Chapter Twenty-Six: drowning puppies
Chapter Thirty-Three: coup de grâce
Chapter Thirty-Four: thirteen days
When he wanted to run faster, Chris Sheen imagined being chased by a tiger. Sleek, stealthy, powerful, it pounded silently along the trail behind him, tail swishing at the clasping brambles and eyes focused on his back. He didn’t risk a glance over his shoulder. There was no time for that. If he did his pace would slow, and maybe he’d trip over a tree root or a rock protruding from the uneven path. He’d go sprawling and the big cat would be upon him. All they’d find would be his GPS watch and perhaps one of his running shoes, bloodied and torn and still containing a foot.
He giggled. Sweat ran into his eyes and down his back. Mud was splattered up his legs from the newly ploughed field he’d run across a couple of miles back. Blood pulsed, his heart thudded fast and even, and he had never felt so good.
He loved running with the dawn. Out of the house while it was still dark, leaving Terri and the girls sleeping, he was through one small woodland and already running down towards the canal towpath by the time the sun set the hills alight. Sometimes he saw someone else on the canal, walking their dog or cycling to work, but more often than not he was on his own. This morning he’d seen a buzzard in a field, sitting on a recent kill and staring around as if daring anyone to try for it. Once on the towpath a heron had taken off close by, startling him with its sheer size. He heard a woodpecker at work somewhere, scared ducks into the water with their ducklings, and he’d caught a brief glimpse of a kingfisher’s neon beauty. This early morning world felt like his alone, and he revelled in it.
Now, close to the end of his run, the giggles came in again. It was a familiar feeling. The endorphins were flowing, his heart hammering, and it felt so bloody great to be alive that sometimes he whooped out loud, running through the woods towards home. He ran with assurance and style, flowing across the uneven ground and watching ahead for potential trip hazards. Spider web strands broke across his face, but he didn’t mind. Once, he’d arrived home to find Terri in the kitchen, sleep-ruffled and clasping a warm mug of tea, and when he’d hugged her – ignoring her protestations at his sweat-soaked clothing and cold hands – she’d screeched at the sight of a spider crawling in his hair.
He leaped a stream, slipped, found his footing and ran on. He knew this was a good run, he could feel it, but when he glanced at his watch he saw that he was well on course for a personal best. It was one of his regular routes – through a small woodland on the other side of the village, along a country lane, up a steep hill to a local folly, back down a rocky trail to the canal towpath, then under several bridges until he entered the larger woodland that led back home. Twelve miles, and his best time so far was one hour fifty minutes. Not bad for cross country, and pretty good for a middle-aged former fat bastard. But today he was set to smash that record by five minutes.
It was almost eight o’clock, and he’d still be home in time to make sandwiches for Gemma and Megs to take to school.
He emerged from the woods and headed across the large field behind the village hall. He waved at an old man walking his dog, vaulted the fence instead of passing through the kissing gate, and crossed the village hall car park.
Half a mile now, and he put on a burst of speed to finish at a sprint. It felt so bloody good. When he’d hit forty he’d been thirty pounds overweight and unfit, but then everything had changed. A comment one day from Terri – I love you cuddly – had started a snowball effect of worry about his weight, unhappiness at his appearance, and concern for his kids. He wanted to see them grow up. He wanted to take his grandkids for long walks. Four years later he was fitter than he’d ever been, leaner, stronger. He’d tucked his first two marathons under his belt, and the year before he’d completed his first Ironman, with plans for more. The Chris of four years ago wouldn’t recognise the Chris of today, and he couldn’t deny a little smugness at that thought.
‘Morning, Carol!’ he shouted across the road. Their friend was dragging rubbish bags up her driveway, still wearing her dressing gown.
‘Nutter!’ she called back, waving. She was wildly overweight and never walked anywhere, even drove to the village shop. Chris was fond of her, but knew who the real nutter was.
There was a strange car parked at the end of his street, a suited man in the driver’s seat talking into a Bluetooth headset. He caught Chris’s eye then looked away, still talking. Smooth-looking bastard. Salesman, maybe. Chris hoped the guy didn’t knock at his door, but the ‘No Cold Callers’ sign didn’t deter most. He was an architect, he worked from his home studio, and nothing annoyed him more than people disturbing him to try to sell him things on his doorstep.
Their house came into view. One more injection of power, swing those arms forward and back, watch the style, land on mid-foot and sweep forward, and … hit the watch.
Chris looked at his time and muttered a delighted ‘Yes!’ Terri wouldn’t really care that he’d beaten his best time by almost six minutes. He’d tell her anyway.
Their bedroom curtains were still drawn. That was weird, because Terri had to leave for work in less than half an hour. Maybe she’d missed the alarm, although the girls foraging downstairs for breakfast and arguing over what to watch on TV should have woken her.
Panting heavily, already feeling the burn settling into his muscles, he plucked the front door key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. He needed a pint of water and a bowl of cereal and fruit. But for another few seconds he breathed in the