One of Us Is Dead

58 Monday 10 October 2022

Memories of yesterday — the good and the bad — were flooding back to James Taylor, as he sat back in his cosseting seat up at the sharp end of the early morning American Airlines flight from Chicago to Miami, fighting periodic, savage bouts of cramp in his right hamstring and left calf. Boarding was complete and they would be taxiing shortly.

The good had been the series of WhatsApp messages from Debbie, wishing him luck, followed by her genuinely joyous reply after he sent her his result. And a row of kisses.

The bad had been his alarm ringing in his hotel room at 4.45 a.m. and, forty minutes later, still a little jet-lagged, walking through the cold, dark streets of Chicago in his running gear, with an old jumper for warmth over the top, and hoping the queue for the line of portaloos wouldn’t be too long.

There were nearly fifty thousand entrants and most of them were already on the streets, heading in the same direction as he made his way towards Wave 1, Gate 9, Corrall C. Organizers always wanted you there long before the start time, and at least, he had hoped, he would have the opportunity for a good long warm-up before the start.

The queues through security had been hellish, and although he’d allowed himself the two hours advised by the organizers, by the time he’d finally reached the start for his wave, he’d barely had enough time, given the long queue for the toilets, to have a final, much needed pee and dump his bag in the bag drop. He only managed a five-minute warm-up before discarding his old pullover in a charity bin.

But once the race had started all of his annoyance was forgotten. He’d loved the buzz of the crowds lining the city’s streets, who were cheering, honking horns or ringing bells, loud, motivational music blaring out of speakers. And he remembered growing more and more tired, getting confused where he was, whether in New York or Chicago — the buildings looked so similar — as he hit the same mental and physical wall most marathon runners hit around the 20-mile mark. That’s when the real race begins, he knew.

Those last few miles had been a real struggle and he’d had to push harder and harder to maintain his pace, despite the regular energy boosts from the gels in his nutrition plan, repeating his mantra over and over. Remember why you’re doing this... Remember why you’re doing this... His mantra for each of the eighteen marathons he had run so far. Reminding himself why he had started running in the first place.

For Marcus.

His older brother and role model, Marcus. Marcus had always dreamed of becoming a pilot and that dream had been infectious. That day, almost twenty years ago, he would never forget. As teenagers, inseparable and always competitive with each other, they’d been racing each other on their pedal bikes down the steep hill on the far side of the Devil’s Dyke. Marcus, always the more daring, whooping with delight, had overtaken him on a blind brow. And hit a van coming up the hill, head-on.

Even more tragically, he hadn’t died, but instead had been condemned to a living death. A brain-damaged tetraplegic, Marcus lived for a further twelve years in a specially adapted bedroom at their parents’ house.

It had plunged Taylor into a deep depression. Every time he went into that room, he was thinking that it should have been him in that bed. Then, just a few days before he had died, Marcus had summoned Taylor to his bedside and, in his wonky, croaky voice that always made him sound like he was drunk, had whispered, ‘Just go for it. Promise me. Live your life for both of us. Almost every time I sleep, I dream I’m suddenly able to run again. I dream I’m running a marathon and running it so fast my legs leave the ground and I’m flying. Make that dream come true. Do that for me, bro. Make me even more proud of you than I already am.’

Taylor promised him he would.

Chicago had been a tough one and he’d finished almost a full minute slower than his personal best. All the same, he’d been elated going through that finish line yesterday in the time of 3.29.15. Elated and totally drained.

But he’d recovered fast enough to meet an old friend and former easyJet colleague Robert Boyd, now a private pilot also, based out of Chicago. They’d had a drink at the Green Mill jazz club — one of Al Capone’s haunts where the mobster had had a permanently reserved booth — and then a hefty steak at Mastro’s and probably a bit too much red wine. In fact, definitely too much red wine, or was it was the bourbons before? More likely a combination of both, on top of being dehydrated from the run.

Whatever, he was sure feeling it now. In addition to the cramp, he was low on energy, but boosted considerably by the satisfaction that he now had another marathon medal, carefully packed in his bag, which no one could ever take away from him. His nineteenth. And boosted even more by the two dozen kudos ‘likes’, emojis of clapping hands from fellow runners and messages, on his Strava app. He scrolled through them, replying briefly to each.

One was from a running buddy from Worthing, Haydn Christmas. Awesome run! Well done.

A second from another Worthing runner, Oliver Dunn. Smashed it, mate!

And another, from Stuart Baulk. You only went and blew the bloody doors off!

The messages were putting a big smile on his face. Then he yawned, regretting his decision to book such an early flight. But he wanted to make the most of his brief break in Barbados, and to arrive in daylight so he could at least have a couple of hours on the beach, and get his leg muscles working with a gentle swim.

He winced as his calf muscle cramped again, and he leaned forward, rubbing it vigorously. Three and a half hours to Miami, then a four-hour flight to Barbados. And tonight, courtesy of Tommy Towne, who was as generous as he was at times crazy, he would be sleeping in luxury.

When he’d told his boss he was going to Barbados, Tommy had picked up the phone and called the manager of the Sandy Lane hotel, requested the best suite they had available and insisted the entire bill, extras and all, be charged to him. Towne had demonstrated similar generosity to him a while back, when Taylor had split up with his wife, putting him up in a suite in Jersey’s Royal Yacht hotel, one of the finest on the island, for several months.

He hoped to have a good long sleep tonight, and a day chilling on the beach tomorrow, then on Wednesday begin the task he had set himself. To see if he could find the fisherman, John Baker, who had recovered the remnants of the white jacket.

To see if it would take him any closer to the truth about Rufus Rorke.