and groupies who hang around the social club after his home games. Some are younger than me. Tight tops, all swigging cider. Any one of them would do it with him, I know they would. And then there’s Shelby.’
‘Who’s Shelby?’
‘His cousin, Shelby Gilmore. Well, step-cousin. His Auntie Manda’s daughter. She’s seventeen as well. They come over for Sunday lunch every single week. She’s a walking, talking reason never to look in a mirror again.’
‘So?’ said Pete. ‘That doesn’t mean anything will happen with her, does it?’
‘Maybe it already has happened, though. I don’t know. They really get on. And she flirts with him all the time. Flicking her hair back. Smiling at him. Always talking to him about stuff they’re both interested in but I’m not, like gaming and football. She’s gorgeous. And she’s so… experienced too. She’s had more boyfriends than I’ve done time trials.’
‘Have you tried getting to know her?’ said Pete. ‘You might have things in common.’
‘I’ve hate-liked a few of her status updates on Facebook. But no, not really.’
I slowly peeled off my running gloves to show him the scabs on my knuckles. ‘And then there’s this.’
He cringed and gently lifted my left hand to look at it. He reached for the other one and studied it. ‘How have you done this?’
‘We’ve got a stone pillar in our lounge. When I’m home alone, sometimes I punch it. I gaffer tape a cushion to it so it doesn’t hurt as much.’
Pete’s face creased. ‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Only just recently. It just gets too much sometimes. You know what I was like when we started training. Running helped me. But just lately it hasn’t been enough.’
‘Ella, this isn’t right, what you’re doing to yourself. You don’t owe Max anything and you certainly shouldn’t blame yourself for not being ready to sleep with him.’
‘I do owe him though, don’t I?’ I said. ‘I’m his girlfriend. It’s what girlfriends do. He’s waited ages.’
Pete’s jaw dropped. ‘Where is that written? Is this some law I don’t know about?’
‘It’s just a fact.’
‘It most certainly is not,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t owe him sex for any reason whatsoever. Sex isn’t the prize you get for patience, Ella. The only reason to do it is because you want to. If he’s the kind of person who will have sex with a girl who doesn’t want to have sex with him, then ask yourself why would you want to be with a guy like that?’
‘No, he’s not, his… He’s not pressuring me,’ I said, scratching my shins. The fire was raging. Urticaria, our doctor called it – a completely random skin reaction to too much histamine in my blood. My training meant I couldn’t take my antihistamines because they made me drowsy. The wild grass was making it worse. ‘I just hate what we’ve turned into. And I don’t feel like we can go back to how we were. Just friends. I hate myself.’
‘How can you hate yourself? You’re an incredible girl. I’m so proud of you, how you’ve come through it all – your mum leaving, and your dad’s illness. You’ve stuck to your training plan, you’re nailing your PBs on a regular basis. You’re brilliant, Ella.’
‘Don’t give me compliments, Pete. You’re just throwing stones into a bottomless pit.’
‘You know, not talking about something that’s hurting you always makes it worse. It starts feeding on you, like a parasite. Once you let it out, it’s got nowhere else to go but away. Is there something else upsetting you? Other than the Max thing?’
The tractor in the far meadow had stopped baling. The sheep under the tree were looking our way. The whole world seemed to be waiting for me to say it out loud.
I shook my head. ‘No. I just need to work things out for myself, that’s all.’
‘By punching concrete?’ I didn’t answer that. ‘Will you at least recognise that it’s not good for you to keep doing this to yourself?’ I shrugged. I couldn’t promise. ‘OK, well, if you’re determined to punch for therapy, I can at least show you some proper technique.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yeah. I boxed a bit at university. It’s a great stress reliever. I still do a bit now and then. It’s great for stamina, too.’
‘Where do you do it?’
‘In my garage. Come on, let’s go back and have a cuppa and I’ll show you.’
We jogged back down the hill and walked across the churchyard into Church Lane, where Pete’s cottage was. His garage wasn’t like ours, with all Dad’s dusty boxes of rusty tools, doorknobs, foreign editions of his Jock of the Loch romance novels and Christmas trimmings. Or Neil Rittman’s immaculate garage, with the two luxury cars and giant speedboat. Pete’s was smaller, like a boutique gymnasium with a wall TV, a fridge of isotonic drinks, weight machines, a treadmill, dumb-bells, a bench and, swinging from one of the low slung beams on a chain, a large black-and-red punchbag. He reached for something on top of the fridge and unravelled it.
‘First we wrap your hands.’ He set about coiling a length of red bandage right around both my hands, like I was being mummified, then tied it off on a Velcro strip. Then he reached for a pair of boxing gloves, tied to a nail on the wall next to the first aid box. He put them on me. It felt like some grand occasion, like I was putting on a crown. ‘Right, relax your hand. Now make a fist. Keep your fingers all in there. Thumb on top but keep it in tight. OK, bounce on the balls of your feet. Keep everything relaxed but ready. Now, hit the bag.’
I did. Hard.
‘OK, again. Breathe out on the punch.’
I did it again. Harder.
‘Yep, good, exhale each time you let the punch fly. Don’t hold it in. Make a noise if you have to. Both fists, elbows in tight, that’s it, keep bouncing. Watch me. Don’t fling it forward, push it. Good. Breathe out. OK, let’s try some jabs. Keep breathing; let your breaths out, don’t hold them back. Relax when you’re bouncing, then let the punch fly and exhale. Good. Exhale. Good. Okay, cross. Upper cut.’
We stayed in his garage for the next hour – an hour when I should have been doing sprints and shuttle runs or burpees up on Brynstan Hill. Instead, I was Muhammad Ali. Strong and powerful and so angry. All bee – no butterfly.
‘Let’s try a few straight line punches. These’ll wear you out quicker but they pack the most power. Keep those wrists loose, don’t lock them. Keep those breaths coming out on each punch. Bounce. Jab jab jab. Quicker. Good. Now smash it! Lights out! You’ve picked it up quickly, Ella.’
My knuckles and wrists ached but there was no real pain, not like there was at home. By the end, the sweat was pouring from my face and arms. Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang. Bang-bang-bang. It was so fast. I was so ferocious. I loved it. I used my anger well in my running, Pete said, but I had too much of it, and had to burn some of it off.
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