Late, as usual...me and Gordon, both. (And equally ungrammatical, probably) Thanks for the understanding comments about 51; I know it was a bit slow in spots, but there were some things that needed setting up. John's idea might or might not have been what Brains was trying, just as the presence behind the 'mental firewall' could be something other than Five. Anyway, thanks, Tikatu, Opal Girl, Darkhelmet, Agent Five, and Varda's linguistically-minded servant, for the reviews.
52
Earlier; The European Union, Spain-
The trouble with having two homes is that, no matter where you are, you're usually missing one of them. Gordon was happier to touch down in Madrid, to be loudly and boisterously welcomed by his teammate and best mate, than he could possibly express. All at once, most of the problems in his life reduced again to swimming faster, scoring more food, and finding ways to keep his coach happy (no easy task, considering how late he was for practice).
McMahon was standing by one of the outdoor pools, timing laps, when Gordon and Royce (who'd picked his young friend up from Barajas airport) approached him. The stocky swim coach stood there, clipboard in hand, whistle glinting between his tobacco-stained teeth, clearly vexed with his team's performance. Gordon had never heard the same 4-letter word applied quite so many times, in such varying parts of speech. If he hadn't been so nervous, the red-haired teenager would have applauded.
Royce muttered something about,
" 'Eading in t' change. Luck, Mate," and vanished.
"Bloody coward," Gordon growled, all at once wishing he was anyplace else.
The air was spicy and full of distant city sounds, the sun comforting-hot as he adjusted the set of his duffle bag and crossed the cement deck to join Coach McMahon.
Only half of the main pool was being used by the men's swim team, Gordon noted distractedly; the remainder had been co-opted by a group of agile beauties practicing their diving. Any other time, he would have been fascinated. Now, though...
His coach didn't turn or speak, didn't give the slightest sign that he even knew Gordon was there, except for the way his jaw muscles tautened and his teeth clamped down on the silver whistle. There was an actual grinding noise.
Gordon took a deep breath. As a blonde flower of a girl flipped and twisted from the high platform to the water's surface, entering with barely a ripple, he said,
"I'm back, Sir."
In two distinct moves, both of them slow, deliberate, and dripping with feigned shock, his coach removed the whistle and turned to regard Gordon. Performing a sarcastic double-take, he cried,
"Yer 'Ighness! What an unexpected pleasure! Through liftin' grass skirts f'r the time bein', are we?"
Gordon had heard the phrase 'withering glare' before. Now he experienced it, feeling like some loathsome germ caught in a UV disinfector.
"Umm..." He began cogently, shifting his weight about. "There's not all that much skirt-liftin' t' be done there, Sir; not as such. More chasin' than anythin' else, and not terribly successful, at that. Thought I might do a bit of swimmin', instead."
McMahon scowled, jabbing hard at the swimmer's chest with a blunt, stubby forefinger.
"Y'r goin' t' stay in that bloody pool till you effin' drown, Tracy."
Then, hurling aside the clipboard to gesture violently with both arms, McMahon added,
"World Championships dead ahead, gold medals in sight, an' you're off playin' King of th' Ruddy 'Ottentots! Well, I'm not 'aving it! This is damned well th' last time y' stroll in, late as y' please, and expect to keep y'r place on th' team! Now, get y'r gear stowed, an' get in th' damn water!"
He pivoted suddenly, whirling upon a pool that had gone very, very quiet.
"An' you lot might want t' think about... I dunno... ruddy swimmin'!"
All at once, the main pool boiled with violent splashing, like a school of sardines attacked by hungry sharks. Gordon lowered his head to hide a smile, then turned away and started for the locker room.
Five hours later, he was a good deal less amused. Gordon thought he'd been training hard back on the island, but Kevin McMahon seemed determined to kill him. From about one in the afternoon (when he'd arrived at the pool complex) to past six-thirty that evening, all he did was swim wind-sprints, lung-busters, and one crushing set after another. Got yelled at, too; for dropping his elbows, and "kicking like a damn scuba diver!"
The sun set. High pole lights cut on, humming like bee hives and gilding the water's surface, and still they kept at it, occasionally doing slow warm-down laps, but never getting out of the pool. It was deeply exhausting, and it hurt. A lot.
On the other hand... the focus, the total concentration on a goal, felt really good. Once again, it was Gordon in the water, correcting his speed and form with help from an expletive-spewing wildman, while racing the clock. The wide black line shot by beneath him, the lane markers on either side bobbed in his wake, and cold, silky water seemed almost to toss him forward. Music, piped in through underwater microphones, did its bit to help Gordon push his own limits; smoother, further, faster.
Only occasionally, at the end of the lane, would he glimpse another gasping, goggled face (Nathan's, say, or Vittorio's). They'd share a brief nod, a wordless 'what the hell is he trying to do?' grimace, and be off; once more, alone in the water.
"Oh, right..." Gordon whuffed, when he finally crept out of the frigid pool, at nine-thirty that night,
"...Now I remember why I was in such a tearin' hurry t' get back! Missed all this ease an' luxury, I did."
"Shut y'r complainin'," the coach snapped back, calling him 'poofter', and a great many other, less polite names (but offering him a hand up, nevertheless).
"5:30 AM, suited up, and at y'r marks, th' lot of you."
The resultant chorus of groans was choked off by Coach McMahon's furious scowl.
"Just as soon as they begin 'anding out medals f'r marathon sleepin'," he announced, "I'll let you 'ave a lie-in. 'Ell! I'll tuck y' in m'self, an' serve warm, frothy milk in big mugs. In the mean time... Get y'r lazy arses into th' locker room, an' change out! Break my curfew, an' I'll break y'r damn necks!"
Ah, yes; good, clean fun and noble competition. Life, at its best... and he didn't even have school, now, as an excuse to cut morning practice. Gordon thought longingly of the island. Of trading stupid insults with Alan, palling about with TinTin, taking his dog out on the wave rider, and of rescues. Another world, now... 'far ago, and long away'.
Trudging into the locker room behind his equally numbed teammates, leaving dark, wet footprints on the concrete floor, Gordon visualized gold medals and hot showers (...and TinTin).
Later, though his raggedly sore body screamed for sleep, Gordon refused to turn in. He'd floored the other swimmers with spot-on 'surfer dude' imitations and a (heavily edited) account of his island doings, and now that the dorm was finally quiet, he just wanted to savor being back.
So, he pushed off the sheets and forced himself to rise. Then, maneuvering by moonlight, Gordon made his way to the room's sliding glass door, and stepped onto the balcony.
They were four storeys up, just high enough to skim the hot-blooded swirl of Madrid. Above, but still part. WorldGov had established temporary headquarters here, and things were still a little tumultuous in the wake of world events. Maybe, more than a little.
Leaving the snore-filled, smelly darkness behind, Gordon started to shut the glass door, only to have Royce (sleepy and puzzled) slip out to join him.
"Did y' not 'ear the old man? Five-thirty, Mate. That means up by four, capiche?"
Like the others, Royce tended to mix up and abuse the various dialects that rolledfromhis teammates. This time, Italian met the knife.
"I know..." Gordon sighed, lowering himself onto a plastic chair with gingerly care. Still sore, despite all the noisome ointment.
"So, what're y' doin', then? It's a touch thick in there, granted, but y'll catch y'r death, sleepin' on the back stoop."
The dark-skinned boy rubbed at his own bald head and yawned, at once amused and concerned. Gordon Tracy had always been a bit 'unusual', just more so since being adopted by his wealthy American cousins.
The younger lad shrugged, slightly embarrassed.
"I didn't want t' sleep, till it sinks in that I'm really here... So, I came out t' sit and listen. To everything; th' car horns, people arguin', th' music. It's Madrid, and it doesn't sound like any other city in th' world. Not even Sheffield, cultural Mecca though that is."
"Right," Royce grunted, tapping himself on the forehead. "Chlorine poisonin'. An' 'im so young, an' full of promise...!"
He pulled up a white plastic chair of his own, and promptly overflowed it, all tattooed, muscular limbs and tired grin.
"Don't try tellin' me y'r just out here absorbin' th' local color. There's somethin' else on the' back burner. Care t' spill it?"
Gordon frowned over at his best friend, and muttered something that sounded very like,
"Female... issues."
Royce probed further.
"The Chinoise?" (Sheen-wahz, he pronounced it. Badly.)
"Malay, actually. Her name's TinTin, an' she's..."
And then, in a cluttered, heart-felt rush, the words tumbled forth. How he felt, and how she didn't. Royce's eyebrows lifted. He was silent, a moment, then shook his head and tugged at one of his gold earrings, saying,
"You've got t' get y'rself another bird, Mate. One that performs on cue. Otherwise, y'll spend th' rest of th' season moonin' about on porticos 'n balconies; th' team laughingstock." He jerked a thumb at the bustling streets, four levels down. "This is Spain, Mate. If y' can't get some action 'ere, y'r bloody pathetic."
Gordon looked over, once more, then away again. He didn't quite agree, but didn't fancy being laughed at, either. So...
"Perhaps y'r right."
"Course, I am," Royce affirmed, oozing an athlete's easy confidence. "...'Ave I ever steered y' wrong? Now, let's put about an' tie up f'r th' night, while we've still time t' sleep. Trouble settled?"
"What trouble?" Gordon scoffed, laughing as he got up (lying again, as he so often seemed to, these days).
Royce clapped him on the shoulder, and together, they went inside. But Gordon gazed back through the glass, his face illuminated by moonlight and neon, and longed for the one person he never had to lie to. His feelings for her hadn't changed, even if they were stupid. At the time, innocently enough, he considered that just about his worst problem.