Another Life by Keren David Page B

he’s teaching at some posh private school, not a sodding prison. I open my mouth to argue, but he carries on.
    ‘Ever think about what it’s like to be me, spending my time trying to help kids who’ve thrown their chances away? It’s a bloody thankless task, that’s what it is.
Most of them are too lazy to get off their arses. But you . . . you’re different. You’ve got what it takes. I’m going to have my little bit of credit for helping you and
you’re going to be a good example for others to follow. You and me, we’re creating a precedent here. It’s not fair to pull out now.’
    I couldn’t care less about him, and I almost tell him so. But we’re at the registration table.
    And, you know what, it’s not fair. Why shouldn’t I compete? My life is shit, and it couldn’t be shittier and I’m probably going to die young. I’m going to take this
chance. I may not get another one.
    Plus, if I compete, then Claire will see me. That’s if she’s even here.
    I wrote to her. I had to be careful what I wrote, because I’m sure they spy on our letters, but I told her I was running and I told her I might be racing, and I said that maybe there might
be some races near her and that’d be odd, wouldn’t it?
    On the back, in tiny letters, I wrote today’s date and a capital ‘N’. You’d have to look really carefully to see it. It’s kind of scrunched up in a corner and it
might look like a heart or it might just look like a scribble. Maybe the letter checkers would miss it, I thought. They wouldn’t realise I was setting up a meeting.
    Maybe Claire missed it too.
    I didn’t put love or I’m missing you or anything like that, because I was worried that someone in the prison would read it and work out that Claire was important to me and call up
the gangsters and. . .
    Maybe they did already. They’d tell me, wouldn’t they, if Claire was dead?
    I haven’t been sleeping well or eating much. I hope I can actually run a race.
    Mr Jones registers me, gets a number to pin on my shirt, talks me through the day’s timetable. Then he leaves me with Steve, the security guy, while he talks to the organisers.
Steve’s huge and bald and his neck and arms are mottled with tattoos. I used to work as a cleaner in a tattoo parlour – that’s how I saw Mikey getting his done – and in my
professional opinion, Steve’s tattoos were done by a blind man in the dark. I’d ask him, but he was moaning on to Mr Jones about how it wasn’t his job to give toerags like me a
day out, so I don’t think he’s going to be friendly.
    Then I have to warm up, stretch, check out the opposition. They’re a different calibre from the boys at the running club. These are more focussed, stronger, intent on winning. I
can’t see anyone I recognise, which is a relief.
    They look at me with unfriendly eyes. I stare right back. You don’t just beat your opponent on the track. You beat them with your belief that you can’t fail to crush them. Believe it
in your heart, and it’ll seep into theirs.
    The qualifier is a breeze. I leave them all behind.
    ‘You didn’t even break sweat,’ says Mr Jones, as I saunter back. ‘Well done. Well done. How did it feel?’
    ‘Good,’ I say, and I’m even smiling, I’m even feeling happy, when I see her.
    Claire.
    She’s wearing a dark pink beret, and she’s wrapped up in a grey fluffy scarf and the tip of her nose has gone a bit pink. She’s all by herself in the stands. She’s
staring around, looking for someone.
    Looking for me.
    There’s a warm, happy feeling in my stomach, spreading through my body. My toes tingle, my teeth ache. All I want to do is smile and smile and smile.
    How am I going to speak to her? How can I give Mr Jones the slip? Is there any way I can get her to the start point . . . or the finish? I can’t imagine we’ll get any time together,
but just to touch her hand. . .
    I pull myself together. I can’t start blubbing like a baby here and now