could talk about this another time, wh
en all of us were less embarrassed. I started hurrying across the gym, but knocked a folder off the desk in my haste and had to stop to pick it up. Great, just great. Replacing it on the desk, I practically ran over to the locker room, relieved to see my keys were there. I grabbed them before heading for the door.

  “Claire!” Hassan’s voice, filled with stress, brought me to a standstill just before I made my escape.

  I turned to see him striding across the floor toward me.

  “Claire, I must apologize,” he said. “I should have told you. I should have explained.”

  “No, no,” I reassured him, smiling in an effort to dissolve his tension. “It’s okay, really it is. I understand why you didn’t. And you don’t need to worry. I—I think it’s wonderful, that the two of you…”

  The expression in his face made my words dry up.

  “Claire, it can never be wonderful,” he said, his voice heavy with sadness. “It can never be anything but secret. Please, I beg of you, will you keep this to yourself? It’s very important.”

  “Of course,” I said, and I was going to reassure him further, but from near the window, Ahmed cut in. “Not just important. It’s life or death.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked, confused.

  “If we were seen together, like this, in our home country of Morocco, we would be imprisoned immediately, and detained for up to three years.” Hassan’s voice was hard. “It is an offense there. Against the law.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “You can’t be serious.”

  But looking in his eyes, I could see the truth there, even before his nod confirmed it. Ahmed walked forward to stand beside his lover.

  “It can never be made known, this love we share,” he emphasized. “It must always be secret, even while we are training here in New York. It is too dangerous, otherwise.”

  “But can’t you move permanently to the U.S.?” I asked. “Both of you—you’re brilliant athletes. You would be able to emigrate if you wanted to. You live here for most of the year, anyway.”

  “It’s not just us,” Hassan explained, his voice sad. “We are working on it, Claire, believe me. But my family has to move, too, and that is a problem that is taking longer to solve.”

  “Oh,” I said, understanding.

  “We cannot make this public while my close family still live in Morocco. My younger brother and sister, they are still in school. We cannot risk it. Not the way things are there.”

  Hassan sighed, and standing next to him, Ahmed nodded solemnly. “If anything happened to them, we could never forgive ourselves,” he added.

  “I won’t ever tell,” I promised.

  I left soon after that. There was nothing more we could say. I had trudged back down the stairs with a heavy heart, thinking of my two friends, and their love for each other that would have to remain secret, with each stolen assignation carrying a terrible risk.

  Chapter 11

  As the Mercedes crested a hill I blinked furiously, trying to clear the sad memories from my mind and returning my attention to my present circumstances. Where was Patrick taking me? The good news was that the driver who’d been following us seemed to have disappeared into the hills, and the road was quiet.

  A little further along, Patrick indicated left, and turned into a narrow lane whose entrance was almost concealed from view by a large, sprouting hedge. We started climbing steeply up a wooded hill. I craned my neck, hoping to see what lay ahead as we rounded the bends, but each time, my view was blocked by trees.

  “There’s no fear of anyone following us up here,” he reassured me. “This road leads directly into the place we’re going.”

  So where were we going, I wondered. I could ask him, but from the teasing way he’d dropped that hint about the road, I had a suspicion the answer might only be, “Wait and see.”

  In any case, Patrick’s attention was focused on the steep, winding route. I glanced at his profile, stealing a look at him while he drove. He had a straight nose, a strong chin. Classic features that would do justice to a nobleman or a lord. The rugged perfection of his profile was broken only by his luscious mouth creasing into that roguish half-smile. The expression was so charming that I was sure it had served him equally well in the boardroom and the bedroom.

  And what did this handsome man want from me, I wondered—beyond the obvious, of course. Was this just about sex? If so, I had to admit, my own attraction for him was as strong as his for me; this was no one-sided pursuit. But what if his reasons were more complicated?

  What if Patrick had another agenda, but was keeping me in the dark about it?

  Could I really trust him?

  The road straightened out, flanked by vivid green trees, and Patrick glanced at me and caught me peeking. Hastily, I looked away, and glimpsed the shape of a tower through the trees. Was this where we were going?

  The trees thinned as we crested the hill, and I caught my breath at the sight that lay ahead. Beyond the woods, green meadows stretched to the tall, battlemented walls of a castle, whose central feature was the high stone tower I’d spotted earlier. Its majestic height cut the skyline, the afternoon sun lending some warmth to its pale grey stone.

  Colorful flags flew from its ramparts. I recognized the Irish flag, the Union Jack, and the stars and stripes of my own flag, together with a few others that were familiar to me because I’d traveled to those countries, or I’d seen athletes holding them in parades. Russia, Germany, France, Brazil…

  “Wow, it’s amazing,” I breathed.

  “I wanted to bring you here to see a part of the country I’ve always loved. And to show you the worst investment I’ve made in my life,” Patrick explained.

  “What investment?” I asked, confused.

  As we neared the imposing tower, the trees gave way to short, immaculately trimmed hedges. A group of men in yellow safety vests were at work a short distance ahead. Two of them were trimming the hedges, the other three were cutting the grass. The buzz of their tools sounded loud in the otherwise still afternoon, and as Patrick wound his window down, the scent of fresh-cut grass filled the car.

  “You mean—this castle is your investment?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Give me a moment, please,” Patrick said. “I’ve just got to speak to my maintenance team.”

  He stopped the car and climbed out, closing the door before walking over to the group. They switched off their machines when he approached, and I could hear their voices, interspersed with bird calls and the far-off bleats of sheep, but couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying.

  His castle?

  I stared ahead at the tower, a bold, dramatic structure against the deep blue afternoon sky.

  After a minute, Patrick climbed back in the car.

  “Yes, it’s mine,” he said. “I own it. I bought it, and a hundred acres of the surrounding woodlands, five years ago.”

  “And why is it such a bad investment?”

  “Well, the castle itself—Kelly Castle—was built in the late sixteenth century by the O’Kelly family, who were Irish nobility. They owned a huge tract of land going right the way down to the sea, but from all accounts, they were a hard-living, hard-fighting bunch. Drunkards. Fighters.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Adulterers.”

  “So what happened?”

  “In the early 1700s, the heir to the castle was killed in a duel. It passed to his brother, who was an alcoholic, and allowed it to fall into disrepair before he cracked his skull out hunting. From there, it changed hands a few more times, each time ending up with more unsavory owners.”

  “Go on,” I encouraged him. I was fascinated by the account of this place, so steeped in history.

  “Well, over time, the woods began encroaching, and when it was up for sale the last time, the castle had been basically swallowed by the forest. Trees had taken over, and were growing all the way up to the moat, their roots starting to push under the foundations. The buildi
ng itself had fallen into disrepair, and had become a hangout for vandals and drug users.”

  “Wow,” I breathed, my eyes wide as I imagined its walls, dark in the shadows of the forest and sheltering ne’er-do-wells.

  “An American investor put in an offer to buy it. He was planning to have it dismantled and shipped out to his ranch in Texas, stone by stone.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I found out about it. I had the money available, so I bought it and have spent the past few years restoring it to its former glory. We’re not quite there yet, but almost.”

  Patrick parked the car in a paved lot. I climbed out and walked with him to the imposing main gates, where a wooden drawbridge arched over a deep moat.

  I followed him over the drawbridge, my footsteps muffled by the thick, heavy, wooden planks. Two enormous chains supported its weight, and a brightly shining steel grille protected the top section of the inner archway.

  I glanced down into the moat as I passed. Its waters were very dark and absolutely still. I imagined how a warrior would have felt, fighting on the drawbridge, only to be shoved into those icy waters. The sides of the moat were completely sheer—there would be no way out. Wearing heavy armor, death by drowning would swiftly follow.

  I shivered as we walked through the inner arch, passing under the steel grille and into a square courtyard. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Patrick slipped his arm round my waist. It was the first time we’d touched since I’d run away, and I felt acutely aware of the strength of his arm, the warmth of his palm. His touch didn’t feel comforting. It didn’t offer me the reassurance I supposed he’d hoped it would. Instead, with his body now pressed against mine, I felt the familiar coil of lust inside me.

  I couldn’t help it. I slid my arm around him, tightening my grasp, so that I could feel the taut hardness of his body against mine.

  As we reached the inner courtyard, we stopped, arm in arm, taking in the sight. The center of the courtyard was well-kept grass, with a few wooden benches. A wide, covered corridor ran all the way around its sides. Beyond that, the castle walls were separated, at intervals, by archways, which led to its interior. Scaffolding on the east side of the building, near the tower, told me that the work here was not yet complete, but to me, it looked pristine.