Part 15 (1/2)

As the days pa.s.sed, Justin propped himself between Boy and Peter, drawing strength from their constancy and discretion. He found that he could rest while Peter studied; his friend's even breathing and methodical page-turning pacified him. Peter had the gift of moving quietly, of taking up so little s.p.a.ce in a room that Justin often forgot the other boy existed, leaping startled to his feet when Peter made a noise. He began to see how successfully Peter's modesty deflected attention from whatever talents he possessed. The world seemed to flow around him silently, like water around a minnow.

Peter possessed, in fact, exactly the qualities Justin sought in vain to cultivate. Where Justin was anxious, Peter was calm. Where Justin was murky, Peter was clear. Where Justin struggled to remove himself from fate's radar, Peter seemed to amble through life below it.

With the transparency bestowed on the pure of heart, Peter seemed unaware of himself, of his gifts. But Justin could think of little else. How was such clarity obtained? He would do anything to look like that, to have his face reflect the peaceful symmetry of an orderly soul. Sometimes he dreamt of a medical procedure, a specialized surgeon who would slit him from his thorax to his crotch, peel back the tarry layers of his epidermis and insert a hose to suck out the grey areas, the filthy caves and murky darknesses that lurked around his heart, his stomach, his liver. What remained would be pink and healthy, springy and soft to the touch. It wouldn't stick to his fingers and stain his thoughts.

He'd been with them a week when Peter suggested they train together. It seemed a good way to get his friend out of the house, reintroduce him to the world outside his own head. Justin hesitated at first, but eventually gave in. So the two boys began to rise at a quarter to six each morning and set off in the winter gloom with Boy, at a steady pace of seven minutes per mile.

At first, Justin couldn't see the point. As much as he liked Peter, it was clear the boy was no athlete. He was far too tall, and his sweats never seemed to fit properly; he spent the better part of every practice tugging at his waistband to keep it from slipping down around his knees. In addition, his gait was clumsy and lumbering, attributable partly to lack of coordination, Justin thought, partly to lack of vanity. Even in full flight, he lolloped sideways, perpetually off-balance and awkward.

And yet, Peter never fell behind when they ran.

For a long time, Justin barely noticed. He'd adjusted his gait to match his friend's; it seemed impolite to live in a person's house and then leave him in the dust every morning. But after a few days Justin forgot to slow down, found himself working flat out. He arrived back at his new home streaming with sweat and puffing like a train. At his elbow, Peter wasn't even breathing hard.

When he ran sprints, Peter ran with him; often keeping up a cheerful line of patter that Justin had neither the breath nor the intellect to answer.

Eventually he realized that he had never seen Peter tired.

Having made this observation, he upped the pace until workouts left him staggering with exhaustion. He added miles to their morning run, then more miles, in an attempt to outrun the other boy. But still Peter loped along at his elbow without ever breaking into a sweat.

Finally, one Sunday morning, Justin stopped. He glared at Peter. 'What's this all about?'

Peter looked mystified. 'Um...' He shrugged, looking slightly worried. 'I don't know.'

'The running, Peter, the running. You never sweat.'

Peter smiled apologetically and shrugged again. 'I don't really get tired.'

'You don't get tired? What are you talking about? Of course you get tired. Everyone gets tired. Tired is what this is all about. I'm so tired right now I could throw up.'

Peter nodded sympathetically. 'Yeah.'

'Yeah? What do you mean ”yeah”?'

'I mean, I just don't ever get tired myself.'

'What?' Justin shook his head. 'Does Coach know this?'

Peter laughed nervously. 'I... I don't think so. I've never told him.'

'What happens if you pick up the pace?'

'The pace? Um, not much.'

'You still don't get tired?'

'Not really.'

Justin looked stunned. 'You're not fast too, by any chance?'

'I don't know. I never timed myself.'

'Come on, let's have a race, just a small one. Here to the end of the road.' Above Peter's protests, Justin dropped to a crouch. 'OK? Ready, go!'

Peter hesitated, starting well behind his friend, but in five strides had overtaken him. At a sprint, he turned to Justin. 'Come on, this is ridiculous, let's not '

Lungs bursting with the effort, Justin shouted, 'RUN!'

Peter ran. He pulled effortlessly away from Justin, and began gaining ground, first one metre, then two. Boy bounded between the two boys joyfully: now this is better! Peter reached the end of the road first by nearly five metres, and Justin had seen him pull up at the end.

'Jesus, Prince,' Justin choked, dropping exhausted to the kerb. 'Jesus.' It took him a minute to be able to speak. 'Coach'll drop dead when you tell him.'

Peter looked uncomfortable. 'I, uh, I'd rather he didn't know.'

'What?'

'I'd rather you didn't tell him. He'll make me work harder and start shouting, or set me up as an example. I'd rather just do what I've always done.'

Justin caught his breath. 'I don't get it. If I could run like that I'd take out a full-page ad in The Times.'

Peter Prince smiled. 'No, you wouldn't. And anyway, you're more coordinated. You look right. No one would be surprised if it were you.'

They set off again Peter, Justin and Boy more slowly now. Justin felt gloomy. What was the point of working so hard, running himself into the ground, when on either side of him was talent of a completely different magnitude?

'Don't you ever feel like running as fast as you can and winning, just to know how it feels?' he asked Peter as they puffed along in the flat morning light, the burn in his muscles reminding him of defeat.

Peter thought for a minute. 'Not really. I guess if I wanted to win, I'd have done it before now. I hate the thought of being conspicuous.'

'What does conspicuous have to do with anything? What about just running? What about running as fast as you can, just for you. Not for the applause or the medals or anyone else.'

Peter didn't answer for a time. When he did, he was reluctant, shy. 'I know what I can do.'

'But why have a talent you don't use?' Justin knew he sounded petulant but couldn't help it.

'I do use it.'

'You know what I mean. Why join the team?'

'I like the discipline, the routine.' Peter paused. 'I run because it feels graceful. It's the only time I don't feel like an auk. And it helps me think.' He grinned at Justin. 'Increases the blood supply to the brain.'

They ran on in silence, crossing a road that on a weekday would be jammed with commuters. Now it was quiet except for a mail van, a mini-cab driver in a shabby Ford, and a twenty-four-hour launderette attendant, standing outside her shop smoking a cigarette. She waved as they pa.s.sed.

'What about you?'

Justin sighed. 'It wasn't my idea, I was sort of drafted. But it works. I do it...' He thought for a moment. 'To escape, I guess. And also to keep me safe.'

They ran in silence through a major intersection. Stopping for a red light, Peter looked sideways at Justin. 'From fate?'