expectantly at her congregation.
But her friends had just shaken their heads in disbelief. “There’s something wrong with you, Gina Wilson,” Becky had laughed.
Now Gina looked down the street, took a deep breath and set off. Her neighbour, Bob, called out to her from his doorstep.
“All right, Gina, love? Nice to see you out and about.”
She suddenly felt self-conscious and scoured the street to see if anyone else was looking at her; but the only other person in sight was a figure coming out of an alleyway further up the road and he seemed quite oblivious to the world, with his hood up and his head down.
Gina smiled awkwardly at Bob. “Thanks,” she said.
She continued down the middle of her street towards the dock road, jumping the speed bumps with relish, luxuriating in the stretch of her legs, which felt like they’d just been unbound after eight long months. However, the feeling was short-lived, as the further she ran the more her body protested. As she panted her way down the dock road she wondered what her dad would say now about her poor posture, her flailing limbs and jarring knees.
By the time she’d reached the main entrance to the docks she found herself staggering to a halt. The biting wind was making her exposed neck prickle and her cheeks burn.
Dave walked out of his security hut and smiled sympathetically when he saw her bent double, puffing and panting.
“If I was you, Gina, I’d just go home and put me feet up,” he advised.
Gina shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she rasped. “I’ve got to keep going. There’s somewhere I need to be.”
She coughed. The thick diesel fumes from the docks were stuck in her throat. She stood up straight, preparing herself to start again, concentrating on taming her breathing. Then Gina set off once more, focusing on every step. Soon her arms were pumping and her spine was rodlike, adjusting her balance as she got into her stride. She felt the change – like a struggling car that had just shifted into the right gear – and her body began to flow. As she quickened her pace and her heartbeat rose, she realized how much she’d missed this feeling.
She ran past the imposing Victorian warehouses that lined the docks, so magnificent in their day, now left to crumble. She turned off the congested road, away from the roaring juggernauts and crossed over to the canal. The miles of pothole-ridden towpaths had provided Gina and her dad with one of their training routes. They would run along them, playing a game of “spot the shopping trolley” in its pea-soup water.
She looked over to the allotments. Gina’s breathing faltered as she picked out her dad’s patch, neglected and overgrown amongst the well-tended plots. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been back to work on it; that her time and energy had been consumed by her enquiries. She knew that her dad understood; she had a job to do. She refocused on the towpath and pounded on purposefully.
After a couple of miles Gina left the canal and slowed to a walk. She turned into the deserted cobbled street and shuddered, chilled to the bone. Over the last eight months she’d always known that she would have to return eventually, no matter how distressing, but the thought of coming back here had been too overwhelming – until today.
In the cold light of day, Gina was determined to absorb every last detail. She stood at the spot where her father had parked the car that night, surveying the row of boarded-up terraces and the peeling paint on the useless street lamps, before continuing along the cobbles, towards the bridge. Gina tried to brace herself for the feelings that this visit might stir up, but nothing could have prepared her for being here again, as her thoughts and senses took her straight back to that night.
With each step she took closer to the bridge, Gina felt the rising panic and confusion that she’d experienced as she’d run barefoot from the car, calling out in the darkness for her
But her friends had just shaken their heads in disbelief. “There’s something wrong with you, Gina Wilson,” Becky had laughed.
Now Gina looked down the street, took a deep breath and set off. Her neighbour, Bob, called out to her from his doorstep.
“All right, Gina, love? Nice to see you out and about.”
She suddenly felt self-conscious and scoured the street to see if anyone else was looking at her; but the only other person in sight was a figure coming out of an alleyway further up the road and he seemed quite oblivious to the world, with his hood up and his head down.
Gina smiled awkwardly at Bob. “Thanks,” she said.
She continued down the middle of her street towards the dock road, jumping the speed bumps with relish, luxuriating in the stretch of her legs, which felt like they’d just been unbound after eight long months. However, the feeling was short-lived, as the further she ran the more her body protested. As she panted her way down the dock road she wondered what her dad would say now about her poor posture, her flailing limbs and jarring knees.
By the time she’d reached the main entrance to the docks she found herself staggering to a halt. The biting wind was making her exposed neck prickle and her cheeks burn.
Dave walked out of his security hut and smiled sympathetically when he saw her bent double, puffing and panting.
“If I was you, Gina, I’d just go home and put me feet up,” he advised.
Gina shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she rasped. “I’ve got to keep going. There’s somewhere I need to be.”
She coughed. The thick diesel fumes from the docks were stuck in her throat. She stood up straight, preparing herself to start again, concentrating on taming her breathing. Then Gina set off once more, focusing on every step. Soon her arms were pumping and her spine was rodlike, adjusting her balance as she got into her stride. She felt the change – like a struggling car that had just shifted into the right gear – and her body began to flow. As she quickened her pace and her heartbeat rose, she realized how much she’d missed this feeling.
She ran past the imposing Victorian warehouses that lined the docks, so magnificent in their day, now left to crumble. She turned off the congested road, away from the roaring juggernauts and crossed over to the canal. The miles of pothole-ridden towpaths had provided Gina and her dad with one of their training routes. They would run along them, playing a game of “spot the shopping trolley” in its pea-soup water.
She looked over to the allotments. Gina’s breathing faltered as she picked out her dad’s patch, neglected and overgrown amongst the well-tended plots. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been back to work on it; that her time and energy had been consumed by her enquiries. She knew that her dad understood; she had a job to do. She refocused on the towpath and pounded on purposefully.
After a couple of miles Gina left the canal and slowed to a walk. She turned into the deserted cobbled street and shuddered, chilled to the bone. Over the last eight months she’d always known that she would have to return eventually, no matter how distressing, but the thought of coming back here had been too overwhelming – until today.
In the cold light of day, Gina was determined to absorb every last detail. She stood at the spot where her father had parked the car that night, surveying the row of boarded-up terraces and the peeling paint on the useless street lamps, before continuing along the cobbles, towards the bridge. Gina tried to brace herself for the feelings that this visit might stir up, but nothing could have prepared her for being here again, as her thoughts and senses took her straight back to that night.
With each step she took closer to the bridge, Gina felt the rising panic and confusion that she’d experienced as she’d run barefoot from the car, calling out in the darkness for her
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