at university. It’s a great stress reliever. I still do a bit now and then. It’s great for stamina, too.’
‘Where do you do it?’
‘In my garage. Come on, let’s go back and have a cuppa and I’ll show you.’
We jogged back down the hill and walked across the churchyard into Church Lane, where Pete’s cottage was. His garage wasn’t like ours, with all Dad’s dusty boxes of rusty tools, doorknobs, foreign editions of his Jock of the Loch romance novels and Christmas trimmings. Or Neil Rittman’s immaculate garage, with the two luxury cars and giant speedboat. Pete’s was smaller, like a boutique gymnasium with a wall TV, a fridge of isotonic drinks, weight machines, a treadmill, dumb-bells, a bench and, swinging from one of the low slung beams on a chain, a large black-and-red punchbag. He reached for something on top of the fridge and unravelled it.
‘First we wrap your hands.’ He set about coiling a length of red bandage right around both my hands, like I was being mummified, then tied it off on a Velcro strip. Then he reached for a pair of boxing gloves, tied to a nail on the wall next to the first aid box. He put them on me. It felt like some grand occasion, like I was putting on a crown. ‘Right, relax your hand. Now make a fist. Keep your fingers all in there. Thumb on top but keep it in tight. OK, bounce on the balls of your feet. Keep everything relaxed but ready. Now, hit the bag.’
I did. Hard.
‘OK, again. Breathe out on the punch.’
I did it again. Harder.
‘Yep, good, exhale each time you let the punch fly. Don’t hold it in. Make a noise if you have to. Both fists, elbows in tight, that’s it, keep bouncing. Watch me. Don’t fling it forward, push it. Good. Breathe out. OK, let’s try some jabs. Keep breathing; let your breaths out, don’t hold them back. Relax when you’re bouncing, then let the punch fly and exhale. Good. Exhale. Good. Okay, cross. Upper cut.’
We stayed in his garage for the next hour – an hour when I should have been doing sprints and shuttle runs or burpees up on Brynstan Hill. Instead, I was Muhammad Ali. Strong and powerful and so angry. All bee – no butterfly.
‘Let’s try a few straight line punches. These’ll wear you out quicker but they pack the most power. Keep those wrists loose, don’t lock them. Keep those breaths coming out on each punch. Bounce. Jab jab jab. Quicker. Good. Now smash it! Lights out! You’ve picked it up quickly, Ella.’
My knuckles and wrists ached but there was no real pain, not like there was at home. By the end, the sweat was pouring from my face and arms. Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang. It was so fast. I was so ferocious. I loved it. I used my anger well in my running, Pete said, but I had too much of it, and had to burn some of it off.
‘Like bleeding a radiator. We’re just getting rid of your trapped wind, so you can function more efficiently.’
‘You better not be calling me windy!’ I carried on pummeling the bag.
He laughed. ‘Believe me, I’m not going to mess with you while you’re in this mood. That’s great, keep going. Find the rhythm.’
It felt like each punch had meaning. Pete was right. What I’d been doing at home was just battering myself. This felt like it was working something out of me. Every time I punched, a tiny puff of poison flew away. I felt exhausted, but electric all over.
‘OK, that’s enough for today,’ Pete laughed, holding the bag steady and starting to unlace my gloves. I was still bouncing on the balls of my feet, sweat sliding off me in rivers.
I folded up the hand wraps and put them back on the fridge. ‘Can we do this again?’
He scratched his stubble. ‘Neil Rittman’s paying me a lot of money to train you in running the four hundred metres, Ella. It’s not going to look great at Area Trials if you’re first out the starting blocks with an upper cut and a straight right left, is it?’
‘I know but just one more session doing this? Please? We don’t have to tell anyone. We can run for half the session and box for the other half or something. Can we? Please?’
‘Tell you what,’ he said, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a small set of keys, unhooked one attached to a Brynstan Academy fob and gave it to me. ‘How about we keep our training sessions to running, but any time you feel like punching the crap out of that pillar, you come here and use the bag and gloves. No more dry wall sessions on those fists.’
‘OK,’ I said, holding the key like it was a precious artefact. ‘Thanks.’
‘And you jog all the way here and all the way back, right?’
‘Right.’
He looked at me for a long time, then rubbed the outside of my arm. ‘And if you do want to talk, my door’s always open.’
I held up the key and smiled. ‘I won’t. But thanks.’
‘So, hang on, where does the missing cat come into it?’
The Mystery of the Disappearing Cat
Oh yeah, well it was the morning Max picked me up from training at Pete’s house, which he never ever did. He was leaning on his Audi across the road from Pete’s cottage when I emerged from the garage, fists shaking, sweat trickling down my forehead.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said, with an edge to my voice I hadn’t meant.
‘Oh that’s nice,’ he laughed. ‘I thought I’d pick you up, save you the jog back.’
‘I like the jog back.’
‘All right, I’ll go then, shall I?’
‘No,’ I said, wiping over my face again with my damp towel. ‘Sorry. Thank you.’ He was expecting a kiss, so I kissed him. Then I felt bad cos when he hugged me in to his chest, he rubbed my back like he did when we were kids and I was crying. I went round to open the passenger door.
Max got in too. ‘Sweated up a storm today,’ he commented. I didn’t answer. He didn’t switch the engine on either. He was just looking at me.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘How was it?’ he asked. He wasn’t looking at my face, though. He was looking at my hands, red-tinged and shaking.
‘It’s just adrenaline. I only did a quick warm down today.’
He was looking at me funny, the way he did sometimes when he didn’t get something.
‘Pied Piper on form today, was he?’ He started up the engine.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. Did he push you all the way?’
The car started off down Church Lane. ‘You don’t like Pete, do you?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Uh, cos I’ve met him? And cos he’s a dick?’ he said, stopping at the lights.
‘He’s not a dick.’
‘He’s posh.’
‘So are you when you’re not trying to sound like your dad.’
‘I am not!’
‘You so are, Max.’
‘Am not.’
‘So are.’
He stopped talking for at least a mile. Only when we came to the hospital roundabout just down the slope from my road did he open his mouth again.
‘There’s