her, can you?’
‘No,’ agreed Joe. ‘So what happened?’
‘OK, this night, Mary was late picking up her parents – her dad’s car was in dock, which was why she was doing the driving. Reason she was late was she’d been playing in a club competition and the woman she beat was the Great Britain Number 2, and there’d been a journalist there who’d wanted to interview her afterwards. None of her family there though. So she’d got home full of this, only to be yelled at ’cos she was late taking them to see Zak run. Henry, that’s her dad, was nagging away at her, can’t you go faster, that sort of thing. So she jumped a light. Which was when it happened. And when Zak got to see her in hospital, first thing she said was, now you’ll be satisfied, last time I’ll have an excuse being late for seeing you run. Laying it all on Zak.’
‘How’d Zak take it?’
‘Like the trooper she is. When Mary got out of hospital it was Zak kept her up to scratch with her physio. I think Mary would have been happy to walk with a stick the rest of her life so’s no one would forget. As it was she seemed set to laze around at home looking miserable till Zak got her a job with her agent.’
‘That’s this guy Endor, isn’t it? Read about him too. Local isn’t he?’
‘Not really. Flash house out near Biggleswade, but he’s a professional Cockney, on the make, on the up,’ said Hardiman without much sign of affection.
Blames him for Zak going to the States and changing trainers? wondered Joe.
‘But, to be fair, he seems to be doing OK by the girl,’ Hardiman went on, as if realizing he’d let his feelings show. ‘He spotted Zak was going to need an agent before she’d got around to thinking of it for herself. But she’s no fool. Once she heard his proposal, she sat down and re-evaluated things. I think she signed up on a short-term contract, and part of the deal was that Endor gave Mary a job without it looking like a fix.’
‘Must’ve been pretty obvious,’ said Joe. ‘And some folk might think it was rubbing Mary’s nose in it, putting her where she’d see the figures clicking up every day telling her how well her sister was doing.’
His aim was to provoke and it worked.
‘That shows you know dick about Zak,’ snarled Hardiman.
‘While you know her inside out?’
‘I know her better than most. You’ve got to get close to someone you’re training. Sometimes you can get too close.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Young kids are vulnerable. They find a friendly ear to pour things into which, a couple of years later as they grow up, they wish maybe they hadn’t. So then they look for a reason to split.’
‘Thought you and Zak parted by mutual consent ’cos she wanted to go stateside and you wanted to take this job at the Plezz?’
‘I was talking in general, Joe, not about me and Zak,’ said Hardiman coldly. ‘Listen, Joe, you tread carefully here, right? Last thing I want is some family row blowing up in the Plezz, so save your dramatic revelations till Zak’s on her way back to the States.’
‘Should’ve thought the last thing you wanted was Zak coming last,’ said Joe.
Hardiman shook his head and sighed deeply.
‘Joe,’ he said. ‘The Grand Opening isn’t about Zak, it’s about the Plezz. After it’s over, then the real work begins, and it doesn’t matter if during the course of the ceremonies the mayor gets fighting drunk, the visiting dignitaries all fall into the pool, or Zak Oto gets run into the track by a no-name from nowhere. In fact if one or all of those happen, we’d probably get much more publicity than if everything goes to plan. This time next week, the mayor will be sober, the dignitaries dry, and Zak long gone to sunny Virginia. And all of us back here will be settling down to the long hard struggle to make this place pay.’
He paused and Joe digested the speech.
‘So you’re not bothered about Zak?’ he said finally.
‘Of course I’m bothered about Zak!’ said Hardiman indignantly. ‘I put years into that girl, the important years. I’m looking forward to a good decade of watching her tear up the record books, and all the while I’ll be thinking, it was me who got you started, girl! And I’ll tell you one thing, Joe. Doesn’t matter what some nutter might be saying, once Zak gets out on that track, she’ll run to win. She doesn’t know any other way. I guarantee that, ’cos it was me that put it there!’
Good speech, thought Joe. But when you’re watching her winning Olympic Gold, won’t you be thinking, it should be me there at trackside, me she’s running up to with the big thank-you hug for all to see on worldwide telly?
He recalled vaguely that last summer when Zak had announced she was definitely heading west, some of the tabloids had tried to whip rumours of an acrimonious parting into a full-blown row. Both of the notional participants, however, had been at pains to play things down. Zak, looking so lovely you’d have believed it if she’d told you she could fly, had talked about her gratitude to Jim and his total support for her decision that the American option was best for her, both personally and athletically. And Hardiman had completed the smother job by announcing that he was taking up the post of sports director at the Plezz. ‘With Zak’s talent, coaching her was a full-time commitment and I was never going to be able to combine it with getting things off the ground at the Pleasure Dome,’ he’d said, cleverly suggesting that if any dumping had been done, he was the dumpster.
‘Now let’s see if I can find Zak for you. I think she’ll be in the café with the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Didn’t she say? Her agent, her Yank trainer, and of course big sister are all here.’
He made them all sound like a gang of freeloading hangers-on.
‘So what exactly happens on New Year’s Day?’ asked Joe as they set off walking once more.
‘Well, there’s an official opening of the stadium, flashing lights, boys and girls dancing, that sort of thing, followed by the competition, with Zak’s race as the highlight, of course. Then in the evening there’s a civic reception in the art gallery to inaugurate the other facilities, Zak will be asked to unveil a plaque, everyone will get noisily pissed, and the ratepayers will foot the bill. The luminaries of Luton are fighting for invites. If you don’t have a ticket, you’re dead.’
‘I’m dead,’ said Joe.
Hardiman laughed and pushed open a door which led into a self-serve café, gaily decorated in the bistro style and tiered down to a plate-glass wall which let every table have a view of the track below. There was no food on offer yet, but on the serving counter a coffee machine bubbled away.
‘Won’t this be the place to eat though?’ said Hardiman proudly. ‘Gobbling up your grub, while down there they’re gobbling up world records.’
‘Pretty optimistic, aren’t you?’ said Joe.
‘We’ve got the fastest boards and the most generous indoor bends in Europe,’ boasted Hardiman. ‘They’ll soon catch on, anyone after a world record, Luton’s the only place to be. There’s Zak down there.’
Joe had already spotted the girl sitting at a table on the lowest tier with three people, two men and a woman. These three were drinking coffee. Zak was sucking on a bottle of her beloved Bloo-Joo which she removed from her mouth and waved as they approached.
‘Hi, Joe,’ she said. ‘Glad you could make it. You guys, this is Joe I was telling you about. Joe, meet my sister Mary, my agent Doug Endor, and my coach, Abe Schoenfeld.’
Schoenfeld was late twenties, athletic of build and glistening with what looked like spray-on health. He said, ‘Hi, Joe,’ in a Clint Eastwood accent. Endor, who was about thirty, tall, craggily handsome, and wearing an eat-your-heart-out-paupers