Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward watched the Rolls-Royce glide away as he placed Lady Summercorn’s card carefully in his wallet. He now had seven cards and two scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them, all of which had been discreetly slipped into his pocket.

Harriet heard the tiny stones rattle against her window and leapt out of bed. Looking down into the garden, she waved, then tiptoed downstairs to let Edward in. She put a finger to her lips and whispered so loudly he thought she would wake everyone in the house. ‘Don’t make a sound or Buster will head straight for the front door.’

They crept to her bedroom, and Edward trod on a teddy bear that squeaked, causing Harriet to titter and put her hands over her mouth. ‘Have you been having it away, like Allard?’

Edward looked back at her, standing there in her child’s nightie, and grinned. ‘Not quite.’

‘Oh, tell me what you’ve been doing, go on. It’s only fair, I’ve let you in.’

Edward tapped her snub nose and whispered that he had been screwing the knickers off a tart. Harriet stared, round-eyed, then crept to his side. ‘Did you pay for it? How much did she cost?’

He pinched her and pulled her chin towards him, looking down into her outrageously cheeky face. ‘She gave it me for free because I have such a big cock, bigger than Allard’s.’

Harriet mimed a faint, her face lit up with glee. She would have liked to keep him there, but he had already slipped out of the room. She flung her tall body on to the bed, her thick red curls covering her flushed face. ‘I wish he’d stick it in me,’ she whispered. Then she giggled so much she had to put the pillow over her head to muffle the noise, and in her imagination it turned into Edward, and she hugged it close to her. ‘I love you, Edward, I do — I really love you.’

Alex had been in training, working daily with the sports master. He had been accepted as a candidate for the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race — no easy accomplishment. Many people were against allowing a borstal boy to run in the competition. On his back rode the reputation of the borstal and, above all, the trust placed in him to mix with the other runners, the chance to run freely in open country with easy access to public transport.

Alex had also continued his studies, showing remarkable progress considering the pressure he was under. He had changed radically, from a shy, introverted boy into an outgoing, well-liked lad. He was popular, a hero to the other borstal boys. He was proud of his new status and took care of his new-found image. He was an example to the younger boys, showing them it was possible to succeed even within the boundaries of a reform school.

On the morning of the race, Alex was up at five o’clock, tingling with excitement. The sports master found him in the gym, working out at a gentle pace. ‘It’s cold, and there’s a frost. Ground’ll be hard going, could be snow later, it’s forecast. How you feeling, lad?’

‘Feeling good, sir. Ready to go.’

The whole school wore an air of excitement. At breakfast, Alex was patted on the back, and shouts of ‘Good luck!’ echoed around the hall. Alex was fit, his body in great shape with not an ounce of fat, his legs muscular but still slender. His eyes sparkled with health and vitality. Eric, his shadow, was ecstatic, saving Alex’s place for him at table. He beamed up at his hero and gave him a wink.

‘Right, Stubbs, this is it. Get your gear, the van’s waiting. Calm down, lads...’ Even the sports master was showing excitement, bouncing around dressed in tracksuit and plimsolls. He raised his hand for silence, and indicated the package he carried under his arm. ‘All right, come on, settle down. Stubbs, this is for you. The staff had a whip-round, so get into it on the double.’

The boys clustered around as Alex opened the parcel to reveal a new, pale blue tracksuit. They cheered, but Alex was so overcome he didn’t know what to say. Eric hugged him, jumping up and down at the same time. ‘I’ll get yer shoes an’ fings, all right?’

Mobbed by well-wishers, Alex made his way towards the lockers. He looked like a real ‘golden boy’, head and shoulders taller than most of the others, straightbacked, with his long, curly blond hair. Had it not been for the broken nose he might have been called handsome.

He turned the corner into the corridor. Eric shot out of the locker room, Alex’s running gear under his arm. He was red in the face, panting and terrified. Something was wrong, Eric was shaking. ‘Don’t go inter the lockers, fer Chrissake. They’re waitin’ for yer, Vic Morgan an’ ‘is mates. He’s got a runnin’ shoe wiv spikes an’ he’s goin’ ter mark yer. Take yer gear an’ get out before they find out I told yer. Go on, get out. I had ter sneak in — the bastards want you to lose.’

Alex hesitated, then grabbed his gear. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Hey, Alex... win fer me, will ya?’

Alex laughed and cuffed his friend lightly, saying that if he won the cup, Eric could keep it on his locker.

In the locker room, Morgan’s lookout banged open the toilet door. ‘That shit-head, Eric, gone an’ warned ‘im off. He’s gone, yer’ll never get ‘im now.’

Morgan swore and kicked at the tiles. Wound around his fist was a running shoe, sewn together heel to toe, like a knuckle-duster. Each spike had been filed to a razor-sharp point. From the window they watched the van drive out of the gates, and Morgan screamed obscenities. In a rage, he turned and shouted that he wanted that little shit, Eric, brought to him. He was going to teach the dirty squealer a lesson.

Alex looked splendid in his new tracksuit. He shook each leg in turn, then bent double to rub his thighs, while the sports master talked quietly to him. ‘Just pace yourself, lad. Don’t push, you got a lot of miles ahead of you. Don’t let the front runners set the pace. A lot’ll drop out. You run like you’ve trained, conserve your energy...’

Hundreds of spectators with a good sprinkling of sports reporters lined the starting point. The runners gathered in a pen and were given their numbers. Alex was the last to join them, and he felt self-conscious, wondering if they all knew where he was from.

The runners were called to the starting line. They were all jogging on the spot, trying to keep themselves warm, Alex among them. Captain Barker and the sports master looked on, watching as he shook his head, eased his neck muscles. This had become a familiar sight. They could see his lips moving.

Alex was setting himself apart, talking to himself, oblivious to the rest of the field. He was standing, hands on hips, shaking out each foot in turn. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the starting pistol being loaded. He panted, sniffed the air deeply into his lungs, shaking his head from side to side, and all the time he talked to himself under his breath. ‘This is it, go for it. You’re going to take it, take it, take the son of a bitch. Go for it, Alex. Nobody can touch you, nobody.’

Bang! They were off. Alex found his place with a tight group, taking easy, long strides, not pushing it. They had five miles of road before they hit the open country, and the going was tough because of the ice and the thin film of snow that was beginning to lie on it. The runners’ breath steamed in front of them — it was going to be a tough, gruelling race.

Four hours later the runners were far apart, many having dropped out. Alex began to push himself through the pain barrier. He was well out in front, with only eight runners ahead of him, and he was pacing himself well.

Captain Barker held his stopwatch tight as the van jolted and rolled along the country lanes. ‘There he is — by Christ, he’s going well. How’s his time?’

‘Bloody marvellous. If he keeps this pace up, he’ll break the record. The ruddy snow’s not helping, though.’