Gold by Chris Cleave Page B

varnish of the track. It was a bright winter morning, but down at track level it was twilight. Tom watched Zoe reach trackside and drop her kit bag near the start line. The echo rolled through the empty space.
    She took off her shoes and socks and stepped out onto the track, testing the angle beneath her bare feet. She walked a lap, anticlockwise. On the straights the angle was shallow, but on the turns the banking was so aggressive that her feet only just kept traction. She broke into a jog and then into a run, and Tom felt the hairs go up on his neck as she stretched out her arms and screamed into the echoing space.
    Thirty minutes later, with Tom back at the reception desk, Kateshowed up. She was wrapped against the cold in two fleeces and a bobble hat, her blond hair sticking out from under it.
    She smiled at Tom. “Sorry. I’m too early aren’t I? I didn’t know how long it would take to walk from the hotel. I mean I can come back later if it’s… you know.”
    She stopped, halfway between the revolving entrance door and the reception desk. Tom tilted his head and watched her.
    “I’m here for the Elite Prospects Programme?” she said. “It is today, right? I got the letter from this place. But maybe there are lots of different sessions? I’m sorry to mess you around.”
    Tom put his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands, and smiled at Kate. “Deep breath.”
    She took one and laughed. “Sorry.”
    “Let’s start at the beginning. Were you issued at birth with a name, honey?”
    “Oh. Yes. Sorry. Yes. Catherine Meadows. Kate.”
    Tom blinked at his clipboard.
    “Catherine Anne Meadows, North of England Champion on road and track at under-twelve, under-fourteen, under-sixteen, and under-eighteen. Our file is showing a tidy set of results for you, but nothing for the last six months. Did we forget to keep winning?”
    She blushed. “No.”
    “So?”
    “I haven’t raced.”
    “Injured?”
    She looked at the ground. “My dad died. Sorry.”
    “And you thought screwing up your racing career might bring him back?”
    She looked up at him again, shocked.
    “We tell it like it is here, Kate. When you’re as good as you are, so long as your legs are still attached, you bloody well keep riding. Okay?”
    She blushed even deeper. “Sorry.”
    Tom smiled. “I’m sorry for your loss. Do you have all your kit with you?”
    She came up to the reception desk and showed him her kit bag. “I think so. I mean I’ve just brought what I used to race in. I don’t know if I’ve got the right stuff.”
    Tom looked at her. “You really don’t, do you?”
    “Don’t what?”
    “Know if you’ve got the right stuff.”
    She stood there and let her arms drop to her sides. She was perfectly flustered now.
    Tom leaned back in his chair. “You’re alright, Kate Meadows. We’ll get you back on track. Go through, and the coach will be with you at nine.”
    He checked in the other kids as they arrived. At nine o’clock, when all of them except Jack Argall had showed up, he closed the reception desk and went through into the velodrome to observe how his new prospects interacted with each other in the half-light.
    They were eleven altogether, six girls and five boys. The boys sat together high in the stands, slouching in the flip chairs and talking about Keats and fine bone china, or whatever it was that boys talked about when they were about to spend eight hours racing each other. They looked like standard athletic models with few moving parts. Zoe stood with her feet shoulder-width apart and watched them from the brightest place trackside, where everyone could see her. She laid out her kit across the best seats and moved as if she owned the place. Tom watched her watching the other girls warm up.
    Four of them were friends from the English junior circuit: Clara, Penny, Jess, and Sam. Tom had been to watch all of them compete. They sat together on the floor in the technical area, laughing and helping