

Run Baby Run

By Max Bolt

Copyright © 2015 Max Bolt  
All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition  
Ebook formatting by www.gopublished.com

To be the greatest you must believe you are.  
And believing is often the hardest part.

Anonymous

Love comes fast and danger comes from trying to slow it down.

A love fool

Table of Contents

PART 1

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART 2

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART 3

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

PART 4

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Epilogue

Also by Max Bolt

About Max Bolt

The Olympic 100 metres.

Noise and colour. Glitz and glare. A melting-pot of screaming spectators and firefly cameras flashes.

The fastest humans on the planet.

Ego and skill. Power and poise. Nerves and steel. A lifetime of dreams won and lost in nine and a bit seconds.

They compete for love.

A love of the spectacle. A love of the racing heart. A love of wind in ears and hair. A love of what might be and never be again. A love of... the indescribable.

The Olympic 100 metres; a love story in nine and a bit seconds.

Part 1

PROLOGUE

Brandon Summers raced through the bush. A silver streak in the darkness. Trees rushed out of the dark and clawed at his face. Hidden holes and logs tripped him. Blood loud in his brain. Fear in his veins.

Karim had wanted Brandon to do it. Karim had the knife, herding the off-duty police officer toward the cliff where Brandon was supposed to show just how far he was prepared to go. High on drugs and believing he might be able to float away from things, the officer babbled a meaningless string of words, "not me", "I swear", "the truth". _The truth_ , Brandon thought, can mean different things at different times. And from a corrupt officer on the edge of oblivion it meant very little.

In the end Karim did the pushing, putting the officer's drug induced illusion of floating to the test; he dropped like a stone, with a long trailing squeal like a deflating balloon. Then Karim turned on Brandon, the knife catching the moonlight, daring him to say or do something to follow the officer over the cliff.

Brandon ran.

Just get to the car and drive away from everything. Brandon had not planned to come tonight, but Karim had asked and when Karim asked, you did. Karim was dangerous. Psychotic dangerous. Cut your throat and laugh dangerous. Don't believe it then cut to exhibit A: said officer lying bent out of shape at the bottom of the cliff. If only Brandon's eyes could erase what they had seen.

Brandon took air in desperate breaths, batting branches out of his face. In time he saw the car in the clearing. A beacon of hope. He burst from the bush and... froze.

Karim was a barely visible shadow leaning against the car.

How had he got there so quick?

"Don't ever run Little Brother," the shadow said, "it just tires you out, and I can always find you."

Brandon watched Karim carefully. An officer had taken a long fall, what was another half-caste Aboriginal kid.

"And don't ever think of talking Little Brother."

Brandon shook his head slowly.

"Get in."

Brandon did and Karim started the long drive back to things.

"You are mine now Little Brother."

CHAPTER 1

The night was hot and the party, a few streets back from the beach, was crammed. Girls in singlet tops and short shorts, guys in boardies and bare feet. Easy music. Easy alcohol. Easy everything. Girls preening but pretending not to care. Blokes laughing and pretending not to look. People in the pool. People dancing on the patio roof. People swapping stuff in the shadows. So much action out the back that no one noticed things developing out the front.

The street had been staked. Rival gangs faced each other with the black no-man's land in between. Tension lay over things like a blanket.

There were ten of them leaning against their cars. Brandon Summers stared them down. First rule: never show fear. Second rule: never back down. Third, more than a rule: never leave your brother.

Brandon Summers was nineteen, tall and strong, with black hair that hid eyes that could chip diamonds. He played league. He was lightning on the wing.

Fastest F'en thing on two legs.

This according to his older brother Jackson. And Jackson was right. Brandon was fast. Surreally fast. Blink and you miss him fast. Olympic standard fast. The only things faster were Brandon's fists and mouth. A life as an Aboriginal alien on Newcastle's streets had made him that way.

"We've got a numbers problem," Jackson said.

"We can take them," Brandon replied.

Jackson assessed their group of six. Eight might be doable, but with six he saw dead people.

Standing with Jackson was second nature for Brandon. Growing up he had idolised his older brother. Jackson played league, so did Brandon. Jackson started a gang, Brandon joined it. Jackson got into crime, Brandon followed. The world was divided into two groups; Brandon and Jackson, then everyone else. Brandon would do anything to _everyone else_ to protect Jackson. Their matching forearm tattoos – _Christian 260602_ – a permanent reminder of what bound them.

"Karim told us to wait," Jackson said.

Brandon dismissed the news. He was not afraid. Fear required a concern of losing something. Brandon had nothing to lose.

Black bastards. Homeless, walk-about...

The taunts floated across the road. Brandon had heard it all before but the words still stung.

"Easy Little Brother," Jackson said, "wait and see yeah."

But Brandon was not wired to wait and see. His bottle sailed across the street and shattered in the gutter, making the opposition hop about.

"I said wait death-wish boy!" Jackson hissed.

Word of a _real_ fight drew the party people out to see. They readied camera phones as Brandon's next projectile hit one of the cars. Bottle and windscreen shattered together. It was the match that lit the powder keg. The opposition advanced. Brandon rushed to meet them. Jackson, cursing his brother's impatience but programmed to protect him, followed.

Brandon saw the first punch coming and ducked and drove with his shoulder. He fell with his opponent. He tried to stand but a boot found his stomach and a fist warped his face. He rolled clear, got to his feet, and looked around.

The road had come alive, growing arms and legs, and seeming to attack itself in a frenzy. Brandon swung and kicked and drove his head into something that collapsed like an egg carton. A blow knocked him down and his face was ground into the road before the weight left him as Jackson dragged someone away into a garden.

Crack.

The first gunshot stunned the fighters. The second shot stopped them like magic. No one ever pulled guns. Knives and bars, but never a gun.

Karim stood in the middle of the road like a god surrounded by his worthless brawling subjects. He held the gun above his head like Moses' commandments.

Commandment 11: When the gun speaks you listen.

Karim swung the gun and people hid from it. Then police sirens sounded nearby and thoughts of pride and revenge were forgotten. People scattered, hurdling gardens and front fences. A couple of kids got under a house and tried to capture things on their camera phones as the car without a windscreen fishtailed up the street.

Karim stared Brandon down. The message was clear; a reminder of the dangerous memories they shared.

Don't ever run Summers. And don't ever talk of what you have seen. Or else the gun might do some talking of its own.

Karim melted into the shadows as the police arrived. Officers piled out and went for anything that moved. Brandon got halfway up the street before he was stopped.

"Summers! Surprise seeing you here."

Brandon recognised the officer. Officer Adam Reynolds lived the grey space between law and disorder. He kept his nose clean but his pockets lined. Corrupt and in bed with Karim, Reynolds was dangerous. He had it in for Brandon Summers.

"Habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time don't you Summers?"

Brandon held his ground. _Never show fear_. _Never back down._ Reynolds had been after him for some time. And Reynolds' chase would never end as he sought the most elusive prize of all – _the truth_.

"Tell me what happened to my brother Summers?"

"He jumped," Brandon said, "you read the reports."

The baton was a mere flash as it doubled Brandon over. The second blow knocked him down.

"My brother would not jump you lying black prick. You may not tell me but others will. And when I know, you are dead Summers."

Reynolds left and Brandon lay in the gutter staring at the sky. The stars blinking and fading like a million lives starting and ending.

*

Brandon woke early and prodded the swelling around his left eye. There was blood on his pillow. He was messed up. But he had felt worse.

He looked at the posters above his bed. Sprinters: Tyson Gay; Lindford Christie; and Cassius Cole. Asafa Powell; Dwain Chambers; and Usain Bolt. Universal superstars. Men who covered a hundred metres in ten heart beats. And positioned in the centre with reverent importance, current World and Olympic champion, Charles Dent.

Charles Dent, the fastest man to ever live. A global super-star. Olympic Champion, World Champion, and World Record Holder with a stupendous 9.56 at a recent Geneva Diamond Championship event.

Racing Dent was Brandon's goal. Beating Dent was his dream. And Brandon's target...

9.49 seconds.

Sub 9.50 – madness. Unthinkable. Sprinting nirvana. The time was scrawled on his wall in thick texta and tattooed on his brain.

_9.49 seconds_.

Brandon put on shorts and a singlet and left his apartment.

At six in the morning the air was still as Brandon ran the streets of Newcastle. He wove through the gentrified heart of the city where old style pubs and live rock venues melded with preppy cafes and art galleries. The coal and steel city, Australia's seventh most populous, had sought to reinvent itself but the tough working class attitude remained. Brandon saw the blinking lights of the coal conveyors across the harbour before he ran into the suburbs where the wealth decline presented like age rings of a tree. A city of contrasts. The gentrified inner-city _haves_ and the outer suburban _have-nots_ ; the penthouses versus the fibros. And Brandon Summers living beneath them all.

Brandon stopped at a cemetery and brushed the dust from three names inscribed on the headstone in the corner. He said a brief prayer, then ran down to the beach.

The ocean was a grey blanket, with the coal ships queued up on the horizon. Brandon ran on the hard sand close to the water. He liked to run. He ran everywhere; to work, to the shops, to league training. He ran to get things and he ran to get away from things. Like Jackson said: _Fastest F'en thing on two legs._

Brandon had a modern sprinter's build; more Usain Bolt than Ben Johnson. Six foot, lean and muscled, he relied on stride length and blind self-confidence. He believed he was the fastest. So he was.

Winning the Olympic hundred metres was Brandon's dream. It drove and consumed him. He longed to hurtle down the track in a strobe of camera flashes. There had been a time, aged sixteen, when he had beaten the best under twenty-one sprinters in the State. He was identified as a future champion but his progression stagnated. Coaches developed him but only as far as his wayward attitude allowed. He ended up in rugby league, where, as one coach put it: a _few big hits might iron out his attitude._

Through bloody minded determination and hard-work Brandon had been drafted into the extended train-on group for the Newcastle Knights Rugby League club. He was on the cusp of playing in the toughest rugby league competition on the planet. It would be the canvas upon which to showcase his speed.

It had been a long journey for Brandon. Longer than most. He had speed and skill but he also had _heritage;_ a hurdle that no amount of training or experience could conquer. Prejudice is alive in Australian society. Outright and casual; conscious and sub-conscious; _I'm not racist but..._ Things had changed little from when Brandon's father, a proud Aboriginal had defied social norm and married a white girl, and worse, had the audacity to become a well regarded scientist at the CSIRO. Brandon still remembered the night his father came home, his face and shirt bloodied, after a random beating on his home commute. Mum freaking out as Dad casually washed the blood off his face, change his shirt and sat down to dinner – "now Brandon, tell me, how was school".

Brandon remembers that night and a lot of other things. The way shop-owners responded with immediate suspicion to his father. How people sought to cover their surprise on learning his father was a trained scientist. And most of all his father's reluctance to respond when Brandon was ready to fight.

"We see the world in colours," his father told him, "but not everyone sees colours the same way. And why would you fight over something as beautiful as colours?"

Brandon learnt the truth in school. He heard the jokes. He felt the separation. He learnt quickly how the world of colours favoured some ahead of others. But unlike his father, Brandon was ready to fight. And colour, more than anything else, was worth fighting for.

Brandon left the beach and stopped at the base of Flagstaff Hill, and dropped into a starting crouch. He breathed deeply and the park dissolved around him. The white pillars of the former fort became Olympic timekeepers. The trees, stadium stands. Leaves, spectator faces. The crack of an imaginary gun released him. His arms and legs were pistons and his breathing a mechanical ish-ish-ish, as he crossed the imaginary finish line, chest out, punching the air.

He stood, folded over, his body burning with fatigue. But the burning was good. It conditioned the body to hurt a little less and a little later each time. It made you strong. It made you fast.

_First the Knights_. _Then the Olympics and Charles Dent. And -_

9.49 seconds

*

Jackson was at the kitchen table when Brandon returned.

"Looking buff Little Brother."

Brandon wondered how many of these moments he had shared with Jackson. Big brother and Little Brother shooting the breeze over breakfast. They were tight. Fate had made them so. They had been 11 and 12 when their parents died in a car accident. Losing their parents had changed them. Losing their five-year-old brother in the same accident had ruined them.

Christian 260602.

Christian Summers lived five years and two days, and his death was still unthinkable to Brandon. How is it that murderers and pedophiles live but an innocent five-year-old dies? Brandon drew a life principle from it.

Life isn't fair, and it doesn't owe you anything.

"Those bastards won't come back," Jackson remarked, "Karim had them shitting themselves."

Brandon was not impressed. Violence did not end violence. It created more violence. Karim's gun had been an unnecessary escalation.

"Karim is going places," Jackson continued, "and he's taking us with him. You, me and Karim. What do you say Little Brother?"

"We don't need Karim."

For Jackson, Karim was God. For Brandon, Karim was an ever present spectre. Brandon had seen things with Karim that he wished he could erase. But the memories were permanent and Karim would never let him go.

"Careful Little Brother, Karim has ears everywhere."

"I don't care."

"That mouth of yours," Jackson laughed.

There had been a time when the gang Brandon had formed with Jackson had been like family. A bunch of kids running drugs and shoplifting. Asserting themselves and sticking up for each other. The gang replaced the family Brandon had lost. But their success had attracted attention.

Enter Karim. A piranha, Karim spotted the marginalised Summers boys easily. Disaffected by society, Karim saw their usefulness. He promised them good things. He infected them like a disease. Bigger rewards and bigger stakes. Corrupt police officers on the take such as officer Adam Reynolds. Karim turned the outfit Brandon and Jackson had created into an empire. Things were suddenly run Karim's way.

Karim led by fear and action. You threaten with pliers and knives and hammers, then you pull out your toolkit. And Karim's toolkit was extensive, case in point: Reynolds' brother. He had been on Karim's payroll but wanted out. He got his wish. A failed flight lesson off a cliff in the bush.

Once in, there was no out. Karim could get at anyone anywhere.

Brandon dreamt of a life without Karim and Reynolds, but escaping them was impossible. One owned him, and the other, ironically, suspected him of killing his brother.

Once, unknown to everyone, Brandon had applied for a _proper_ job as an office assistant. The interviewers spotted him early; his colour speaking lack of education and _walk-about_ risk _._ Realising he was being ridiculed, Brandon responded to a series of questions with: "Yes, Mr Get Fucked", "No, Ms Fuck you", "Is that all Mr and Ms Fuck You Both", considered the interview terminated and left. The experience reinforced several things for Brandon. First, society did not trust him. Second, you may try and change but a past stays with you forever. And your colour, well forget about it.

Jackson finished rolling a joint and offered it to Brandon.

Brandon declined. "Why you smokin' that in the morning?"

"Ain't no elite athlete like me Little Brother," Jackson knocked knuckles, "and hey I wasn't jokin'. Watch what you say about Karim."

"Whatever."

Brandon went for a shower.

CHAPTER 2

Friday night. The Newcastle Knights training complex was buzzing. Brandon arrived late after some unexpected business with Jackson and Karim. The list for the Knights train-on squad had been pinned to the wall outside the change room. Its appearance had prompted a range of responses. Some blokes rushed to it. Some held back. Some looked at it sideways like they weren't looking at it at all. The _List_ could make and break dreams. Brandon approached it confidently. He was in the form of his life. Selection was a formality.

He ran his eye down the names. Once, twice, the third time using his finger to identify each name individually, before he accepted his name was not there. Brandon stood stunned. The destruction of a dream is brutal. There is no space for half-dreams. In time reality returned and with it self-respect. _They_ had taken his dream but not his pride. He looped his boots around his neck and left.

"Hey Summers," the head coach caught up with Brandon outside.

"What?"

The coach's role tonight was to maintain spirits or talk some truth, depending.

"The list," the coach said.

"There's a typo," Brandon said.

"No typo. Why you reckon your name's missing?"

"Because you pricks don't know shit. 'Cause I'm black."

"Now don't play that bloody card with me son, I ain't prejudice with no one."

The coach shook his head in frustration. Summers had talent. Unbelievably quick. Potential crowd pleaser. But his attitude was ordinary.

"You got speed Summers. With the ball you know you can beat anybody. And that is the problem. Confidence. In some people it's an asset, in others, it's a liability. You think you're too good for this team."

"Look coach," Brandon said, "I'm sorry for missing training..."

"What's the excuse this time?"

Brandon started to respond but the coach cut him off.

"Save it Summers. Partying, fighting, drinking, off boofing with your mates, I don't care, I'm sick of the bullshit."

Brandon started walking away.

"You got speed Summers," Coach called after him, "fastest I've seen in any grade. But whatever else you got going on in your life, sort it out, cause it'll ruin you."

*

The road on the edge of town was deserted, bush on both sides, a dark tunnel to nowhere. Headlights reflected off the sign ahead. Brandon did not try and run as the police car pulled up beside him.

"Get in," the officer said from the open window.

Brandon expected Reynolds but recognised a safe, if annoying, face. He got in and the officer got the car back on the road.

Constable Lee Donovan was head of the Newcastle police. Sixty-three and two years off retirement, Donovan knew the town and its people. A big man, he had to compress himself to fit behind the steering wheel.

"Now kid. Someone's left a trail of destruction tonight. First, lifting some goodies from the Hinkler Road servo and then pinging a heap of rocks into the Kotara train station windows.

Brandon did not falter.

"I got witnesses who saw the twat responsible for that mindless bullshit," Donovan added.

"You supposed to let criminals ride in the front?" Brandon replied.

"No. Now you want to tell me what happened?"

Brandon stared out the window. He had no excuse. The vandalism had not felt good. Just marginally better than doing nothing.

"When they announcing the Knight's train-on?" Donovan asked.

"Tonight," Brandon said, "I got cut."

_Getting warmer_ , Donovan thought. He followed the local league. Brandon was one of the stars. Getting cut would be tough but not an excuse.

"Unfortunate kid. Now you gonna explain things?"

Brandon was silent. Why bother. People only hear what they want to hear.

"Silent treatment hey," Donovan said, "bloody bullshit. I tell you we ought to set up a special unit to fix you lot, like the ones they got down in Sydney to catch real criminals, with fancy names like _Taskforce Lightning_ or _Sniper_. We could call ours _Task Force Baby-sitting_ , because that's what it amounts to."

Donovan rubbed his forehead in despair. It was late. He had been hoping to make it home without anything blowing up but Brandon Summers had given him a headache. And after all his time on the force the kid had been an unsolvable puzzle.

Donovan had known Brandon from the day he was born. A school mate of Brandon's father, Donovan had been the first to celebrate the birth of his mate's second child, just as he had been the first officer on the scene when Brandon's parent's perished in an F3 fireball. The vision would never leave him. Seeing Cliff and Mary Summers trapped in the front of the crumpled car, the two of them beyond saving, and Donovan hurriedly confirming there were no kids in the back. But his relief was short lived as he discovered their little boy thrown clear of the wreckage. Donovan had been the one to tell Brandon and Jackson. Jackson stood there stunned; big brother holding it together. Brandon cried.

Donovan felt responsible for the Summers boys after that. He had tracked their development from a distance. They had been good kids, smart and athletic, and Donovan hoped they might avoid the inevitable downward spiral of most Aboriginal kids, but the crash twisted them into something else. A brief stint in a foster home hastened their decline. Shoplifting and vandalism led to violent gang crime and recently they had hit the jackpot, falling in with Karim Madoo a known criminal and local hard-man.

Donovan had picked Brandon up like this many times before. Usually he took him for a drive and let him go. Society had stacked the cards against the kid, and Donovan had also seen firsthand what losing a parent can do to a child. But he felt he was being used. The kid needed a wake-up call.

"Tonight I'm arresting you kid," Donovan announced, "do you know what that means?"

"A heap of paper work."

"Maybe," Donovan replied, "but it means court, then a detention centre, or the best outcome for you, community service cleaning every public toilet in the Newcastle Shire. And I can tell you that's a real shit job."

Donovan laughed at his own wit.

"But first thing," Donovan said, "I got to take a pit-stop. And having just reflected on the state of our public amenities we're stopping by my place. You're coming in, but you don't touch anything. You understand?"

Once inside his house, Donovan shoved Brandon into a couch in the lounge room and went upstairs. Brandon stood and looked around. The room was tired and dated. It felt like a room that had housed a young family, but the family had grown up and changed and the room had stayed the same. Brandon recognised Anna, Donovan's daughter, in a family photo on the mantelpiece. He had got around with Anna at school. She had been fun, and despite her police chief father, eager to play outside the rules. Brandon saw a portrait of a woman on the wall. Anna had rarely talked about her mother.

Brandon was flicking through a photo album when the front door opened and a girl entered.

"Hey Anna!" Brandon announced.

The girl stopped in surprise.

"Brandon? What are you doing here?"

"Your Dad needed company," Brandon replied.

She raised her eyebrows.

"True," Brandon said, "he busted me but stopped in to take care of business. He told me not to touch nothing."

"So why are you touching things?"

Brandon turned the photo album around so Anna could see.

"My favourite. You sitting on the toilet as a kid. Nice one."

Anna snatched the album from him.

"Everyone has a photo like that," Anna snapped.

It was a nice surprise to see Brandon. It had been a long time.

"What are you doing Anna?"

"Nothing much. Uni."

Seeing Brandon brought back memories of the crazy things they did at school. Physically, he looked stronger, but the mischief remained. She had heard he was in a gang or something.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Previously Brandon could have said he was trialing with the Knights but that was gone. _Training to be the fastest sprinter in the world_ , no, Anna would laugh at that.

"Not much," Brandon said, then changed the subject, "hey how about the night we got lost coming home, and your Dad put out the Missing Person alert?"

"Was your fault Brandon."

"Of course. I've still got your missing person poster we made afterward."

Laughing, they dredged up more shared misadventures from the recent past, which at their age, seemed so long ago. The sparring with memories was fun and infectious. Each memory inspired another.

"You know my Dad always looked out for you Brandon," Anna said more seriously, "never asked about anyone else. Just you."

"Weird," Brandon said, "you still living at home?"

The question was a sore one. Since Anna's mother died she felt compelled to stay with her father. That had been four years ago and her company had become a habit for her father. It was time for him to move on.

Anna avoided the question and dredged up another story and they were laughing so hard they did not hear Donovan return. He stood in the doorway watching them, wondering how kids could find humour in any situation.

_The young exist to remind us how to live_.

"Thought I told you to sit and not touch anything!"

Brandon dropped dramatically on to the couch. Anna stifled a laugh. Donovan turned to his daughter.

"Where you been?"

"Out."

"Wow. The smarts of this one are rubbing off on you. Out where?"

"Friend's place. I'm home now, no need to file a missing persons report."

Donovan shook his head in despair.

"Now I got to take your mate down to the station and file a report. Get up son."

Brandon stood, snapped his heels together, and saluted.

"Please have him arrested Dad," Anna said, "he's a menace to society."

When Donovan caught Brandon making eye contact with his daughter, he shoved him out the front door. Anna peaked from behind the front curtain and watched Brandon get into the car. It had been nice seeing him. He reminded her of a time when things were warm and fun. Brandon glanced up from the car and she hurriedly hid from view. She giggled, unsure why it mattered that he saw her.

Back on the road Donovan took up where he left off.

"When I said don't touch anything, that included my daughter."

"We were just talking," Brandon said, "wasn't like we were ..."

"No," Donovan cut in, "don't go there, or I'll have you locked up for life. Now listen, that toilet stop was probably your luckiest break. Because sitting on the throne a thought came to me. A second option."

"What Chief?"

Brandon listened as Donovan laid things out.

"You can't make me do that."

"To hell I can't," Donovan said, "either I arrest you and you get your six month toilet duty or you take my second offer. You got two minutes before we get to the station."

Brandon groaned. Donovan's second offer required him to attend an eight week boxing class run by some bloke named George.

"Alright you crazy bastard. I'll do the boxing. But if this George is anything like you, I'm out."

"Oh George. You'll love him kid."

CHAPTER 3

"Hit it! Come on! I've seen seven year olds hit harder!"

It was late evening at Lyno's gym. An old converted warehouse out with the _have nots_. The run down building was surrounded by rundown buildings. Inside, the corrugated metal walls and wooden floorboards carried the stains and scratches of years of activity. Ceiling fans circulated sweat-soaked air. Posters of boxing champions and body-builders covered the walls. The place rung with the grunts of men punishing their bodies in pursuit of strength and pride. They worked the free weights and kept time with the speed bags. Two fighters sparred in the centre ring. As George worked his class of five hard in the corner.

Donovan had called George telling him he had another one in need of help. George always agreed when Donovan imposed. He often considered his boxing classes the last chance for kids with one foot inside prison. Through boxing, George taught them discipline and self-worth. He had turned some kids around. Others he had not. He was not a miracle worker, just a sixty-year old washed up boxer.

George's boxing days were gone but the body shape remained. He was short with thick arms and neck, and tight wiry grey hair. His deep smoker's cough echoed through the gym as he assessed his new recruit.

Aboriginal, gang member, drugs, fighting, vandalism. George had seen better but had worse. The kid had come in angry but cracking jokes and strangely the other blokes, always wary of a _newbie_ , had warmed to him.

"Hands higher," George yelled, "you fighting the bag or making love to it."

"Screw you old man," Brandon grunted.

"Would love to kid, but you're not my type."

George assessed the kid's physique. Tall and strong from his league background. His punching was off but he moved fast. Fastest feet George had ever seen.

"Your feet are awkward and slow," George shouted.

Brandon moved quicker, his joggers squeaking against the floorboards.

Geez his feet were quick.

"Your technique is shithouse. Hold it together."

Brandon stopped.

"And you think you can do better old man?"

"Don't have to," George said "my job is to tell you shits what to do."

Brandon started on the bag again. George smiled. The kid had some ticker.

And so it went for two hours. Brandon hitting and jumping and skipping, and George barking in his ear. At the end of the session Brandon could barely stand. He showered and dressed and passed George on the way out.

"Same time next week," George said.

"Screw you," Brandon said and left.

Lyno, the overweight gym owner, looked up from the front counter.

"Why you got to be such a bastard all the time George?"

*

George stepped into his home.

Drunk. Legless. Plastered.

He slapped at the light switch and squinted against the sudden brightness. He thought about a glass of water but filled the glass with whisky. He coughed his rattle-snake smoker's cough, fell into a chair, and stared at himself in the blank television screen.

George lived alone in a small house in a poor neighbourhood. The distinction of _having and have-notting_ were beyond George's thinking, but he knew his social standing. He drank and gambled incessantly. And recently he had commenced the slippery slope of borrowing from local debt collectors. The money he borrowed got gambled, and the money he borrowed to cover the borrowings got gambled, and so it went, the sequence an ever tightening noose around his neck. The man he saw reflected in the television screen bore no resemblance to the one that called the shots at Lyno's gym. Inside the gym George maintained some self-respect. Out of it he was nothing.

There had been a time when George had dreamt of being a champion. A lethal left cross had earned him a shot at the Australian middle-weight boxing title. He went close before a lucky punch ended the fight and his career. He got slower. He wore more punches than he landed. He retired with his pride intact.

He took a job stoking the giant kilns of the BHP steel works across the harbour. But he fell on hard times. His seven-year marriage fell apart when _She_ left him for a life less ordinary. George turned to drink and gambling; they cost him his job and his dignity.

He drifted from place to place with the only constant in his life coaching at Lyno's, and a ridiculous dream that he would unearth a special talent that he could steer to the top and relive a time that had passed him by. There had been some good kids but they had moved on to better gyms and better coaches. George did not blame them. He was a washed up nobody; they could do better.

George's drunken mind caught on the new kid in his class. Brandon Summers.

George knew about the kid's background. How his parents had died when he was young. How he had bounced around with his brother getting mixed up in crime. The kid had some colour in him; enough for society to write him off. But there was something about him. His technique and strength were ok, but not exceptional. He would never make it as a fighter. But his feet. Fastest feet George had ever seen.

George wondered whether the kid would come back.

*

Brandon came back. The next day. The following week. And the week after that. Donovan's required three days a week became five days a week. The boxing filled the void of his stagnated sprinting ambitions. George worked him hard and filled his ears with trash talk. Brandon took it all and put in the hours.

George, however, withheld what Brandon really wanted – to step inside the ring for a real fight. There was only so much skipping and bag work and sit-ups a man could endure before he wondered what it was all about. Four weeks in Brandon cracked. He stopped mid-lesson and threw his gloves on the ground.

"Enough. I'm not taking shit from a bloke who can't fight his way out of a paper bag."

"Only thing I need from a paper bag is lunch. Now hit it kid," George replied.

"Bloody hit you," Brandon snapped.

"We finished with this love talk?"

"I don't have to be here."

"True," George countered, "but I'm the only thing standing between you and a six-month love affair with the town's amenities."

Brandon felt the rest of the class watching.

"Get back to work," George yelled at them, and then to Brandon, "alright kid, a compromise. Two options. One: You punch the bag and I continue to heap shit on you. Or two: You punch the bag and I continue to heap shit on you. Which one will it be?"

George laughed himself into a deep cough.

"You're a senile old bastard."

George shrugged.

"I want to fight."

"You don't know how."

"You don't know shit about me," Brandon said.

"I know more about you than you think."

Brandon would not back down.

"Let's have a bloodbath then shall we," George said and strode over to the ring where two blokes stopped sparring to listen. George arranged a fight with Beno, the smaller of the two.

*

The hastily arranged fight drew a crowd. Even Lyno, the gym owner, left his front counter and waddled over ring-side, keen to see if the new kid fought as well as he talked.

"I don't like it," Brandon said as George tightened the headgear under his chin, "I can't see properly."

"You won't see the punches coming anyway kid."

Brandon jumped up and down and threw a few punches at George.

"Stop that and open your mouth."

George shoved a guard in.

"Now kid I don't want you dyin' in there. Use your feet. And if he hits you and you go down, stay down. Ain't no future in being a hero."

Brandon stepped around George and climbed into the ring. He jogged on the spot and shook out his arms, true fighter style, glaring at his opponent. George got into the ring and called them to the centre.

"Remember this is training. Keep it tidy."

Brandon knocked gloves and Beno, his opponent, advanced, leading with a series of right jabs. Brandon's head rocked back three times before he knew what was happening. Beno backed off. It was no fun annihilating someone in ten seconds.

Brandon rushed out again. There was the thud of leather gloves and the _sszzhh sszzhh sszzhh_ of expelled air. Brandon absorbed a barrage of punches before he got one into Beno's stomach.

"Now dance kid!"

George had intended to remain impartial but he could not help getting behind his newest recruit.

Brandon got his feet moving and for a period Beno struggled to land anything. But Beno became more selective with his punching. Brandon saw the jabs coming like gigantic blow flies, each one mashing his face, before George got between them and ended the round.

Brandon held himself up by the corner ropes. He could barely breathe. He tasted blood.

"You had enough kid?"

"No."

"He's going to destroy you."

Brandon glared at George.

"Stubborn and stupid," George snapped, "an awful combination."

Brandon came out fast in the second round and Beno's right knocked him over.

"Stay down."

Brandon got up. The spectators cheered. Beno rocked him with another combination before Brandon's right found Beno's mid-drift. Beno flinched but stood up straight, refusing to display any pain.

"You're dead you black prick", Beno rasped mid-clinch before unleashing a flurry of blows that drove Brandon back across the ring.

Cornered, Brandon swung like a madman, some punches connecting but most flying wide, before he tripped and Beno fired in a left and right that spun Brandon into the ropes and on to the canvas.

George stepped between them.

"You're down," he yelled at Brandon, and to Beno, "you're out."

Beno left and Brandon shoved George away as he offered to help him up.

"You called it off too early old man."

Brandon climbed out of the ring.

"Showed some ticker son," Lyno said as he passed.

Brandon showered and dressed and found George waiting for him inside the changeroom.

"Sit," George said.

"Please! No more bullshit from the master!" Brandon said.

"Just sit down."

Brandon sat.

"You got your _I'm king shit_ attitude out of your system yet?" George asked.

Brandon shrugged. "I should have annihilated that bloke."

"No. You shoulda' got beat and you did."

"Is that all you got to say?"

"Yeah," George said.

"Crazy bastard."

Brandon picked up his bag and left.

CHAPTER 4

Brandon was returning from the bar inside _The Brewery_ nightclub when he spotted Anna Donovan in the crowd.

"Hey! Police chief's daughter!"

Anna was not impressed.

"Aren't you locked up under curfew," she said.

"Got a day pass. Hey, I got you a drink."

He offered her the vodka and lemon intended for a girl back at the pool table, Anna took his beer instead. She smirked as he sipped awkwardly at the vodka.

"You here with anyone?" Brandon asked.

"No. Came looking for you."

"No way. And here I was looking for you."

Anna glanced toward the pool tables.

"Is that your crew Brandon? Your _gang_?"

Brandon read her sarcasm. "Whatever."

"What happened to your eye?" she asked.

Brandon still wore the bruises from his Lyno's fight.

"Nothing. How's Dad?"

"Don't know. I moved out."

Anna was wearing a singlet top and skirt. Brandon smelt vanilla and almond each time she leant close to be heard over the music. It had been a nice surprise seeing Anna at Donovan's house. It reminded Brandon of happier times before things got complicated.

"So what does it feel like beating people up Brandon?"

Sarcasm again. Anyone other than Anna Donovan would be in danger.

"That's not what I do."

"Not what I hear."

"Alright," he relented, "it feels better than a hug and a kiss."

At that moment Brandon saw a disturbance in his mates' corner. He rushed over. Fists flew. Tables fell. Glasses smashed. Brandon dragged one bloke away and pinned him to a wall. Then the bouncers arrived and led them outside and it ended just as quickly as it started.

Brandon's group did a quick health check. Ripped shirts and bloodied faces and everyone high on adrenalin.

"Bloody brilliant."

"Awesome, now what?"

"Let's do it again."

Brandon saw Anna leaving with a group of friends.

"Hey!"

Anna pulled a face and walked over.

"Finished your adolescent rumble Brandon?"

"What did you think of it?" he asked, "and where are you going?"

"Not much. And home."

It was a lie. The fighting, totally immature, had been exciting.

"I'll walk with you," Brandon said.

"I'm a big girl. I know the way."

"I'll walk with you anyway."

She rolled her eyes. "Ok, but wait."

She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed the blood off his forehead. Vanilla and almond again, and Brandon liked her look of concentration as she cleaned him up.

"Now you don't look like the living dead," she said, "come on."

*

It was cold as they walked the harbour break wall. Brandon gave Anna his jacket and dug his hands in his pockets.

"So seriously, why do you fight like that Brandon?" Anna asked.

"Sometimes you don't have a choice."

"Everyone's got a choice," she said, "life is all about choices."

"Like you had a choice to walk with me tonight?"

"Right. You're getting it," she said.

"So why did you walk with me?"

"Because you used to make me laugh," she said.

Brandon recalled how they used to walk home drunk or high after school parties. Brandon claimed he was keeping Anna safe but really he liked being around her. They used to plan how to get her inside without Chief Donovan seeing the state she was in. Brandon would linger in the front garden until she gave him a sign from her bedroom window that everything was alright. Anna's home life had been complicated.

"You don't like people getting close do you Brandon?"

"Can we talk about something else."

"Exactly. Why do you do it Brandon?" she pressed, "your reputation is everywhere, Brandon Summers the tough guy who messes people up."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

Anna kept at him.

"Because," he said reluctantly, "it's what people think I am."

"I don't think that is what you are Brandon," Anna said, "and I don't think that's what you want to be. Tell me, what do you want to be?"

"The fastest sprinter in the world," he said defiantly.

He expected her to laugh but she nodded.

"I think you will be then Brandon."

"So how's Dad coping without you around?" Brandon changed the subject.

"He's not," she said, "but he has to. Mum's not coming back."

"Tough for your Dad."

"Tough for everyone," she said.

Anna stopped out the front of an apartment block.

"This is my place."

They stood awkwardly in the street until Anna kissed him quickly on the cheek and skipped away.

"Hey," Brandon called out, "what do you want to be?"

She turned around.

"Happy!"

"Hey! How do I call you?"

"Who said you could?" She replied.

He shrugged. She returned pulling a texta from her handbag. She winked and rolled up his sleeve and wrote her number on his forearm. Then she patted him on the head, made a sad face at his wounds, and left.

"I'll never wash this arm again," Brandon called.

"Yes you will."

*

"Why are we doing this? Karim is not one of us."

"Easy Little Brother," Jackson said, "Karim wants to talk business"

Brandon walked with Jackson. It was dark and their footsteps echoed around the deserted industrial complex. Brandon felt the unease that always came with meeting Karim. He wished Karim would just disappear. He saw again the police officer's face in the instant Karim pushed him over the cliff. Then Karim glaring at him, bloodlust in his eyes, daring Brandon to give him half a reason.

Karim was waiting inside the front office of a car workshop. Tools and paperwork were scattered about the place.

"Brothers," Karim said, "things are moving fast in the Cross."

This was not news. Rumours of Karim's inroads in Kings Cross had been circulating for some time.

"We started with zero and now we're playing. Some blokes leant on us, but we fixed them."

_Fixed._ Brandon wondered. _Verbal warning, physical torture_.

Karim clarified things.

"They lived but may not walk again."

Those words might have impressed Brandon once but now it only reinforced his desire to get out.

"I want you to join me," Karim said, "in the Cross we got money, women, clubs. We have power. Reynolds is clearing a path for us. Are you with me?"

Brandon considered the crazy triangle that was Police Officer Adam Reynolds, Karim and himself. Karim paid Reynolds to keep the law one step removed. That was Karim's way. Allow Reynolds in enough to get his hands dirty, to sell his soul to the dark side, and then Reynolds could never turn. It was the perfect protection. _You want to talk Officer Reynolds? Ok, let's talk about the drugs you've lifted, the evidence you've corrupted, and the criminal company you keep. Still want to talk Officer Reynolds?_ But there was one topic no one was talking about; what Karim did to Reynolds' brother that night in the bush. Reynolds was pursuing Brandon for the truth but the truth, Karim, was under Reynolds' nose. When that unstable triangle broke it would break ugly.

"I'll come," Jackson said.

Brandon was not surprised. Jackson and Karim were similar creatures, both lusting for power. Jackson just needed someone to show him the way.

"Little Brother?" Karim asked.

Brandon was silent.

"Brandon?" Jackson urged, "just like old times."

_Bullshit._ _The old times died when Karim appeared._

Karim caught Brandon's eye and Brandon understood the message.

You'll come with me. It is not a choice.

Brandon often wondered why Karim had not shoved him over the edge that night in the bush. The only explanation; the body of one corrupt unstable police officer could be badged a suicide, but how to explain two bodies? But Brandon threatened Karim's loyal safety-net. If he let Brandon walk, who might follow?

" _Little Brother_ ," Karim mimicked, placing a hand on Brandon's shoulder, "you are still with us?"

Brandon found it hard to breathe.

"Loyalty," Karim continued, "it's a wonderful thing. You got to destroy whatever threatens it."

Brandon nodded.

"Good choice Little Brother," Karim said, "now come, I have something to show you."

Karim led them into the rear garage. Greased tools and car pieces lay on the floor. And in the centre of the room, a man was strapped to a chair, blood around his nose, and a blindfold over his eyes.

*

The man tilted his head trying to see through the space beneath the blind-fold.

"Please...plea...I... not know."

The smell of petrol and grease made Brandon nauseous.

"That is a traitor," Karim said, handing Brandon a hammer, "break his hands."

All of sudden the garage felt very small and the man's whimpering became very loud.

"Little Brother?" Karim urged, "you will do this. Yes?"

Brandon knew it was a test. The identity of the unknown man in the chair, what he had done, did not matter. What mattered was Brandon's response. He stared at the hammer, his limbs frozen.

"I'll do it," Jackson cut in.

"Not you," Karim snapped, "him," then to Brandon, "what is wrong Little Brother? You are still with us?"

Sensing trouble Jackson snatched the tool from Karim. It was his time to shine. Brandon watched Jackson drag the man's hand toward the metal bench. But he was out on the street running before he heard the heavy thump and agonised scream.

Inside the garage Karim smiled. Jackson had taken the hammer and Karim had taken his soul. But what of Brandon? He had run, that was his way, but he would come. Now that Karim had his brother it was only a matter of time.

*

Jackson left for the Cross a week later. He filled a duffle bag with everything he owned and said he would tell Karim that Brandon's absence was temporary. He considered Brandon's defiance foolish, but believed once he sent word of his own experiences, Brandon would join him.

Jackson's departure hit Brandon hard. They had never been apart. It had always been the two of them versus whoever and whatever.

And how long before Karim came looking for him?

CHAPTER 5

Brandon's mandated eight weeks ended but he kept attending Lyno's. The training had infected him. He wanted to be a fighter. He wanted to step into the ring one on one. Where you hit or got hit. Where you got tough or you got hurt.

And George had changed. His trash talk was spiced with pieces of genuine advice about how to move and hit. He began to resemble a coach and had promised Brandon a proper fight.

For George, Brandon was an enigma; distant and mistrusting, confident but defensive. George sensed it was all a mask. A front to keep the world at a distance. He was intrigued by what the kid was protecting.

"You ok?" George asked as they were warming down after a session.

Brandon tossed his towel on the change room bench. "Yeah. Why?"

"You ain't called me a senile old bastard for a while?"

"Maybe I am and you're too deaf to hear."

"Maybe," George said, "now what's going on?"

In time Brandon relented.

"Alright. Me brother's gone to Sydney."

George guessed where and did not want Brandon following.

"So?"

"I got to get a place to stay," Brandon said.

"So get a place."

"They don't rent places to people like me George. I got no job, and I got a past people don't like. They take one look at me and think I'm gonna wreck the place and burn it for firewood. Or go walk-about with their rent."

Brandon packed his things and hurried out of the gym. George caught up with him outside.

"Kid. Now shelve the pride for a moment and listen. I've got a spare room at my place. You can have it. Don't have to pay me nothing. Just keep it tidy."

"No thanks George."

Brandon kept walking and George called after him.

"Muhammad Ali wasn't a hero all his life. He became one through people helping him!"

*

Brandon moved in with George the following week. He waited long enough to not appear desperate and stated the arrangement was temporary. He was not a charity case. The room was small, with enough space for a single bed and a wardrobe. A window overlooked a vacant block and an abandoned service station.

"Developers bought the service station but I'll be stuffed if I'll sell," George explained, "place ain't much but it's mine."

"I won't stay long I promise," Brandon said.

"Stay as long as you need kid but I got one rule."

Brandon rolled his eyes. _Here we go, no getting pissed or bringing girls home._

"I don't want you doing any crap with that gang of yours inside this house."

Brandon started to respond, but George cut him off.

"I'm not saying you would or you wouldn't. All I'm sayin' is if I see any of it, you're out. Now unpack and come eat. Special house-warming present. Don't be thinkin' I'm cookin' for you every night. Oh, and I got you a job. Me mate needed a bartender at the Station Hotel. You start tomorrow."

*

With Jackson gone and Karim out of the picture it was a chance for Brandon to change. He distanced himself from his gang and sought to escape the past. But how do you escape something that is part of you?

Brandon's old crew, the ones that Karim had not hand-picked for the Cross, were often waiting outside the gym or coincidentally crossing paths with him. They would knock knuckles and talk. They brought news about Karim and Jackson's great achievements in the Cross, and complained about how little they saw of him. And in between they told Brandon what he had to do for Karim.

Random drug drops. Roughing up Karim's competitors. Paying off police officers. Karim was absent but his shadow remained.

Brandon complied. What else could he do? Defying Karim was dangerous.

Karim had Jackson.

*

It was late and the pub was almost empty as George watched a bunch of no-name dogs scamper around a no-name track in some no-name town. All blurred legs and bobbing heads. He followed his number until it tanked and was lost in the pack.

He had gambled away all he had, more than he had. He did not miss the money but detested what it symbolised.

He stumbled out of the place and got to the end of the street before two men confronted him. One slammed him back against a wall, his head bouncing off the bricks, the other found his wallet. George did not try and escape. Why bother? They knew where to find him.

"Look at you George," the man said, emptying George's wallet on the footpath, "broke. A bloody disgrace."

"I'll get you the money."

"Now George we both know that is bullshit. You owe fifteen grand. And we ain't seen shit in the last month."

The figure surprised George. It grew exponentially each time these men cornered him.

"Each time you fail to pay George, I get my arse kicked. My boss is a dangerous man."

George focused on the talker and tried to ignore the six-foot enforcer awaiting his moment.

"So here's how it's going to be George. You pay us a grand a week, no exceptions, you miss a payment, you miss a finger, yeah? And," the man stepped back, "as a sign of our goodwill."

The giant took his cue slamming George back against the wall. A punch doubled him over and a knee straightened him up, mashing his nose.

"Grand a week George."

They left him spitting blood in the gutter.

CHAPTER 6

Brandon was still in his sweat soaked singlet as he took a seat in the cafe courtyard. He did not know why he had come. It had just, you know, happened. _Yeah right._ Brandon would never admit it but he was seriously into Anna Donovan. He watched her busily taking orders. Dressed in a denim skirt, white singlet top, and flat shoes, she looked great without trying.

When she saw him, she self-consciously fixed her hair and apron.

"Brandon. Wow! How are you?"

"I tried to call you," Brandon said.

"Really," Anna replied.

"I used the number you gave me and got through to a place called _Spice It Up Adult Pleasure_."

"No way," Anna said wide-eyed.

"They sell adult toys and games. Kinky kind of place. You'd like it."

"Wow," Anna looked shocked, "how weird. Sure you didn't have one of those out of body experiences? Where you don't know it but you're doing exactly what you meant to do."

Brandon knew he had been had.

"But hey I took the opportunity to order you some new things," Brandon said, "they home deliver. Unfortunately I didn't have your new address, so I got it mailed to your Dad's place. They gift wrap in promotional material."

"Really?" She asked. Brandon was crazy enough to do it.

"Really," Brandon said.

"Would you like something?" she asked.

"Just a talk."

"We don't serve that here."

"Orange juice," Brandon said, "and there I was thinking I'd never wash that arm again."

"You just can't trust anyone," she winked as she went to the kitchen.

Anna returned with his drink and stood talking at his table. Brandon said some things that made her laugh. She said some things to put him in his place and reminded him how she was _so_ busy and his visit was just _so_ inconvenient. Brandon liked it. It was fun and uncomplicated. An escape from the bleak meanness of the street. Anna ignored the chef's bell several times but when a backlog of meals developed, she succumbed.

"See you around," Brandon said.

"Yeah," she said, "around."

Brandon got up to leave but she clutched his arm.

"You didn't really get anything delivered did you?"

Brandon shrugged. "Call your dad and check."

"You are so awful Brandon Summers."

*

Dinner when George and Brandon were both home was interesting. George liked challenging his young friend. Brandon often spoke of changing and escaping his former gang but his behaviour suggested the opposite.

"How long you been doing all this bullshit gang stuff kid?"

"I don't know what you are talking about George."

Brandon shoved his empty dinner plate away.

"Sure you do kid. I'm talkin' about that brawlin', drug dealin', shop-liftin' circus you got going."

"I might take your crap in the gym George but I don't need to take it at home."

"I see your mates waiting outside the gym," George continued, "dopiest bunch of dickheads I ever seen. Wearin' their caps the wrong way and their pants ten sizes too big. What are you to them, their slave? Why don't you give it up kid?"

Brandon took his plate to the kitchen to escape the conversation.

"It's a dumb look," George called.

"So's hanging around a gym and getting drunk every second night and living in the past," Brandon called.

"We're talking about you not me," George said. He would take the blows if it meant improving Brandon, "surely you get sick of being the gimp to that gang."

"You don't know what you're talking about George."

"I know a fraud when I see one."

Brandon knew the game George was playing but he could not walk away.

"Once you are in George, you are in. These people. This stuff. This thing," Brandon shook his head in frustration, "it won't let you go. You try and escape, it just drags you back in."

"Bullshit. If you want to change you can."

Brandon recalled the time he had gone for the job interview.

"Yeah right George. People take one look at me and write me off. They see my skin's darker and my nose is flatter than everyone else's. And they assume that I just can't help shoplifting or vandalising stuff. Tell me George, what do you reckon people see when they look at me?"

George shrugged.

"I'll tell you George. It depends if it's day or night. Cause they either see some - _thing_ or nothing."

"It's always easy to blame someone else kid."

Brandon had heard it all before, from Donovan, countless league coaches, school teachers.

"You got to break the stand-off kid. You can't change what you look like or where you came from, but you can change where you are going. You want people to believe you can change, you got to show 'em you can. Cause right now all they're seeing is an angry kid on a path to self-destruction. The world don't owe you nothin' kid."

"Never said it did George. I don't want anything from anyone. So no-one can want nothing from me."

"Life don't work that way kid. You can't survive alone."

"Can we talk about something else."

"Sure," George said, "I don't want you boxing no more."

Brandon had been pestering George for a real fight but there was no future in Brandon fighting. Practice might tighten his technique but he lacked the boxing instinct. That intangible element that separated great fighters from average fighters.

"I don't understand George."

"Look kid, don't make this harder than it needs to be. You got a lot of good things; balance, determination and speed, but it's not coming together right."

Brandon watched George like a confused child.

"I've seen a hundred blokes like you," George continued, "just itchin' to be world champ. But what is a champion boxer? I'll tell you. It's someone who still gets beat up, just a little less than everyone else. I want you doing something else kid."

"What?"

"Sprinting."

Brandon was suspicious. George had destroyed his boxing ambitions and now he wanted to ridicule his dream.

"Ain't a coincidence I've been mixing up your gym training with sprint sessions," George said, "bloke who attended last week was a track and field coach. We timed you over a hundred. Know what you did?"

"Don't give a shit George."

"Ten and a bit, and that's with a turn in the middle," George said, "bloke was stunned. His best sprinters rarely pull eleven over a straight hundred."

"I know I'm quick George. I don't need a watch to prove it."

While Brandon was talking George laid a crumpled piece of paper on the table. The hastily scrawled – _9.49 seconds_ – leered at Brandon. It was his writing. His thoughts. His dreams laid bare. George had taken it off his bedroom wall.

"What's that kid?"

"Nothing," Brandon snapped.

"Bullshit kid. That's a dream. No one has ever gone that fast."

Brandon was not interested.

"You're not getting it kid," George pressed, "your times are sharp. I've seen your posters and I've done some research. You were a sprinting sensation before you got into league. I don't want you fighting no more. I want you sprinting."

Brandon felt the tug of his dream, but his street mantra made his cautious.

Never trust anyone.

"This is bullshit George."

"No it ain't kid. I've entered you in a race. Hunter Regionals. This Saturday."

"You can shove your race George."

Brandon stood up to leave.

"You know what your problem is kid?" George called.

"Surprise me Yoda?"

"You got talent but you're too busy blaming everyone to realise it."

Brandon pulled his hoodie over his head and left.

*

It took a few days but Brandon came around. He told George the race was ridiculous but he would do it. The truth; the race had spiked his dream.

The Hunter Regionals drew together the best athletes from Coffs Harbour to the Central Coast. The track was a hive of activity as Brandon approached the registration area. Spectators and officials rushed in different directions as athletes ran and jumped and threw on the track. The woman at the registration desk spoke without looking up.

"Ah. Brandon Summers. They've already called the hundred. Hurry, you might make it."

She found Brandon's bib number and paused, regarding his black _Good Charlotte_ T-shirt.

"You getting changed or you want it pinned to the t-shirt love?"

"On the t-shirt's fine," George cut in impatiently.

"Most men wear singlets," the woman remarked.

"Well lucky he's a sprinter not a model," George replied.

The woman frowned and pinned the number to Brandon's shirt.

"Marshalling's at the south end, hurry."

Brandon started away but returned.

"Who's favourite to win the 100 metres?"

"Dan Holman of course," the woman said, "he's won it four years in a row."

"Wrong," Brandon winked, "I'm favourite now."

George shoved Brandon toward the track.

"Stop the love talk and start runnin'."

*

"You lost?"

The marshal stopped addressing the sprinters when Brandon arrived.

"I'm racing," Brandon said, pointing to the number pinned to his chest.

The man glanced at his clipboard.

"Ah. Summers. Wild card. Had you marked as a no show. Get changed, you don't have much time."

"I'm changed," Brandon said.

A couple of the sprinters laughed. Clip-board man resumed his address. Brandon assessed his competition. They were muscled, lean and fit. Dressed in proper running shorts and singlets and spikes, they bounced around, shaking out their arms and legs, as they listened to the briefing.

Clip-board man checked each athlete's spikes and stopped at Brandon's joggers.

"This is a joke yeah?" He leaned in conspiratorially close to Brandon ear, "this is some kind of stunt right, something to do with indigenous reconciliation and equal opportunity, yeah? You're not competing?"

Brandon was immune to the racial undertone.

"I'm racing," Brandon said and looked the overweight man up and down, "I take it you're not."

Stifled laughter from the other competitors.

"No starting blocks?" the marshal asked.

"Blocks are for wusses."

The marshal shook his head in dismay.

"Nice meeting you kid. Don't think I'll see you in the next round."

The starter called the first heat to the track. Brandon watched the competitors screw their blocks into the track and stretch and bob and vanish down the track in a jumble of frantic arms and legs.

The guy next to Brandon glanced at his watch: "Twelve and a bit. Sharp."

The starter called the next heat. Brandon stepped into his lane. He breathed deeply and glanced down the track. The end seemed very far away.

"Take you marks."

With no starting blocks, Brandon assumed an old-fashioned standing start.

"Set."

Crack.

Brandon missed the start, giving the field a metre break. Technically raw, Brandon ran upright from the start, whereas the rest of the field stayed low to reduce wind drag. But by the time the other runners straightened and looked up, Brandon was gone. He won with a clear eight metres back to second.

The three timekeepers conferred and settled on 10.4. Stupendous. The time was out of place in regional competition. They stared in disbelief as Brandon rejoined George in the crowd.

"Good run kid."

"You got something to eat George?"

George got some sandwiches, and they sat and ate on the steps awaiting the next round.

*

Brandon's times improved with a 10.2 in the quarter-final and a ten even in the semi. In both races he annihilated his rivals. Word of his efforts spread and a large crowd remained for the final.

"Back again," Brandon said as he passed the marshal.

"You'd do better in the right gear."

The bloke had been sedated by Brandon's performances.

The starter called them to the line. As fastest qualifier, Brandon started from the centre lane. Dan Holman, _Mr-champion-4-years running_ , and crowd favourite, was on his right.

"Been avoiding me until now Summers," Holman muttered, "but I'm about to kick your arse."

Brandon raised his eyebrows before announcing to the rest of the field.

"Hey. F-Y-I. Holman is about to kick my arse! He wanted to tell everyone but he's too shy!"

The other sprinters laughed. The marshal waddled over.

"Knock it off or I'll disqualify both of you."

The starter took charge.

"Set"

As was his way, Brandon missed the start badly. But twenty metres in he had the back markers. At thirty, he pulled level with Holman. The champion tried to hold him but Brandon lifted and streaked away. He crossed the line five metres clear.

The crowd was stunned. The kid in the black t-shirt, who moved fast while seeming not to move at all, had destroyed their champion. Shock slowly gave way to applause.

The officials agreed a time of 9.9 seconds. Unheard of. Times beginning with nine were posted in the Olympics not on a regional goat-track. They went to find Brandon for the presentations, but he had already left the complex.

*

George was still buzzing a week later. The sprinting experiment had turned out perfectly.

"How'd you feel about the race kid?"

"I won," Brandon said.

"Didn't ask if you won. I asked how it felt."

"It felt good George. Real good."

It was an understatement. The sensation of streaking down the track had been supreme. In those nine and a bit seconds Brandon had been something. People had looked at him differently. The race had awakened his dream.

Charles Dent. Olympic gold. 9.49 seconds.

"Just as well kid. Cause I've entered you in another event. Now all we got to do is find you a proper coach and..."

"You're my coach George," Brandon said.

"Now kid that ain't going to work."

George knew how to coach a boxer not a sprinter.

"You train me George – or I don't run."

Part 2

CHAPTER 7

Sydney Tribune: Unknown ignites regional athletics

Every now and then you get a whiff of something extraordinary. So it is with little known sprinter Brandon Summers. He has turned regional athletics on its head. Summers followed up his win in the Hunter Regionals by taking out the Northern Districts invitational and a Sydney metro, before, in only his fourth competitive race, setting the Central Coast athletics carnival alight. No, let's get real, Summers took the 100 metres by the scruff of the neck and shook the life out of it. Known in league circles for his quick feet, Summers gave away track at the start but ran through the field, winning in a time of 9.98; stupendous.

The time would have seen him start in the 2008 Beijing Olympics final.

Asked afterwards about the race, Summers' response was equally quick: "It felt good but right now I'm real hungry."

Well get the man something to eat people. Because Brandon Summers might just be the real deal.

Alistair Pun (Columnist & Sporting Tragic) – Intrigued

CHAPTER 8

It is the same with any sport. The best get the best and the rest get, well, the rest. It is the self-fulfilling advancement of the elite. So it is with sprinting. The top sprinters have access to the best equipment and technology. The best facilities. The best advice. The best support teams. They have the best so they can become the best. Brandon and George could not afford it. George threw everything he had financially behind Brandon, but still they were frozen out. They made do with what they had.

And George was lost.

George knew boxing inside out but sprinting was a mystery. Boxing was about strategy and wearing your opponent down round by round. Sprinting was all hustle and bustle and over in ten seconds. Unfamiliar with the internet, George borrowed some books from the local library. The strategy of sprinting was simple; get away quick, reach peak velocity (ordinarily around the 50 metre mark), and then maintain that peak velocity for as long as possible. George learnt that every race had a start, middle and end, with countless sub-elements to each. Breathing. Stride length. Upper body alignment. Angle of chin to chest. Knee lift. Footfall...

Rubbish. George wanted to polish Brandon's talent not corrupt it. He began a training regime based on strength and stamina. They built strength inside the gym. Endless reps of the free weights and medicine balls and resistance equipment. George sought quick twitch strength rather than hulk-bulk. Leg curls and squats, stationary jumps and box jumps. Endless sessions on the heavy bag and speed bag.

Stamina came on the road. The books advised against distance work. Distance eroded muscle. But stamina was the base for power and robust muscle, not pretty-boy manufactured muscle that was gone as quickly as it appeared, but real muscle that grew from a solid foundation. At the back-end of a hundred metres, when a sprinter's adrenalin charged body is peaking, it's not a case of who can run the fastest, but who can run fastest on fading legs. Determined to stay in Brandon's ear George purchased a second-hand bike and chased him around Newcastle's streets.

Every second afternoon they honed technique on the track. Brandon's start was a mess and better sprinters would make him pay. George got Brandon crouching right; balanced on his thumb and fore-finger, body weight forward, head still, shoulders low, and put him through endless repetitions of _Marks_ , _Set_ , and _clap_ , holding him for varying periods, getting him used to a random delay.

Sunday afternoons George drove them north to the Stockton sand dunes. There, surrounded by the largest dunes in the southern hemisphere, George strapped a harness around Brandon's waist, filled the trailing sled with bricks, and ordered him up the enormous sand mountains. The sand shifted under Brandon's feet and the sun was pure fire. Often Brandon stopped and threw up from exertion. George stood and watched.

"You got it all out kid? Good. Now pick your arse up and keep climbing"

The exercise was primitive but effective. Brandon's legs bulged with muscled power. His aerobic capacity grew. He felt the taunt responsiveness that comes with peak conditioning; he believed that when he demanded something of his body it would deliver.

The training paid. Brandon entered two metropolitan events and won both comfortably; his times border-line Olympic standard. News of his performances spread through the tight-knit athletic community.

People began to notice. The dream began to take shape.

*

It was a clear night and the moonlit harbour was leaking away with the tide. The red and green lights of the coal loading terminals were visible across the harbour. Brandon watched the way the breeze tickled Anna's hair and the moon lit her eyes. Anna hugged herself as she walked. There were the distant sounds of music and voices from the pubs in town.

Anna had known to find Brandon at the Brewery but made her appearance seem a coincidence. She was not sure why she came. Brandon was fun and interesting, he moved in a different world to her own, but so what? Maybe he reminded her of a happier time. They made some small talk. Brandon told her about his sprinting. Anna told him about the cafe. It was simple and uncomplicated. Anna said she wanted some fresh air. Brandon walked with her outside.

"When's your next race?" Anna asked as they followed the harbour foreshore.

"This weekend."

"You nervous?"

"I don't get nervous."

She laughed. "I don't believe that."

"Alright," he said, "I don't get nervous racing."

"What makes you nervous then?"

"Talking to you."

She smiled. They walked to the end of the Marina pier and sat with their feet dangling over the water. The place was deserted. Boats bumped in the breeze.

"What happened to you Brandon?"

He shrugged.

"You've changed," she pressed, "the bit I used to know is still there, the part that was fun and interesting, but it's masked by some kind of angry, non-trusting, individual."

"People change."

"Yeah. But they don't dress themselves in something fake."

"Walk in my shoes for a day Anna and then tell me that. You look how I look. You live how I live Anna. You got to keep your defences up," he said, "you show weakness, people exploit it. You show the world what is important to you, it gets taken from you. The best way to get at someone is to strike at what they love."

"Sounds lonely," Anna said.

"It's safe."

"What did you think when your parents and brother died?" she asked.

Brandon rubbed the tattoo on his arm. He never spoke about that time.

"I thought it wasn't real and that they'd come back," he said, "and when they didn't I blamed Dad for taking them out that night. It was stupid. What happened was an accident. But I started hating a lot of things. And then I hated myself."

"You shouldn't hate yourself Brandon."

"What did you do when your mother died?" Brandon deflected the conversation.

"I don't talk about that Brandon."

It was an unfair trade but Brandon did not press.

"Relief," Anna said finally, "I felt relieved when mum died. There was a lot about mum that didn't work."

Brandon lay down on the concrete staring at the sky. Anna lay beside him.

"I'm glad your dad busted me that night," Brandon said.

"So am I," she said.

Brandon's fingers brushed hers, just an instantaneous connection of skin, before Anna sat up.

"I got to go home," she said.

Brandon wondered why but walked with her. It was like those times from the past, walking Anna home after parties. Anna prodded the parts of Brandon's life that he tried to hide, and laughed at his ridiculous responses.

As they were leaving the centre of town a car swung past with a head out the passenger side window.

"White girl's one of ours blackfella. Leave her alone yeah coon!"

Laughter trailed the car around the corner. Brandon glanced around at the deserted street and laughed in mock surprise.

"You think they were talking to us?"

Despite Brandon's attempt to make light of things, Anna felt his embarrassment. She squeezed his hand as they walked.

In time they reached her apartment. She kissed him quickly and skipped away.

"Hey," Brandon called, "I've got your number now."

She turned around and shrugged. "So use it."

CHAPTER 9

Located in the heart of _have not_ land, the Shelby hotel had a rough, working class reputation. Brandon paused at the door allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. A long bar ran down one side of the room, backed by fluorescent lit shelves topped with spirit bottles. The bloke behind the bar had called Brandon to come take George home, and he nodded toward the rear of the pub. Brandon saw George for a moment before he dropped from view in a scuffle.

Brandon hurried over and found George struggling to get up.

"Come on old man. Get up."

Brandon eased George's opponent back.

"It's over. Leave it."

The bloke was big but Brandon would fight him if he had to.

"You tell your grandfather to watch his mouth."

The bloke went to the bar and it was then that George noticed the crowd.

"Stuff you all," he shouted, "pack of bastards. Don't know why I bother comin' here!"

"Stop it George," Brandon said.

"Shut up kid," and then to the room, "at least I was somethin' once. Best bloody fighter on the east coast ..."

Aw shit. Here we go ...

Heard it before...

Shut up and go home George.

George wiped the blood from his lip.

"Had a shot at the Australian Title. Best left lead–right hook in the country."

George tried to reenact the combination but crashed into one of the tables.

"Enough George," Brandon said. He felt the pitiful embarrassment of the situation.

"Shot at the title," George yelled, "but I bloody end up here with you lot."

Brandon led George to the restrooms, and George slumped against the wall between the basin and cubicles.

"Bunch of lousy bastards. Treat me like an alien. Like I'm nothing."

"Wash your face," Brandon said, "it'll make you feel better."

"I don't want to feel better."

George coughed and slapped his shirt pocket searching for his cigarettes. The packet emerged empty. He tossed the packet into the empty toilet stall.

"Let's go home," Brandon said.

"I don't want to go home. There ain't nothing at home. And look at this place," George pointed at one of the toilets. It was leaning sideways, the tiles cracked around its base, "it's all busted up."

"Forget about the dunny," Brandon said, "it don't matter."

"Of course it matters," George said, "it's broken and no one's fixing it."

George nodded at the mirror. The glass was cracked into wicked stars that were impossible to see into.

"I looked into that mirror tonight kid and I looked all broken."

Brandon let George talk. It was better he fell apart in here than out there.

"This whole place is broken," George said, "and no one's fixing nothin'. You leave somethin' broken kid, somethin' else will break and then somethin' else, like a disease, until you're all broken too."

"I was a fighter," George continued after a pause, "a bloody good fighter. One step away from a title. I was somethin' kid. But now I'm nothin'. I drive a bloody forklift. I hang out in places like this. I gamble and drink. Nothin' good never happens to me no more. I'm like this place, busted up and broken kid."

Brandon realised that George's angst was irresolvable. There had been a brief period of pride in George's life but time had moved on. The memories comforted him but also made him bitter. George's mutterings merged into a single depressing mantra.

"You got to fix the broken shit. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it."

George slid down the wall and sat on the tiles. He slapped at his shirt pocket again and looked longingly at the empty cigarette packet on the floor.

"Why you here kid?"

"To take you home George."

"Not what I'm askin'. Why you here?"

Brandon shrugged.

"Cause you'd do the same for me."

Brandon lifted George into a standing position.

"Now George I'm gonna take you out of here and you are gonna behave."

Brandon led George out of the toilets and across the bar. George stared at the floor like an admonished child. The people respectfully averted their eyes. Brandon sensed that someone self-destructing and spilling their guts was routine in this place. Brandon got George into his car and started for home.

"You got it kid," George muttered, "bloody fast enough to go all the way. Best in the world."

Brandon glanced at George but he was already asleep, his face pressed against the window, and the world rushing by outside.

CHAPTER 10

Sydney Tribune: Brandon Summers – Olympic Gold Anyone?

The Olympic hundred metres is a tightly held event. For those nine and something seconds the worthy and the elite stop the world. They sprint. They win. They talk up a storm.

Australia has not had a medalist in the hundred metre Olympic final since Hec Hogan finished third in the 1956 Melbourne games. That is 60 years between drinks people.

Now it might be fanciful thinking that our 60-year drought is about to end but there is talk around one young man, Brandon Summers. A raw talent with an uncomplicated style, Summers' rise shows no sign of slowing. Unbeaten in seven starts he is on course for a place in the NSW State Titles, then the Australian Titles, and dare we dream further...Olympics anyone?

When asked about his charger becoming a champion, Summers' unconventional coach George Dalby (a former middle-weight boxer, more familiar around a boxing ring than a sprinting track) delivered a deft straight jab.

" _He already is."_

Some big words people, but Summers has a big future. Look out for him, he is coming fast.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Very Intrigued...

CHAPTER 11

George left the foreman's office and went directly to the restroom. He stepped into a stall and stuffed his weekly pay into his sock. He left the warehouse and commenced the long walk home.

George had taken the late night shifts at the building products warehouse to earn some extra money. Lugging the bags of cement and sand was tough, but the boss paid fairly and in cash. George had originally earmarked the money for his outstanding debts but he had recently redirected it to Brandon's sprinting instead. The kid needed money to train and compete. Life and society had never given the kid anything, George would at least give him half a chance.

The debt collectors were unhappy with the redirection of funds, and tonight was payment day.

The men intercepted George when he was halfway home. It was the usual routine. The three of them muscling up, shoving George around, talking tough.

"Grand a week George and we haven't seen shit."

George let them empty his wallet on the ground.

"My boss is losing patience George," the ringleader said, "are we speaking a foreign language George? Is that it?"

The tall timber stepped forward and started on George in a globally recognized language. George's head rocked left, right and back into the bricks. He fell and they started on him with their boots making a mess of his face and body. There was blood in his eyes and he felt a rib crack and suddenly found it hard to breathe.

But George took it all and closed his toes protectively around the money inside his shoe. That money was for a nine and a bit second dream. George would never hand it over.

"Grand a week George. Next time we bring the machete."

CHAPTER 12

Brandon kept to a slow loosening jog as Anna rode her bike beside him. It was late evening and the air was warm. They had been seeing a lot of each other. Brandon had made a habit of stopping at Anna's cafe for a juice and a chat. He was breaking his rules. Getting close was dangerous. But he was drawn to her. The way she spoke, the way she dressed and walked, everything about her drew him in. Being around her made him realise life could be different. And Anna, despite her play hard to get routine, was drawn by the danger and recklessness that came with Brandon. She looked forward to seeing him, unable to focus on things at the cafe until he had come and gone. It annoyed her immensely that he could distract her like that.

Having heard all about his bad arse training, she had come to see for herself. She wore denim shorts and sandals. Brandon could see the red bow of her bikini beneath her white t-shirt.

"Why do you run Brandon?" Anna asked as she rode.

"It is special," Brandon replied.

"What is so special about running down a track a little bit faster than everyone else?" she asked.

"Everything," Brandon replied.

Anna shot ahead forcing Brandon to get into stride. They talked and teased each other as they travelled the hills and backstreets of Merewether. Brandon refused to show any sign of fatigue and he liked the way Anna fought to keep up. When they reached the Surf Club car park they stopped.

"Alright," Brandon said, "a proper race. First to the gate."

"And the winner gets?" Anna asked.

"You win. I wash your car for a month," Brandon said, "I win. You ride with me for a month."

"Set – go!" Anna shot ahead.

She pedaled madly, her blonde hair blowing out behind her. Brandon had to work hard to catch up but edged past her at the finish. She threw a handful of sand at him.

"Hey. Sore loser," Brandon said.

"Cheat," she glared at him, genuinely annoyed.

"Wow," he said, " _competitive_."

"At least I play fair."

Brandon patted the sand beside him.

"Sit down and tell me which mornings suit you for training."

She kicked him in the side and Brandon burst out laughing, and Anna wrestled him down and pinned his arms with her knees. She sat on his chest cutting off his air.

"Not so tough anymore are we Brandon Summers," she said.

"Mercy," he sighed, liking the way Anna's hair fell over her face.

They felt the awkwardness returning then. Anna sought to beat it. She leant forward and he leant up. His hands got caught in her hair and her fingers traced his face. They kissed for a brief, awkwardness cleansing moment, before she rolled off him. They lay in the sand holding hands. Afraid if they let go they might lose what they just created.

*

George set dinner on the table. Brandon looked between his bowl of plain pasta and George's lab of oily lasagna.

"Why do you get that and I get this?"

"Cause I'm a fat bastard and you're an athlete."

They ate and talked sport and training. Brandon listened as George intricately plotted their path to the top. His next race was a regional event in Western Sydney. It was a step up in quality, but a good showing would get him into the big one they were chasing, the NSW State Titles. After that: The Victorian Pan Pacs, Australian Titles, then – unbelievably – the Olympics. It was surreal to Brandon. The Olympic 100 metres was reserved for sporting superstars. But George believed Brandon had the talent to make it. His times were sharp. Dent, Cole, Hoff, the best sprinters on the planet, would be aware of him soon.

George abruptly broke the spell.

"Mate told me he fired you from the pub. Want to tell me what happened?"

"No," Brandon said, annoyed by the turn in conversation.

"I know what happened," George said.

"So why you asking?"

It was the same old cycle; people pretending to care but already having made up their mind.

"I want to hear your side."

"There is no _my side_ George. Some money went missing. I took it. I got fired. I'm sorry I embarrassed you with your mate."

Brandon would not look at George.

"Sounds pretty mental kid. Why'd you do it?"

"I needed the money."

"How much was it?" George asked.

Brandon shrugged.

George already knew the amount. He got his wallet out and tossed two hundred dollars on the table.

"Go pay it back."

Brandon got out of his chair.

"You can keep your money George. I've already paid it back."

Brandon departed and George was left to wondered why, with so much going for him on the track, the kid would go and do something like that.

*

Brandon never liked carrying and felt uneasy as he walked the dark streets. When you carried you felt the eyes of the world on you. But carrying tonight was inspired by George. _You think I'm a criminal, then I better act like one._ Because even George could not see beyond his past.

It was a simple trip. A short journey on foot to deliver several ounces with a corrupt police officer. Just pick up, deliver, and then get on with life. Until the next time Karim came calling.

Screw Karim.

Of course. Naturally. But Karim had Jackson. And Karim could get at anyone anywhere. Karim can...

The thought went unfinished as a police car fishtailed up on to the curb. Reynolds and another officer piled out. Brandon did not try and run as they shoved him up against a wall. He was not afraid. A corrupt officer intercepting a delivery for a corrupt officer; Reynolds would not mess with Karim's network. Sanity would prevail.

"Summers," Reynolds said as he patted Brandon down for anything dangerous, "you lost?"

Reynolds took Brandon's backpack and raised his eyebrows when he spied the baggie inside. He put the point of his baton to Brandon's throat.

*

"Take a walk," Reynolds grunted to his companion.

The young colleague obediently wandered around the corner of the building.

"Why do you do this?" Brandon asked.

"Because the badge and uniform say I can. The community says I can. They say I can fuck up any Aboriginal kid I choose. You see, your background Summers gives you zero rights. Now tell me what I want to know."

"I don't know anything."

"Bullshit. You were there. You saw it."

Autopilot – auto debate. Same question – same response. And Reynolds' statement was really a guess. Reynolds brother had moved in murky circles; serving Karim and others like him. You live the grey space between law and order, and shit can happen. And Reynolds' brother had been on drugs and such a mess mentally, that the conclusion of suicide (settled by those in the force with an incentive to have the matter covered-up), fit easily. Policing was a stressful occupation. People cracked. People self-harmed. People jumped.

Reynolds swung his baton. The first blow took the wind out of Brandon. The second knocked him down. The third, and the rest, reminded Brandon of what he was; an Aboriginal kid who counted for nothing. In time Reynolds lifted him by the hair.

"It can continue Summers. I have a life-time to wait. You know what I want. Tell me."

Reynolds prepared to strike again but his colleague pulled him back.

"Easy. Careful," the officer was horrified by Brandon's bloodied face, "we take him in yeah?"

"No," Reynolds snapped, "we're done here. Get in the car."

The young officer did as he was told and Reynolds tossed the backpack at Brandon's feet.

"You go deliver things mail boy. That's all you are, a coloured whipping boy. And remember, delivering's a dangerous past-time, same as messing with the police chief's daughter."

Brandon understood the threat.

You want to get at someone, you strike at who they love.

*

_Street fight_ was Brandon's response when George enquired about his injuries.

"Who with – Mike Tyson?"

George shook his head in dismay but did not probe further. He put Brandon through his paces inside Lyno's, and afterward, when Brandon was warming down, he broke the news.

"You're in the State titles kid."

Brandon was stunned.

"Bullshit George?"

"No shit kid," George slapped Brandon on the back, "you'll be racing Dwayne Stables, best sprinter in the country. Ain't been beaten for nearly a decade. You worried?"

"Should I be?"

George laughed. The kid knew no fear. Most athletes took years to develop but Brandon was special. George had studied all the greats, watching replays of Lewis, Chambers, Bailey, Johnson, Bolt, Cole, and Dent. Brandon was technically raw but supremely talented. George was at a loss to explain it. And picking Brandon apart to understand why was fruitless. The kid's body just came together right; arms, legs, lungs, heart, all working perfectly together to create supreme speed.

"State Titles. Victorian Pan Pacs. Australian titles. Then.."

"Olympics," Brandon completed the sequence.

"Indeed kid. And..."

George broke off realising Brandon's attention was elsewhere. He turned and saw a girl waiting at the gym entrance. With her short shorts and blonde hair she was a distraction to every bloke in the place. She waved in their direction.

"She here for you kid?" George asked.

"Well she ain't waiting for you George."

"Hey hang on," George said, "that's Donovan's daughter. You got a death wish kid?"

Brandon slung his pack over his shoulder, "see you tomorrow George."

"Not if Donovan sees you first."

CHAPTER 13

The short time to the NSW State Titles disappeared in a blur. Brandon threw himself into training and the night before the big race George tapped Brandon's hunger.

"Watch kid," he said and turned on the television.

Brandon recognised the hundred metre final from the recent Geneva Diamond Championship event. The sounds of the crowd, the lights, the nervous routines of the sprinters, gave Brandon goose bumps. Charles Dent, the defending champion, was flanked by other superstars; Cole, Hoff, Chen, and Pierre. All sub-9.9 sprinters. Arguably the strongest hundred metre field in history.

The competitors stepped to the line and the stadium fell quiet. At the crack of the gun the sprinters surged. The commentator became a delirious voice-over as two sprinters pulled away in the centre lanes. The pair fought and jousted and thrust their chests at the line.

The big screen – _9.56 seconds._

Brandon knew the time like his birth date. The world record.

Then the Dent show began. The Champion strutted and flexed like a peacock. He thumped his chest and fired imaginary arrows into the crowd. Brandon heard snippets of Dent's post race interview: "the best", "the meanest", "the greatest of all time".

George froze the footage of Dent with both arms raised to the sky.

"You know who that is?"

"What is this, celebrity heads?"

"Just answer the question kid."

"Charles Dent," Brandon said.

George tapped the face on the screen.

"Charles Dent. Jamaican but spends most of his time in the US. Current 100 metre world record holder. Olympic champion. World Champion. Unbeaten in the last three years. Height 6.2. Weight 92 kilos. He is the champion. He is the man. Some love him and some love to hate him. He can run and he can talk."

George paused, allowing his words to settle.

"The last man to beat Dent was Cassius Cole, the giant you just saw pushing Dent to the line. The Cuban Colossus. Fidel Castro's favourite son. Cole is dangerous but Dent is the best; the fastest man to ever live."

George crouched beside Brandon so that he saw what Brandon saw.

"I want you to remember that face kid. I want it the last thing you see at night and the first thing when you wake up."

Brandon was entranced.

"You can beat him kid. You belong on that stage. You got the speed to beat the best. London. A year from now. That will be you. It starts tomorrow. You race. You win. You own the track."

Brandon nodded and George changed the subject.

"Me mate from the pub called last night. Bloke who sacked you."

"Really? Did he want to press charges?"

"No. He apologised. Said you can have your job back."

"That so."

"Money kept disappearing after you left. They busted someone else. Why'd you take the blame kid?"

"Well George. When enough people say you did something or you are something. You kind of end up believing them."

*

Anna was woken by a tapping at her bedroom window. She glanced at the beside clock, 3 am. She parted the curtains and saw Brandon clinging to the outside drainpipe, one floor off the ground.

"Brandon! What are you doing?"

"Can I come in?"

She stood back and he crawled in on to the floor.

"You're crazy," she giggled.

"Did I wake you?"

"It's three in the morning Brandon."

"I couldn't sleep," he said, hugging her legs. She was dressed in her underwear and a white pajama top. She wriggled out of his grip and sat beside him on the floor.

"So you come and wake me up."

"Are you annoyed?"

"No," she said, "but shouldn't you be sleeping before the race tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Are you nervous?"

"No," Brandon said.

"Oh yeah. I forgot. _Mr too tough_ to be nervous. So what are you nervous about?"

"Do you listen to anything I say?"

"When you tell the truth."

She was right. He was nervous. He felt strong. He had worked hard with George. But the significance of the State Titles had unsettled him. Unable to sleep he had gone running and ended up at Anna's window.

"Why are you worried?"

Brandon was silent for a moment. She ran her fingers over his face, skirting a bruise around his eye.

"Off the track I am nothing," he said, "on the track, sprinting, I'm something a little bit more than nothing. It's a chance to prove myself."

"And that is important?"

"When you've been a waste your entire life, it is."

For Anna it was a rare glimpse beneath the tough exterior.

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

She kissed him and rested her chin on top of his head.

"What went on with you and your parents?" Brandon asked.

Anna was silent for a period as if considering whether to give away a bit of herself.

"Mum and Dad didn't fit together," she said finally, "they did once, they must have, but whatever they had vanished into a nightly round of fighting. When I was 14 Mum left Dad and started living with another guy. I went with her; the kid's always better off with the mother, right? Wrong. Mum was terrible. She was insecure and self absorbed and keen for attention from anyone. She fought as much with this bloke as she did my Dad. And this one had a creepy habit of waiting outside the bathroom whenever I showered. I left them and went back to Dad."

Brandon had known things were not perfect with Anna's family at school but she had never let on.

"Dad took Mum leaving hard. He drunk and threw himself into his work to avoid things. And I did everything I could to get their attention. Drink, drugs, wagging school. I ruined myself to get back at them. I hated them. They got me a psych doctor who asked me a load of questions about when I was little, but missed the part about my parents being dysfunctional. The doctor labeled my behaviour an attention seeking disorder. I considered it pay back. It worked. Dad became a nervous wreck. Mum descended more to avoid me."

"Then Mum got sick with cancer and she did what she always did, she brought her sickness home. Dad took her back. She cheated on him incessantly. But he put up with it, right up to the end. For her. For me. But all it did was transfer the guilt to me; I felt guilty because she did not love me. There was no love with them Brandon. That's what I remember most, the absence of something rather than the presence of something. I knew what it should be like from watching other kid's families. I cried when Mum died, not because I was sad that she was gone, but because I should have been. But it taught me something Brandon. I promised myself the life and family I make in the future won't ever be like that. There," she exhaled, "see, you're not the only one who's screwed up."

She nudged him with her knee and they laughed and talked. But it was late and he had a big race tomorrow. Brandon took off his shoes and t-shirt and got into bed. Anna knelt over him.

"You still nervous," she asked.

"No."

"I don't believe you," she said, "now close your eyes and stay still."

She slipped her top off and ran her hands and lips down his body.

*

Race Day. Showtime. NSW State Titles.

Brandon was a nervous bundle of adrenalin. George was fuming.

"Bloody hell. Slippin' out in the middle of the night before our biggest bloody race. Hope you at least got some sleep with your little friend."

George had been at Brandon the entire drive to Sydney and was still smarting as they strode the labyrinth of corridors beneath Sydney Olympic stadium. Brandon did not hear. He saw things as if in a dream. It was here, in the 2000 Olympics, that Maurice Greene defeated Ato Boldon claiming the 100 metres in 9.87, and Cathy Freeman won the 400 metres in her superhero speed suit. Brandon had been 8 years old then, up late with his father, watching, dreaming.

George sat Brandon down in the corner of the change room.

"Now kid. First thing: you put away the arrogance. This field is strong. You give 'em an inch they'll make you pay. Anyone talks to you ignore 'em. Stick to the plan. Get away quick. Stay low. Finish strong."

George was in his element. The moment revived his years prowling the boxing ring. Brandon soaked up George's words; living the sprint in his mind. By the time he was called to the track he felt invincible.

*

Brandon blitzed his first heat; ordinary start, but he charged through the field. He barely got out of second gear in winning his quarter-final. He was challenged in the semi but lifted and took it in a flat ten, celebrating with some flexing and shadow boxing for the crowd.

News of his performances spread. Knowledgeable spectators sensed something special. Some had heard the stories and come to see if the reality matched the hype. And the clock did not lie. Brandon Summers was fast. His style was sublime. Most sprinters were all arms and legs and strained energy – Brandon ran like a smoothly worked machine.

But Dwayne Stables awaited him in the final. Australian Champion and track and field legend. The fastest Australian of all time. Stables intended to tear him down.

*

With fifteen minutes to the final, Brandon wore his _don't mess with me_ mask, but George sensed the nerves.

"Relax kid. State Final's a different level but it's still just a race, same as any other. Stables will be pissed you qualified fastest. He's a class act. But don't be drawn by his talk."

Brandon shook out his arms and legs. He saw the track in his mind. He intended to send a message to Australia and beyond.

"Start quick kid. Stay low. If Stables talks ignore him."

*

Brandon stood at the top of the track. Competitors fidgeted around him with a myriad of nervous routines; crossing themselves, glancing at the sky, kissing necklaces. They were a cut above any group Brandon had faced. They oozed power and speed.

Brandon glanced at Stables. Tall and muscled, the Champion's arms and legs were shaped steel. When he spoke his voice was like sand paper.

"This is my place, you don't belong here."

Brandon recalled George' advice and dismissed it.

"Well I won't be here long," Brandon said, "nine and a bit seconds."

Stables grunted as the starter called them to their marks. Brandon tested his blocks. He glanced down the track, breathing deeply.

"Ordinary start I hear, Summers," Stables hissed, "don't go early, don't go late, yes-no-wait."

Stables chuckled.

Set

The starter held them and Brandon saw Stables fidgeting beside him. A ploy to put him off. Brandon pressed harder to the ground to steady himself. Stables kept moving and Brandon closed his eyes.

Crack.

The field surged and Brandon lingered, a full metre, behind. A terminal margin against this level of competition.

Don't panic. Keep your shape.

Brandon kept his head down and held his form, and when he looked up at the twenty metre mark he had recovered half of the gap. At fifty he was through the field and chasing Stables.

Every muscle, every fibre, fought to propel him down the track. Fire and pain in his limbs. The time keepers a shifting blur at the end of the track. He pulled alongside the Australian champion with thirty to go. But only for an instant...

...Stables was at peak velocity and Brandon was still accelerating...

...Brandon blew past him and took the race by two metres.

The crowd were out of their seats, stunned.

The time. _9.81_. Unheard of in Australia.

Brandon responded with a bow and spread both palms in a gesture of "what was so special", and went to find George. A television reporter intercepted him.

"Brandon Summers. Spare a word?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, "I'm not in a hurry anymore."

The cameraman got in position and cued the reporter in.

"Well I'm here with Brandon Summers, the new NSW State 100 metre champion. What did you think of the race Brandon?"

"It felt good. The time was good. Everything was good."

"You beat Dwayne Stables, Australia's reigning sprint King?"

"About time someone did."

The reporter chuckled.

"And the time. 9.81 seconds. The fastest ever by an Australian. Did you think you could go that fast?"

"Faster," Brandon said.

The reporter raised his eyebrows.

"Faster?"

"That's what I said. You ought to get your ears checked."

The reporter smiled, he would take the blows, the kid was priceless.

"Anything else you want to say Brandon."

"Yeah," Brandon smiled mischievously at the camera, "I got a message for Charles Dent. Dent, if you're watching, I'm coming for you, watch your back. There's plenty more horsepower in this motor. Watch your back."

Brandon pointed at the screen and winked. The reporter ended it there.

"Hey," Brandon said, "no hard feelings about me messing with your ears, yeah?"

_None whatsoever, anytime,_ the reporter thought. Dent was sprinting royalty and Summers had just given the King a backhanded slap. The footage was sure to go viral.

CHAPTER 14

In this world of social media and 24/7 global news coverage, footage of Brandon's interview flew like a heat seeking missile across continents and seas and exploded on the ridiculously large screen television in Charles Dent's Boston apartment.

Born in Jamaica but commercialised in the US, Dent was everything a 100 metre World Champion should be. The shape of sprinters had changed over the years from the tall, lean, Christie and Lewis prototype of the eighties, to the nuggety human cannonballs of Boldon and Fredricks in the nineties. The noughties saw height and power come together with the likes of Gatlin and Bolt. Then there was Charles Dent. In Dent's own words: he completed the evolution of sprinters.

He combined height and strength perfectly. Height for stride length and strength for power out of the blocks. He started quick and finished quick. His CV of achievements was impeccable.

Dent held the big three: Olympics Champion, World Champion, and World Record. Unbeaten in the last three years, Dent was a global phenomenon and marketer's dream. The fastest man alive. About the only thing faster than Charles Dent on the track was his mouth off it. And like all true champions, Dent bristled when challenged.

Enjoying a rub-down from his personal physician, the footage on Fox sports ruined his mood.

"... _. 100 metres title, held in Sydney Australia. Little known sprinter Brandon Summers claimed the final in a time of 9.81 seconds. The event itself was not significant but Summers' time was the fastest ever by an Australian and stunningly, the fastest globally in the last 12 months. And Summers followed up his fine work on the track with some interesting work in front of the camera."_

Dent watched as Brandon declared the equivalent of war on the reigning champion.

"Dent, if you're watching, I'm coming for you, watch your back."

The segment returned to the Fox studio compare.

"Now. Those seem like fighting words from our man down under. Dent, if you're watching, we'd love to hear from you."

Dent flicked off the television.

"Yeah I'm watching buddy. And you'll hear from me alright."

"Relax," his physician said, "you're too tense."

Dent ignored her and picked up his mobile. Sammy, his agent and manager, answered.

"Charles. You check the time when you call people?"

"No Sammy," Dent said, "but I check my finances and choke when I see how much I'm paying you."

"Hey easy Charles," Sammy replied, "you know I'm your man."

"Mine and anyone else with money."

"Now that hurts brother."

"Shut up and listen Sammy. I just saw a piece on Fox Sports. Some new bloke in Australia. Just won some rubbish event with a semi-hot time. Then he gets high and mighty and fires shots at me in the post race interview."

"What kind of shot Charles?"

"The kind I don't like Sammy. Now I want you to find out all you can about this hoax. Age. Stats. Background. What time he takes a shit each day. And where he developed the balls to start dissing me."

"You worried about him Charles?"

"I don't worry about anyone Sammy," Dent snapped, "we talk tomorrow."

Dent moved to the window.

"Brandon Summers," he muttered to his image in the glass, "you'll be sorry you ever started this."

*

Cash Jenson paused his personal preening and focused on the morning news, and the replay of the NSW State 100 metres Titles. He noted the time and laughed at the post match challenge to Charles Dent.

"You cheeky bastard."

Cash Jenson; highest grossing principal of Denison Sports Marketing, and agent to the stars. Cash specialised in turning talent into profile, into bucket loads of – well – cash. For Cash, money, rather than some physical force, made the world go round. He rested easy with this. In economic terms, it was the perfect agency relationship. Cash benefited but only when his clients did. And his client list was a who's who of the biggest names in Australian sport. But there was always room for another.

Cash dialed his personal assistant.

"Patricia, sweet. Brandon Summers. He's a sprinter. Just saw him on television. He's from Newcastle. I want his contact details on my desk when I arrive. See you in an hour."

CHAPTER 15

It was late when George, the last to leave Lyno's, locked the place up. He started across the deserted car park but stopped when he saw his car. His immediate thought was a break-in. But the damage was too extensive. The windows were shattered. The bonnet, roof, and side doors had been beaten in. Each tyre neatly punctured.

George studied the damage and understood. Owe money – miss payment – car totaled. A simple message in anyone's language.

George reached in through the shattered passenger side window, got his hat, and started the long walk home.

The debt collectors had lit the blowtorch.

CHAPTER 16

Sydney CBD. Brandon and George dodged the swarming tide of suits.

"Tell me again why we're here George?"

"Simple kid. You need money for training. I'm about to get you some money."

"And what's this Cash Jenson like?" Brandon asked.

"He's a dickhead. All agents are dickheads."

George had expected a call from someone like Jenson. George had seen the way money moved in boxing. He had pocketed some but missed most of it. He would make sure Brandon got his share.

"Now kid. You let me handle this. And we don't settle for anything under fifty thousand a year."

"Holy shit. You serious George?"

"Dead set kid. Now shut up and look pretty. This is his place."

The elevator spat them out in an immaculate reception area. A woman led them down a long corridor lined with signed photographs of Australian sports stars. In a corner office a man sat with his feet up on a desk, talking animatedly on the phone. He indicated they should sit.

"Well you tell Samuel that my man is worth more coin than they got at the Perth mint," the man winked at Brandon and George, "he's just signed with the Eels. He is young, sharp, strong. He's going to tear it up – what? – well you tell Samuel to take a mirror to bed and wake up to himself, the kid is worth a fortune. What's that? – Samuel doesn't sleep much – I don't give a shit about his sleeping habits other than a lack of sleep is messing with his brain. Look, I got to go. Yeah yeah. You speak to your people and I'll speak to mine, and while they're all tossing off I'll start speaking to someone else."

The man hung up and skirted the table.

"You must be Brandon," he said offering his hand to George, "you look fit as."

Brandon and George didn't know what to think. Then the man beamed a bright white smile and slapped both of them on the shoulder.

"Just messing with you. Brandon, good to meet you. And George."

He shook the correct hands and sat down.

"Cash Jenson's my name. And this," he swept his arm around his office, "is where I live. You find it alright?"

Brandon struggled to keep up. Everything about Cash Jenson was fast. The talking, the walking, the hand shaking.

Cash reclined in his chair and sighed deeply.

"What a morning. Madness. I got clients and sponsors calling, all singing different tunes and I got to make em sing in harmony. But it's good. We move. We grove. We make it happen. So Brandon, what gets you humming?"

"Sprinting," Brandon said, "and winning."

Cash laughed.

"Well that's just as well isn't it."

Cash swung both feet on to his desk and triangled his fingers beneath his chin, like a professor pondering a complex problem.

"So just who have we got here. Brandon Summers. Twenty-one years old. Lives in Newcastle. Attended Merewether High. Talented but wayward teenage sprinter. Played five seasons with the Maitland Rats – speed to burn on the wing. Selected for the train on squad for the Knights two years running but cut at the last gate. Feedback; extreme speed but ordinary attitude. Throws in towel on league career and resurrects sprinting ambitions. Demolishes 100 metre fields in Hunter and North Coast Regional events, gets a ticket into the State Titles and destroys the crowd favourite but _has-been_ Dwayne Stables, posting the fastest 100 metres ever by an Australian. And oh, yeah, gets up the nose of Olympic and World Champion Charles Dent. Tell me? Were you looking to pick a fight with him or just having some fun?"

"Neither. I was stating a fact," Brandon said, "and are you a sports agent or a secret agent?"

Cash laughed.

"Neither. I'm a sports economist. I make people like you rich. And I like to know who I'm dealing with."

Brandon assessed Cash. He talked a lot, smiled a lot, and fidgeted constantly. And there was a common thread to it all. Money. It lined the walls of his expensive office. It was in his eyes.

"Tell me Brandon, what's your ambition?"

"To win gold in London. To take down Dent and to silence Cole. To be the fastest sprinter of all time."

"Wow. They're some high expectations."

"And he's going to do it," George cut in.

Cash glanced at George. He was not keen on the old man. Brandon was young and impressionable, easy to mold the way Cash might want to mold him. The old fella looked savvy.

"So you got the NSW State title, what's next Brandon?"

"Australian titles. Where I'll send Stables back to the stables. And then London."

Cash laughed. "I like that. Stables back to the stables."

"He's a dinosaur," Brandon said, "I flogged him two nights ago and I'll do it again."

Cash burst out laughing. The kid was priceless.

"Alright," George cut in, "enough bullshit. How much are you getting us?"

Cash frowned. The old man had just shown his ill-cultured side.

"Why does every conversation in my office turn to money," Cash moaned.

"Might have something to do with your name," George said.

Cash assessed Brandon carefully. He could sprint but he could also talk. He had the looks; tall and strong. Might even be an indigenous angle to play. The kid was a potential goldmine. But Cash would start him low.

"Now gentleman, I've got the biggest names in Australian sport on my books. League. AFL. Cricket. You name em, I've got em. I'm connected. I work hard. I get the results."

George yawned expansively. Cash blocked him out and leant across the table toward Brandon.

"I took the liberty of floating you to a couple of my clients already. I've got, how shall we put it, a nibble from a large player."

"Wooaa. Hang on," George cut in, "stop the bullshit, how much are you going to get us?"

Cash rocked back in his seat.

"This constant talk of money," Cash moaned, "it's awful. But alright. Let's see. Brandon is a new name. Athletics is not a household sport in this country. A couple of notches below swimming on the recognition meter. League and AFL are where the big bucks are in this country."

"Bullshit," George interrupted, he had seen this low balling before as a boxer, "Brandon is special. When he's winning gold in London and his face is imprinted on the brains of a billion global viewers, he will be the most marketable individual on the planet."

Brandon listened, realising he had suddenly become a commodity with a price.

"Look, no disrespect Brandon, you know I love you and I think you're special," Cash responded, "but let's replace a couple of George's "When's" with "If's", just to balance the dream with some reality. But hey, I like the dream."

Cash leant across his desk in a gesture that they were all on the same team.

"I'll push for as much as I can get for you Brandon, but the reality is, the world of sports is a transient play ground. People get injured. Fortunes shine and fade. Sponsors like to pay for what they see, not what they might be seeing. If things happen as you describe George, trust me, we'll be renegotiating based on Brandon's worth at that time."

"But ..." George began.

"Alright," Brandon cut in, "quit this bullshit dick measuring contest. How much will you get me Cash?"

Cash laughed again. The kid was priceless.

"I'll seek a hundred grand," Cash said, "will come with the usual public appearances, merchandise and store openings."

Brandon turned his instinctive smile into a grimace.

"We don't sign for under a hundred and fifty," George countered, "and he's locked in maximum a year."

Cash made a big show of how much George's offer hurt.

"Shit George. I'm good but look Stan Taylor, rugby league poster boy, ain't on much more than that."

"Taylor is a league playing buffoon," George said, "get up kid, let's go see the other mob that's been calling us."

Cash grimaced.

"Alright. I'll test the water at one-fifty."

Then Cash was moving fast again. One hand bearing business cards and the other shaking their hands. It was only when they were back on the street that Brandon let his guard down.

"One fifty George. Holy shit!"

"Yeah," George said, "and we'd have got two hundred if not for you smiling from ear to ear."

*

New York City. Dent stepped from the black Hummer on to the red carpet that led up the wide stairs of Madison Square Garden. Dent wore a dark Armani 3 piece suit, drawn tight around his muscled body. It was night but he slipped on dark sunglasses. A ten deep crowd pressed up to the metal barricades; total yelling and screaming and camera phone madness. The king had arrived.

Dent walked the carpet like he owned it. Only tonight he was sharing it with other invitees for the annual World Sports awards. His claiming the major award, World Sport Star of the year, for the third year running, was a formality.

"Just up the stairs Mr Dent," the concierge urged politely.

But Dent was in no hurry. He owed his people some love. He slapped hands, blew kisses, knocked knuckles, high-fived and scrawled his name on anything handed to him. He dined out on the adoration. It swelled his soul.

Halfway up the steps a reporter called him over.

"You confident about your chances tonight Mr Dent?"

"Depends what you're talking about my friend," Dent smiled knowingly.

"The award Mr Dent. You're up against sporting royalty: Federer, Slater, Tiger, Messi."

"Royalty, yes, and I'm the King," Dent said, "I'll win. I always win."

Dent pointed at the camera and slapped his chest.

"Indeed Mr Dent," the reporter replied, "but we hear a challenger has emerged. A young sprinter out of Australia. Brandon Summers."

"Brandon who?" Dent played dumb.

"Brandon Summers. Surely you've heard of him. He was on every news channel in the country."

"Yeah," Dent said, "I've heard of him but who is he, other than a kid with a far-fetched imagination. Pulls a half decent time and his mouth gets away from him. But that's cool. That's fine. I'm the King and everyone wants to topple the King."

"His time was the fastest anywhere in the world in the last 12 months," the reporter persisted.

The interview was getting tedious now.

"Now listen my friend. He pulled that time in some no-name event" Dent countered, "what was it, the Outback Cup, damn, I didn't even know they had athletics down there, thought it was all kangaroos and koalas and every other animal that starts with K. But hey, I love you Australia," Dent blew a kiss to the camera, "and Summers, if you're watching, learn to sprint before you talk. Peace yeah."

Dent continued up the red carpet, waving and grinning, and rubbing skin with his fans. But the spectre of Brandon Summers had ruined his night.

CHAPTER 17

Professional sport is a crazy junket. Things happened quickly for Brandon on the track and even quicker off it. Cash got Brandon in front of the biggest sporting brands in the country. ASICS wanted his feet and they got them for a hundred grand a year. Gillette got his face for fifty grand. MOJO and Trailblazer and Adidas wanted him in their gear; Brandon obliged for twenty grand each. Brandon suddenly found himself in a money wonderland.

When he was not racing he was opening stores, completing photos shoots, attending charity events, visiting schools, and getting _out there_ with television and radio interviews. His face was in the paper and on the side of buses. With the London games just over a year away, and Australia believing it had a genuine contender in the 100 metres, Brandon became the most recognisable sportsman in the country.

Brandon became instant royalty inside Lyno's. He had offers to upgrade to flashier facilities but what for. Lyno's was his second home. It was where it all began, and big old Lyno was proud to spruik Brandon Summers as a gym regular. Blokes queued to spot him on the bench and hold the heavy bag for him. Kids tried to keep up with him as he ran the streets. Aspiring athletes asked for tips on the training track. Even people disinterested in athletics were captured by the fast talking kid out of Newcastle.

George was careful to keep Brandon grounded. He stressed humility and hard work, reminding Brandon of where he had come from and where he was going. That all the adoration could vanish if he did not perform on the track. George found higher sand dunes and loaded more bricks in the sled. He upped the mind-numbing repetitions of Brandon's start. All of it designed to eke out the elusive 10ths of seconds that would separate success and failure. George constantly reiterated their goal; gold in London, defeating Charles Dent, and 9.49 seconds.

George's regime paid.

Brandon ran 9.98 winning a class 1 meet in Brisbane, and followed it up with a 9.93 in an AA sanctioned meet two months later. Challengers hardly got close to him. Anna was there each time cheering from the stands. She did not care for the sport, unable to grasp the importance of men streaking down a track a little faster than each other, but she cared for Brandon. She saw how sprinting was good for him. And Brandon would seek her out in the crowd after each win and tell her it was for both of them. And she would try and hold him before the tide of adulation dragged him away.

Brandon used some of Cash's magic money to buy George a new car (George's old one had been written-off in an apparent uninsured collision). Brandon moved out of George's house into a nice place with the _Haves_ by the beach with Anna. He fitted the nice place with nice things. Anna continued to study, unfazed by the noise surrounding her man. That was his world not hers. And whenever Chief Donovan visited, he would remind Brandon of that miracle moment on the throne, without which there'd be no Lyno's, no George, and no sprinting.

Things were good for Brandon. For the first time in his life he felt at ease. He was racing. He was winning. With Anna, he could picture a life without the baggage of the past.

But it was an illusion. The past never leaves. It just chooses its moments to intervene.

*

Brandon saw the car when he returned home. A black 4WD with dark windows that were impossible to see into. A familiar face got out.

"Little Brother."

Jackson looked older and was all black; black jeans, shirt, jacket, hair. Only the _too-big_ gold neck-chain broke the pattern. He looked, Brandon thought, like Karim.

Jackson embraced him.

"Lookin' buff Little Brother. Saw you on TV. Who'd have thought, my Little Brother the fastest man in Australia. Fastest F'n thing on two legs."

The visit, after so long, was awkward for Brandon.

"You want to cruise?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah," Brandon said.

*

Jackson drove with the windows down and his elbow on the sill, and told stories. For a moment Brandon was captured by the nostalgia of it all. But in time he saw through it. It was a hollow recreation of the past.

Jackson painted a bold picture of life in the Cross. Money, girls, power. Jackson had an apartment with views of the harbour. Pool, spa, and roof area just perfect for hot nights. Jackson had a reputation and people did not mess with him. Jackson had everything he ever wanted.

"You should see it down there," Jackson said as they cruised the beaches, "you want something, anything, you can get it."

Jackson caught Brandon looking at his jacket. Smiling, he exposed a shiny black handgun. Brandon stared at it. The last gun he had seen was Karim's scattering a house party.

Why was Jackson carrying. Guns attracted more guns.

"Personal security," Jackson said, putting the gun away.

Jackson parked in a deserted parking lot. They got out and leant against the bonnet of the car overlooking the ocean. For an instant Brandon felt the tug of the past, being so close to his brother again. But Jackson was different; he spoke constantly about himself and Karim. And he noticed every car that passed. He was on edge. The good life in the Cross came at a cost.

"I got a girlfriend," Brandon cut in.

"Anyone I know?"

"Donovan's daughter," Brandon said.

"Bloody hell. I leave and you start messin' with the police chief's daughter?"

The laughter was nice, familiar.

"Now tell me Little Brother, what have you and Karim got going. He doesn't worry about anyone as much as you. He takes it personally you haven't joined us. He sent me up to convince you to come."

"If Karim wants me he knows where to find me," Brandon said.

"Oh he'll find you alright. He'll..."

Jackson stopped as a car pulled into the lot. The occupants, two teenagers, wound down the windows with the radio up.

"Hey," Jackson yelled, "turn that bullshit music down!"

The reply, a dope fuelled, "fuck you."

Jackson glanced at Brandon.

"Did they just say what I think they said?"

"Leave it," Brandon said.

"You want to see power Little Brother?"

There was a sudden vacant look in Jackson's eyes.

"Leave it," Brandon repeated.

But Jackson was gone. Brandon saw one of the kids get out. Big mistake. Jackson dodged the kid's weak attempt at a punch and head-locked the kid and ran him into the car door, once, twice, three times. The kid dropped like a stone. His mate got out but stopped when he saw Jackson's gun.

"The gun says kiss my shoes," Jackson ordered.

The kid shook his head. Jackson cocked the hammer of the gun. The kid dropped to his knees and did as he was told.

"The gun says kneel and nod."

The kid did it.

"Power Little Brother," Jackson called over his shoulder, "can get you anything."

Jackson ordered the kid to lick the ground and kneel and pray.

"Look Little Brother," Jackson called to Brandon, "Mr Colt 45 asks and Mr Colt 45 gets."

Then Jackson burst out laughing and spun the gun around his index finger.

"Get up you shit. And take this other piece of shit with you. Don't let me see you around here again."

*

It was dark when Jackson dropped Brandon home.

"It was nice seeing you Little Brother."

Brandon made to get out but stopped. He was afraid for Jackson. He knew where Karim could lead him. Like Brandon, Jackson's indigenous background had set him on a path – death or prison – the only unknowns, which one and when. If it wasn't Karim it would be someone else.

"Stay here Jackson. You don't need that rubbish. I got money now," Brandon said.

"And do what Little Brother? I ain't no elite athlete like you."

"Just stay away from Karim," Brandon said, "he's a..."

"Uh uh," Jackson put his finger to his lips, "watch that mouth. And seriously Karim's expecting you. Don't care about no one else. Just you. Come soon."

Brandon knocked knuckles and Jackson was gone.

CHAPTER 18

Brandon was used to surprises but Anna's news stunned him.

She was pregnant.

Anna told him as they sat one night at _their place_ at the marina pier. She just asked if he wanted to know something crazy. It was crazy alright. Other people had kids, responsible people with proper jobs. Old people. But the more Anna talked about things the more the vision of a family took hold. It was of course a simple vision; the happy aspects, without any of the sacrifice that comes with dependent children. It was sealed, however, with a promise. That Brandon would leave his old life behind. The drugs and drink and gang nonsense. Anna could not bring a child into that world.

When Brandon told George, the old man slumped back in his chair like he had been hit.

"Bloody hell. Didn't they teach you nothin' at school?"

"It's good George," Brandon said.

"How old are you kid? Twenty-one. And having a kid."

"We're happy George."

"What? A couple of minutes of fun and presto, you got a..."

"We've talked about it George. It's what we want."

"Want? You kids change what you want every five minutes."

"This is different George. I love Anna. I'm going to be a good dad. Give my kid everything I never had. Make it proud of me."

George paused. Brandon's excitement was genuine. And who was he, dismal and cranky with age, to ruin the outlook of his young friend. George stood up and shook Brandon's hand.

"Alright, hey, it's bloody out of order kid but I'm happy for you. And you give Anna my regards and tell her I reckon she'll make a right good mum. But the thought of your clone runnin' round does worry me."

"Thanks George," Brandon said, "it means a lot to me you being happy with this."

"You told Donovan yet?"

Brandon shook his head.

"Top up your life insurance kid. It's been nice knowing you."

CHAPTER 19

George lived in fear. Inside Lyno's he was safe, outside, he was at the mercy of the crazy bastards that came looking each week for their money.

The message was waiting for George inside his letter box. George flipped open the envelope and recoiled in shock.

A single bloodied finger; index, or was it a ringless ring. The severed digit was devoid of fingernail and George tried not to consider what proceeded the severing.

George read the accompanying letter.

The owner of this finger owed five grand. You owe ten. Don't miss another payment.

Indebtedness to a street collector is like any commercial arrangement. It might lack the backing of law but it is equally enforceable and comes with an escalating penalty regime. First, and already exercised, some roughing up and destruction of personal property (a.k.a car). Next, symbolic torture of unidentified others (a.k.a severed finger). Then comes one's own fingernails and fingers, closely followed by the fingernails and fingers of people George might care about. And so on and so on, the sequence limited only by the imagination and patience of his debt collecting enemies.

George disposed of the finger and got a beer and sat and stared at the walls inside. The house seemed very small and he found it hard to breathe.

He was in default and nearing his sunset clause.

CHAPTER 20

Cross continent sparring. It was magic.

The war of words between Brandon and Dent escalated. Brandon fired some shots at Dent after every race, and Dent, being Dent, was programmed to respond. It resembled the pre-amble to a WWF Rumble. Fans were desperate to see them race. The underdog versus the King. It was unfair that they must wait until London.

Enter Harold Berkshire; billionaire Australian miner and sporting tragic. Berkshire liked Brandon Summers' look and attitude. And he shared the nation's impatience to see Summers mix it up with Dent.

Berkshire's response; bring the contest forward and bring it down under. Dent, Cole, Ono, Hoff, Halifax, the fastest men in the world, in Sydney, to race Summers this summer. He liked that – _Summers this summer_. It was an audacious plan. But money, Berkshire had learnt, could make anything happen.

*

An expensive oak paneled office in downtown Boston was hive of activity.

Dent wore a white t-shirt with a picture of a rhino and the words, "you want to fight me". He glanced at the photos of sporting champions on the office walls; Ali, Montana, Tyson, while his lawyer, agent and coach argued. They rarely saw eye to eye and Berkshire's offer had split them.

"Half a million appearance fee and one million for the winner. Technically the second amount is at risk," the lawyer said matter-of-factly.

"That million ain't at risk. It's guaranteed," Dent said.

"Not quite Mr Dent," the lawyer conceded.

The lawyer read aloud the key terms of Berkshire's contract as Dent studied the photos, disinterested in the conversation. These men controlled his life. His lawyer, painfully factual and conservative. Sammy, his agent, obsessed with image and money. And Willard Pace, his coach of 8 years, always suspicious of any event that was not the World Titles or the Olympics.

The lawyer finished his summary and sat back in his chair.

"So gentleman what do you think?"

"It's a steal," Sammy said, "global air-time. A million and a half pay day."

"It's a distraction," Pace countered, "Charles doesn't need to race this no-name Summers."

"It's a great marketing opportunity," Sammy cut in, "Australia's in a similar time zone as most of Asia. It is free profile in the lead up to London."

"London won't matter if we pick up an injury," Pace said.

"They got fine women down there Dent. And beaches. A bit of running. Some swimming. Some night-life," Sammy tried to appeal to Dent's other interests.

"And a hole in our prep schedule," Pace argued, "Jeez, Marshal, will you inject some sense to this please."

Marshal, the lawyer, shrugged, "I look after Mr Dent's legal interests only."

"Hey," Dent said absently, "why isn't my picture on this wall?"

The lawyer turned around, "never thought of it Mr Dent."

"Well start thinking of it," Dent scowled at the lawyer, then addressed the group.

"Have you finished your Tupperware discussion. Now listen. Here's what's what and what's not. I'm going to race Summers. Send him back to Prep school. Sign the papers. Buy the tickets."

Dent collected his jacket and stopped on his way out.

"Marshall. I want me on the wall next time I visit."

"I'll source a photo you can sign Mr Dent," the lawyer fidgeted uncomfortably.

Dent laughed and left.

CHAPTER 21

Berkshire's contest, with eight of the fastest men in the world, became a battle of two.

Summers vs Dent. Dent vs Summers. Summers dents Dent. Dent dents Summers.

Compelling. Whichever way you put it.

The media ran with it. Posters and billboards. Television and radio. An internet campaign like no other. The race became the talking point around every office and dinner table in Australia. Berkshire auctioned the television rights across Asia, Europe and North America.

And the jewel in Berkshire's promotional crown, a pre-race media party at the iconic Bondi Icebergs night-club. A contractual must-show for all competitors, beamed live around the globe. The _Lowdown before the Showdown_. _The Lightning Before the Thunder_. Summers and Dent together for the first time. Journalists competed with international celebrities for tickets.

Brandon was overwhelmed as he sat on the stage in the crowded auditorium. People were crammed in, drunk and loud, as they waited for proceedings to start. The stage arrangement was simple; a long table, behind which sat eight of the fastest men on the planet. Out in front, dressed in tuxedo and Akubra hat, Berkshire whipped his crowd into a frenzy with the theme song to _Rocky_.

*

Berkshire's concept was simple. Eight of the fastest men in the world competing in a single hundred metre race. No heats. No preliminary finals. One race with a million dollar, winner takes all, prize. For Brandon, facing Dent was the culmination of his dream. For George, the event, eight months out from the Olympics, was a distraction, an irrelevant money-gabbing circus. Brandon could wait until the Olympics to face Dent. There was also the risk of injury and more ominously, the uncertainty of Brandon's response if he lost. Brandon was yet to taste defeat on the track and his reaction to it was unknown. But Brandon had been adamant about racing Dent. _Stupid and stubborn,_ that awful combination again, and George reluctantly watched Brandon from the crowd as Berkshire fought to calm the crowd.

"Ladies and Gentleman, please...Greetings. Welcome. _Hola. Bonjour. Buongiorno. Guten Tag. Namaste. Privet. Nin hao. Kon'nichiwa_...People. My dream was to have the fastest men in the world in Australia. And here they are!"

Berkshire spread his arms, gifting the men behind him to the people.

"We are live into 50 countries across the globe. Over 30 million viewers. So please allow me to introduce tonight's guests. Firstly, a man who transcends his sport. World and Olympic 100 metre champion. Make him welcome – Charles Dent."

Dent stood and flexed for the crowd. Double victory signs and all the rest. The crowd went hysterical. Cheers. Whistling. Swooning from the women up the front.

"And people. The current NSW State hundred metre champion. And new kid in town. Our home-grown hero – Brandon Summers."

The crowd lifted the roof. Brandon got out of his chair and pointed at the people and the cameras.

"Brandon. Brandon. Brandon!"

Brandon leant to his microphone.

"You're all too kind."

Berkshire introduced the other sprinters to rowdy applause.

"A rare assembly of sprinters. Charles Dent, holder of the world record and Brandon Summers with the fastest time anywher..."

"Fastest _wind-assisted_ time," Dent cut in.

"We'll see soon enough Dent," Brandon countered.

The crowd went wild. This is what they came to see. Berkshire intervened.

"Two days from now. One of these men will be a million dollars richer. Not bad for ten seconds work."

"Nine seconds," Dent corrected, "and Jim. We run fast. The people get it. When do we get to say something."

Dent's gall sent the people into raptures.

"Alright," Berkshire said, "it seems Mr Dent is in a hurry. I hand these men over to you."

Berkshire took his seat between Dent and Brandon and invited the first question from the assembled journalists.

"Mr Dent. Are you worried about the competition?"

Dent rocked back in his chair and glanced either side of him.

"No."

Cheers. Groans and boos. A new chant of _Summers – Summers – Summers_.

"What do you think of Australia Mr Dent?"

"I love it. I love all those cute cuddly things you got down here."

The women in the crowd whistled.

"Mr Dent. Do you consider Brandon Summers a threat?"

Dent glanced at Brandon.

"I saw him on t.v. and he didn't look like much. Now in person, he still don't look like much."

The cheap shot got Brandon's supporters going.

"And Brandon," a journalist asked, "you reckon you can beat Dent?"

Brandon leant over his microphone.

"Well if his legs are as fast as his mouth, I've got no chance."

The crowd went wild. Dent nodded, admiring the kid's wit.

"And seriously Brandon," the journalist persisted, "what do you think of Dent? Can you beat him?"

"He's a show pony. And pony's ain't very fast. I'll beat him."

Brandon! Brandon! Brandon!

Dent was unaccustomed to such treatment.

"Now that's some tough talking from a novice," Dent countered, "but hey, that's cool. I'm a sprinter and a teacher. It's my duty to deliver sprinting lessons. So come Thursday, Summers and every other bloke on this stage will get a free sprinting lesson."

The words drew the other sprinters into the stoush. Giovanni, the firebrand Italian, opened up.

"Yes. Yes. If Senor Dent would mind to step outside, I could most gladly teach him some manners yes?"

Pierre let lose some French expletives and Halifax some colourful cockney commentary. Dent lapped it up until Hoff, the big German, got involved.

"Some humility, Mr Dent. Or you might just, how do you say here, er, disappear, ja."

"Ah, it talks," Dent taunted, "I was starting to wonder."

Hoff stood and started for the champion, but Berkshire got between them and made a grand display of getting them back to their seats.

"Mr Dent," a journalist interjected, "Cassius Cole did not accept the invitation to compete. Do you know why?"

The no-show of Cassius Cole, the second fastest man on the planet, due to injury, was the only kink in Berkshire's arrangements.

"I've kicked his butt so many times he's claiming a work related injury," Dent answered, "Cole is a hoax, same as your local boy Summers."

"He's a bloody champion!"

George yelled the words from the crowd.

"Your boy has support," Dent said, "he needs it. I am the King."

"King Shit." George would not let his charger be shoved around.

"That's what I love about your country," Dent said, "free speech. But come race day old man, you will see the truth."

Berkshire interjected.

"People. We've given these men enough of the spotlight. But I have one more question. Mr Dent, we touched on the absence of Cassius Cole, do you have a message for him?"

"Yeah," Dent said, "he's nothing. He's afraid to race me. And he's finished."

"Well those are some fighting words," Berkshire said, then to the crowd, "ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce one more guest for tonight."

A curtain dropped at the rear of the room revealing a large screen television bearing the face of Cassius Cole.

"Please welcome, live from Havana Cuba, former world record holder and former Olympic champion. Cassius Cole."

*

The crowd relished the twist.

"Am I on," Cole said tapped his microphone.

"Yes Cassius," Berkshire replied, "Dent was just telling us how much he missed you."

"I heard," Cole crooned, "he's got a big mouth when I'm not around. But hey, greetings Sydney."

Dent was on his feet. Cole was not in the script.

"Damn Jim," he said, "why you gone and lowered the standard letting this clown in?"

"Hey Dent," Cole said, "your mouth gets loose when I'm not around."

"Would have loved you to make it big fella," Dent replied, "but what was it this time: home sickness, stage fright, busy trying on your Mum's undies."

Cole's laugh was like thunder.

"Dent. You're a different person with ten thousand miles between us. But let me set the record straight for the lovely people of Australia. I love you all. But I got myself a hamstring strain. Or else I'd be down there kicking Dent to pieces."

A journalist cut in.

"Mr Cole. You talk about kicking Dent, but what if Brandon Summers kicked both of you."

Cole's ominous Cuban chuckle.

"Yes. Brandon Summers. I heard he ran fast, _once_ ," Cole paused for effect, "but you got to know the track before you can own it. He won't be kicking me – ever."

"Brandon?" Berkshire offered, "right of reply?"

Brandon raised his eyebrows.

"If Cole thinks he has something he should be down here showing us. But then again there ain't a track big enough for Dent and Cole's egos. They're running on tired legs. My legs are fresh. I know I can beat them. I just don't have to tell everyone all the time."

The crowd loved it. Then Dent and Cole went on monopolising things until Dent dragged the other sprinters in and things descended into a heavy weight boxing press tussle. Cole signed off and Berkshire tactfully centred the sprinters around him for some photos. Brandon and Dent dropped to a starting crouch, with Dent creeping a foot in front.

"Be the same on race day kid," Dent said.

"What? You fault starting," Brandon replied.

The music blared, the journalists dispersed, and the sprinters were free to enjoy the night.

*

Brandon was freshening up in the men's room. He was buzzing. To be trading blows with Dent was surreal. But trash talking Dent was one thing, beating him on the track was another. He was everything a champion should be. Tall. Strong. Confident. Seemingly indestructible. But beneath all the flair and pomp, Brandon had detected an ominous edge to the champion. He did not like being challenged.

Brandon splashed some water over his face. When he straightened Dent was in the mirror.

"Cooling off Summers, things too hot for you," Dent said, "now, just what the hell do you think you are playing at?"

*

Brandon stepped around Dent but the Champion fell in beside him on the way back to the auditorium.

"You run a semi-decent time Summers and suddenly elect yourself king. You trash talk me. You rubbish me in the media."

Brandon avoided Dent's glare.

"That's disrespectful Summers. You got nothing. You're a hoax. You want to know why?"

"Surprise me," Brandon said.

"Cause you got no history and no record. You think you belong but you don't. You know what I'm sayin''?"

"No. I don't know what you're saying. It sounds like bullshit."

They reached the door that led back to the party. Dent eyed Brandon carefully.

"I will make it clear Summers. I will win this race. And you know your part in it. You don't win. You come close but you don't win. You play your part kid and I can make you money. More money than you ever dreamed of."

"So that's it Dent. You come to my country and try and buy me out. We don't play that way down here. I will beat you here and I will beat you in London."

Dent laughed.

"Now that's some fanciful thinking and some poor decision making. You..."

Dent was cut short as the event coordinator appeared. There were people eager to meet them inside.

"Of course," Dent crooned, "was just shooting the breeze with me _mate_ here."

Dent wrapped his arm around Brandon's shoulder and they returned to the party like two old friends.

"Enjoy it while it lasts Summers," Dent hissed before drifting away.

CHAPTER 22

Sydney Olympic Stadium was crammed to capacity and the crowd erupted as the sprinters stepped on to the track.

"Summers. Summers. Summers."

Brandon absorbed the mayhem. Lights, noise, screaming and fidgeting faces in the stands. He waved to the crowd as he circled the track. But beneath the mask were nerves and seeds of doubt. He was flanked by the best sprinters in the world. He did not belong with them. The race was just another of life's ploys to build him up and tear him down.

Brandon winked and gave the thumbs up to a passing camera. Dent peace signed and thumped his chest.

"Time to see what you got Summers," the champ said as they waited at the top of the track.

"And what you don't," Brandon replied.

"Should have taken my offer Summers. Now there will be no mercy."

The starter called them to the line.

*

Set.

Brandon rose. He kept his eyes on the track. Tunnel vision. Nothing in. Nothing out.

The gun released them. Brandon surged – but too late. The field were gone.

Give up. Nice knowing you. Good bye and thanks for all the....

But he would not surrender. Not in front of all these people. He drove hard and held his form. Forty metres in he had the main field, but Dent had pulled clear. Brandon went after him and with thirty left he was on terms with the champ. It became a race of two. The challenger surging and the champ fighting to hold on. Dent's face was a rare picture of strained desperation as the line approached.

And just like that, it was over.

For the crowd it was too close to call, but Dent was already celebrating, sauntering over to shake Brandon's hand.

"You understand your place now Summers? Deal's off. Was nice knowing you Summers."

Then Dent was gone, circling the track, victory signing and firing imaginary arrows into the hearts of his adoring fans, as the big screen confirmed the result; Dent in 9.72 and Brandon a single tenth back, with nearly a second and daylight back to Halifax in third.

Brandon picked himself up and began the long walk back to the dressing room.

CHAPTER 23

Defeat stings. Defeat for the first time, in front of your home crowd, hurts like hell. The dream that had seemed infallible was suddenly weak and hollow. George sought to prop Brandon up in the following weeks.

"The race meant nothing kid."

"Dent is too strong George. I can't ever beat him."

"Was just his night kid. Now stop moping and start training."

Brandon trained but the aura of invincibility was gone. Things that had come naturally on the track were suddenly awkward. The Lyno's swagger was replaced by a vulnerable walk. George tried to talk him around, but Brandon only spoke of how he would have won if he had just done _this or that_ differently. It was a flawed deconstruction of the past. The race had been a myriad of linked moments, change one and the rest change. What mattered was the future.

"Success is sweeter spiced with defeat," George urged.

George entered Brandon in a NSW regional event. He tanked and finished fourth with a time so far off his best it was comical. George started him again but Brandon cut a distant fifth to a jubilant and smart-mouthed Dwayne Stables. The media sensed blood. The golden boy of the track had lost his shine.

" _Summers dented by Dent."_

" _3 from 3 – where to now for Brandon Summers?"_

" _Summers' gone and winter's here."_

Brandon started to distance himself from things; training, the track, Cash and his sponsors. George had feared how Brandon would respond to defeat, now he knew. Brandon's charmed rise had masked an inner frailty. With the Australian titles only months away, on current form, Brandon would be lucky to get a start, let alone qualify for London. George changed tact. He challenged Brandon's guts. He threw stones at Brandon's strength and pride.

"Yeah, Dent's the champion alright. He's gonna wipe the floor with you."

"You cop a defeat and give it all away. That's a bullshit way to live your life."

Brandon merely put up more walls. George realised then his own failings. He had misread his young friend. Beneath the confident mask Brandon wore for the world he was vulnerable. Life and loss had made him that way. George had always known it, but obsessed with his own selfish desire to steer Brandon to the top, he had forgotten the reason Donovan put Brandon in his boxing class. Donovan had sought a better person not a superstar sprinter. Brandon needed help, but George lacked the emotional intelligence to guide him.

Anna felt it at home. Brandon became a ghost. The fun individual Anna had fallen in love with had vanished. Believing it was temporary, she encouraged him. She reassured him when he returned after each race beating himself up. But she sensed something ominous when Brandon sought out his old gang. They were happy to have him back. The prodigal son returning. A prodigal celebrity. It was just so much better. He stayed out late and came home smelling of smoke and alcohol. He slept in and missed appointments. He got angry at tiny things and had little regard for the future.

Brandon was intent on self destruction and Anna was powerless to stop it.

CHAPTER 24

The Sydney Tribune: Summers down and out

In any sport there are ups and downs. What matters is how you respond. Cue Brandon Summers.

After an impressive but ultimately losing race against World Champion Charles Dent, Summers has been in decline. No, let's be frank, he has been in free-fall. He is zero from four since Berkshire's ill-fated skins, against competition he should have annihilated. And the former boy wonder appears intent on drinking and partying his way back into form, more often spotted in Newcastle's night-spots at three in the morning than on the track.

You can learn much from an athlete's response to adversity. Many would say they saw it coming. It is just Summers' wayward past catching up with him. But with two months to the Australian Titles and qualifying for the London Olympics, knowledgeable pundits are wondering if we might have already seen the best of Brandon Summers.

Time will tell but right now the future for Summers is bleak.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Doubtful...

CHAPTER 25

Brandon woke with only a dim recollection of last night. A club, a fight, hitting, getting hit, getting thrown out. He glanced in the mirror. There was crusted blood on his forehead and his eye was bruised. He went to the kitchen. Anna was standing at the window dressed ready for work at the cafe.

She tossed a newspaper on the bench top. Brandon saw a grainy photo of himself exiting a nightclub, his shirt ripped, blood on his face. The headline – _Australia's sprinting superstar?_

"The bruises look even more stupid in real life," Anna taunted.

Brandon tried to recall how it had changed between them. How it had become cheap shots and avoidance. If he thought hard enough he might trace it back to Charles Dent and a single tenth of a second. But really it had its roots in a tragic car accident a decade ago that left him an orphan.

Anna rested her hands on her pregnant belly.

"When will it stop Brandon? This is not you. This is not us."

"I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"I do. Don't throw everything away Brandon."

Brandon stared at the floor.

"This is not the life I want," Anna pressed, "I don't want our happiness dictated by how fast you get from one end of a track to the other. You can destroy yourself but I won't let you ruin us."

Brandon stared at Anna. She did not understand. She never could.

"You had a visitor yesterday?" Anna said.

"Who?"

"Dead-headed brother of yours."

Anna had answered a knock at the door and found Jackson Summers on the porch. Jackson had heard about Brandon getting around with their old crew and had come to see. Jackson assessed Anna through the fly screen, wondering just what kind of girl his brother had hooked up with.

"He doesn't live here," Anna said before Jackson spoke.

Jackson raised his eyebrows and checked the number beside the door.

"Tell me. How is _Daddy_ Police Chief?"

"He doesn't need your rubbish. You're a bunch of parasites," Anna said.

Jackson was not used to this. In the Cross, when he spoke, people did things. It was only Jackson's dim recognition that she was his brother's pregnant girlfriend that spared her.

"Tell him I came. And you would do well to watch your mouth," Jackson said, and left.

Anna glared at Brandon now.

"He's got no business here Brandon."

"He's my brother."

"He is a criminal. He does not care for you."

"Watch what you say."

Anna bristled. This moment had been building. She would not stand by and let Brandon ruin things. She had seen it before with her parents; their relationship dissolving into an ugly ritual of fighting. She would not suffer the same.

"Or what?"

She stood so close that Brandon saw himself reflected in her eyes.

"There was a time Brandon when you said – together we could do and be anything. I fell in love with that thought. Not this. You can destroy yourself, but I won't stay and watch you do it."

She left and Brandon stood alone in the kitchen, his head throbbing. Then he went to their bedroom and got his mobile to search for Jackson's number, but a long forgotten piece of paper distracted him.

The page at the bottom of his drawer had turned brown with age. The scribbled words belonged to a six-year-old.

My big brother is grate.

He dos good things. I like to watch him.

He is best my big brother. I want to be him. I love him lots.

Christian Summers had been asked in kindergarten to describe his favourite thing; he described his big brother. To Christian, the words were not special or cute, they were the truth, and there is nothing remarkable about the truth.

Brandon stared at the words for a very long time.

*

It was midday when Brandon entered Lyno's gym. George saw him and stepped down from the boxing ring.

"You forget something kid?"

"I want to train George."

"What for?"

"Don't make me beg George."

Brandon looked like he had not slept for weeks.

"Now?" George asked.

"Yeah."

"Well get the hell changed kid. I'll train you."

*

Amazingly it was the long ago thoughts of a six-year-old that turned Brandon around. Brandon owed it to Christian, whose life was stolen from him, to make the best of the life he had.

Brandon came back hungry. He did the gym routines and the miles on the road. He listened as George picked apart the flaws in his technique. Two months had vanished in Brandon's post-skins hang-over but there was still time. Strength bred confidence. Stamina bred self-belief. When Brandon wavered George reminded him about the Australian Titles, London, Dent, and that elusive 9.49 seconds.

Brandon annihilated a semi-decent Sydney Regional field. He followed it up with a flawless sprint in a Victorian all-comers race. Word spread of Brandon's rekindled mojo. People came to watch him. Cash got him busy with his sponsors. Life on and off the track came together again.

Anna was glad to have her man back. But unlike George and Cash, who looked only to the future, she could not forget the past. She meant everything she had said. And she made Brandon promise that he would never drag them to that place again.

*

The past, like one's shadow, is inescapable. For Brandon the past lurked in a bomber jacket and backward facing cap, in Lyno's car park. A familiar face, Brandon nodded and knocked knuckles. His mate got to the point. Karim wanted some merchandise shifted. Usual routine; collect, transport, drop.

In that moment Brandon considered Anna and George and all the people who had stood by him.

"No can do."

The messenger was stunned. _No can do_ was foreign dialect.

"I'm out," Brandon clarified.

The bloke recoiled like had had been stung. No one was ever _out_. _Out_ was trouble. Karim cutting your throat sized trouble. But the bloke saw Brandon's look and knew.

"I can't cover for you," he said.

"I'm not asking you to. Just tell Karim to shift his own shit from now on."

Brandon left. Aware of the dangerous sequence he had just set in motion.

CHAPTER 26

Australian Titles. Sydney Olympic Stadium.

What had been a distant vision was suddenly very real. It was the moment of truth. It was here that the journey would start or end. Fail now and he would forever be nothing. Nine and a bit seconds stood between Brandon and a ticket to the London Olympics.

Brandon stood at the top of the track. Memories of facing Dent surfaced, and with them the bitter taste of failure. He breathed deeply calming himself. Nerves twisted his insides, threatening to freeze his limbs and destroy his power. He felt the eyes of the stadium on him.

The fastest qualifier, Brandon occupied the centre lane and Stables, intent on revenge, started the mind games from next-door.

"Your start still wobbly Summers?"

Brandon ignored him.

"M.I.A the last few months Summers? You had your head checked?"

Brandon dropped into his blocks.

Set

He rose still and strong. The gun released him.

*

Adrenalin and a fear of failure propelled him. For the first time in a long time Brandon got away quick. He straightened after thirty and got into stride. Surging. Building. No looking back. Stables tried to hold him but it was like clutching air, as Brandon, sprinting, floating, being... chased the clock and a nine and a bit second dream.

CHAPTER 27

The euphoria of having a genuine contender in the Olympics blue ribbon event gripped the country. Cash worked the excitement. He got Brandon on morning television and talk-back radio. Sports illustrated ran a piece – _the Rise and Rise of Brandon Summers_. Kids swamped Brandon wherever he went.

George, however, was immune to the fanfare. Celebrity was fickle; here today gone tomorrow. With three months to the London Olympics he kept Brandon focused. George worked on the faults in Brandon's technique; the lazy start, the low knees and slumped shoulders in the final third. George, the naysayer of all the books, had become a disciple of technique. They put the clock on Brandon and tracked every 10th of a 10th of a second improvement.

Off the track, Anna got more pregnant. Her bump rode so high and so pronounced against her slight frame that knowledgeable passers-by commented it must be a boy. She kept attending university and working at the café. Putting her feet up and resting was not her style.

Life was good.

But Brandon should have seen it coming. The inevitable hook of the past. He could run but he could never hide.

"You're late George," Brandon said as he opened George's front door, "that'll be twenty push-ups..."

Brandon froze.

"What? No hug Little Brother. At least let me in."

Karim stood smiling on George's front porch.

*

Brandon trembled as he opened the door. This moment had been coming. You don't tell Karim to _move his own shit_ without consequence.

"So this is home Little Brother?"

Karim made a show of checking the place out.

"Friend's house," Brandon said.

"Not much of a pad. Jackson's entry hall is as big as this living room."

Brandon watched Karim carefully. "Why are you here?"

"I missed you in Sydney Little Brother. Heard you were too busy to help me."

Brandon was silent.

"Why so quiet Little Brother? You used to have plenty to say."

Karim checked out the front window. Brandon knew the routine. Karim had enemies. _Watch your back_. _Trust no-one._

"I'm running now," Brandon said.

"Run in Sydney."

"No."

Karim produced a pocket knife and flipped it absently around his wrist.

"You are still one of us aren't you Brandon?"

Brandon watched the knife.

"When Jackson can't convince you to join me, I start to wonder. And then I hear that you want out."

"I am happy here," Brandon said.

"Be happy in the Cross with us, with your Brothers."

"No."

Karim moved quick, shoving Brandon up against the wall, the knife at his throat.

"You will join us!"

Karim's look was pure fire. He tilted his head left and right, as if trying to locate the madness in Brandon's soul that he might exploit. Brandon saw police officers falling off cliffs, and hammers and hands, and knew that anything could happen.

"Ok," Karim nodded reluctantly, "this is unfortunate but necessary. Your old friend, what is his name, George? He gambles. A terrible pass-time. And borrowing to gamble, even worse. He does not know it but he owes me money."

Brandon felt sick. "I'll pay it."

Karim laughed, stepping back. Brandon dropped to his haunches struggling for breath.

"Yes I forgot about the hot shot sprinter with all his sponsorships. I don't want you money Little Brother."

"What do you want?"

" _You_. I want _you_ in the Cross with us. Jackson is going to contact you. He needs your help. You will help him. Consider it evidence of your commitment."

"And if I don't?"

"If old man George uses his hands for work he'll need a new occupation. Oh, and Jackson, he's in the big league now," Karim added, "the stakes are high, and so are the risks, accidents happen, yes? Don't make me spread the net wider Little Brother."

The reference to Anna was clear. Brandon had seen Karim do this before. Striking not at the individual but at those closest to them.

"I'll be waiting Little Brother. Don't make me come again."

Karim let himself out. And Brandon, his mind a mess, did what he always did – he ran.

*

Threaten Jackson, you threaten both of us.

It had always been that way. A world of two groups; Brandon and Jackson, and _Everyone else_. And why had George not told him about his debts. George did not know who he was messing with.

Brandon was still angry when he returned and met George in the corridor.

"Hey George. Wha..."

George dropped Brandon's backpack at his feet.

"Leave kid."

"Huh?"

"You heard. Get your stuff and leave."

"What are you talking about George?"

"Rule 1. No doing stuff with your deadhead gang inside my house."

Brandon recalled George's rules the day he had moved in.

"You don't understand George."

"Save it kid. Get out."

George must have seen Karim leaving his home.

"What about training George? The Olympics?"

"Don't matter kid. Out you get."

Brandon knew then that George was no different to anyone else. Refusing to listen and only seeing what he wanted to see. Once a criminal, always a criminal.

What was the use?

CHAPTER 28

Brandon was a wreck in the week after Karim's visit. Karim would make-good his threat. If you say you're going to sever fingers, you pull out the saw. It is about follow through. You do, people listen. You don't, people disrespect you.

And all George's advice about showing people you can change had been rubbish. Even George could not see beyond Brandon's past. Ironically Karim had come because of the money George owed. Brandon could have paid the debt off many times over if George had just asked. But Brandon knew George was just a pawn to Karim, some bait to get him in. George first, then Jackson, then... Brandon would not endanger Anna.

Brandon called Jackson. His brother was relieved to hear from him and arranged to meet him in the Cross. Then Brandon went to visit Anna at the cafe. Only days from giving birth Anna refused to slow down, waddling from table to table, talking with the customers. Brandon had a juice and made Anna laugh and smile, as the knot of deceit twisted his insides.

Leave the gang rubbish behind. No more secrets.

But this was different. No it wasn't. It was the same old mindless rubbish.

Brandon kissed Anna and left, unsure of when he would see her again. Then he placed a hastily written message in George's letterbox and started the long drive to Sydney.

*

Jackson's response to seeing Brandon on his doorstep proved just how detached he had become. There was no talk of Karim or the money George owed. Just a genuine belief that Brandon wanted to be part of things.

Brandon went along with the charade as Jackson showed him around his apartment. Six bedrooms, super-sized television, custom sound system, and rooftop spa with views of the city and harbour. Jackson talked non-stop, clearly high on something and afraid of coming down. He was in awe of Karim. Karim was Kurtz and Jackson the harlequin Marlow encounters on the threshold of the _Heart of Darkness_.

Jackson described the empire Karim had created and how Brandon could be part of it. There was no time to discuss Brandon's Olympic qualification or impending fatherhood. Such things belonged in an irrelevant world.

With show and tell complete, Jackson described the deal.

Brandon was to carry a pack with money to a club on the Strip, where he would swap it for an identical pack containing a stash of methamphetamine. There would be people, including Jackson, watching to ensure things were secure.

"Why do I have to carry? I don't want to carry anything Jackson."

"Karim wants it that way. And we'll be watching you all the way Little Brother," Jackson said, Brandon was clearly making a big deal over nothing, "nothing can go wrong."

Brandon understood. Carrying the pack was a test of his commitment. If he carried, Karim could rely on his loyalty. And if he did not, well, where are George and Anna, and what'll it be, saw or knife?

"You and me Little Brother," Jackson said, "like old times."

Brandon knocked knuckles. The gesture symbolic of everything he thought he had left behind.

*

George ordered his class around the gym. He tried to focus but his mind was elsewhere. George had expected Brandon to return within a few days contrite and apologetic. He intended it to be a lesson. That all Brandon had achieved on the track would mean nothing if he fell back into his old ways.

However, a week on, George began to worry. With only a month to the Olympics, every day of missed training was precious. But with a stubbornness matching his young friend, George would not relent. The kid would come back when he was ready.

Returning home from training one night George pulled a letter from his mailbox. No finger this time just a hand-written message. George instantly forgot about pride and lessons.

He had to find his young friend.

CHAPTER 29

Darlinghurst Road. The Kings Cross Strip. Music, noise, traffic. Blinking shop fronts. Fast food. Sex shops. Sex shows. Sex parlours. Sex. People everywhere. Lone wolfs with caps pulled low entering and exiting the dodgy clubs. Young girls and guys out for the fun and awe of the strip, taking selfies, gathering fodder for Facebook. Ironically, despite its reputation, the Cross was the perfect place for a drop. There was so much activity. So many moving objects. So many self-absorbed people talking on mobiles.

The bag Brandon was carrying contained one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. _Want to skip town to Majorca_ – Jackson had asked as they counted the money at home. The hundred and twenty thousand would be swapped for a backpack containing several kilograms of concentrated methamphetamine. Brandon was uneasy as he stepped through the crowds.

His mobile buzzed as he approached the blinking facade of the designated club. He glanced at the screen. _Anna._ He let the call ring out. He needed to focus. But the call broke his concentration. He pictured Anna at home patting and talking to her unborn child. It reminded him of what he stood to lose. He no longer wanted to be part of the heist. He would rather take his chances with Karim. If he explained things to George, together they could determine the right thing to do. But it was too late. Jackson was depending on him. Back out now and things would spiral out of control.

The bouncers at the door allowed Brandon to enter. Blue-white lighting and pictures of naked women on the walls of the narrow corridor. He descended some stairs and entered the dim showroom. Slow, sleepy music, and low lighting. Several topless women shifting on the raised podium. Men seated around the stage.

Brandon made eye contact with Jackson in the far corner. Brandon knew there were others watching but they did not matter. Bandon only trusted Jackson. He spotted the _drop_ in the opposite corner. Red cap and sports jacket. The man did not move as Brandon exchanged packs.

The blood pounded in Brandon's brain as he crossed the club floor. What he was carrying now was hot. The money, difficult as it might have been to explain, was not necessarily illegal, but several kilos of methamphetamine, well try and dig your way out of that one. He felt the eyes of the room on him. The instinctive response of the guilty.

Brandon got halfway across the floor before Jackson caught his attention, making a frantic sawing motion with his hands.

Things had turned bad. He had to get out quick.

*

George cursed as he sat in gridlocked traffic on the strip.

I did not want to do it. I had no choice. If this goes bad please don't tell Anna.

Brandon's simple message had set George on a mad trail. He located several of Brandon's old gang. They dismissed him at first but when George took two of them down the rest babbled like babies. _The Cross. Something big. A favour for Karim._ Where? _Club on the strip._ When? _Tonight_.

George saw the facade of the club a block ahead. He double-parked and started running, ignoring the blare of car horns behind him. He saw a commotion spill on to the road ahead.

And in that moment George knew he was too late.

*

Brandon saw several men moving toward him and realised just how loose his and Jackson's planning had been. They knew of only one way in and out of the place. He made it to the stairs before a man grabbed him. Brandon swung, connected, the man let go. He got up the stairs and halfway along the corridor before two men confronted him. He drove with his shoulder; one fell, the other stood and swung. Brandon ducked and hit him, once, twice, and then rammed the man into the wall. Blood on his hands and shirt, Brandon ran.

He got to the street before he was tackled from behind. He tried to wrestle free but hands held him and ground his face into the cement.

Where was Jackson? Never leave your brother.

Unable to move, Brandon felt his arms being twisted and then, surprisingly, the clack of... handcuffs. A badge appeared in front of his face.

"You are under arrest. We doin' it the hard way or the easy way son?"

_Police_. He was fighting the police. _How did they know?_ And where was the pack? He had lost it in his struggle to escape. A crowd closed in around him. Camera phones and excited voices. A real Cross fight. This is what the kids had come out to see.

Hey, is that Brandon Summers?

The crowd rushed forward as the officers shoved Brandon inside a waiting squad car. His mind was reeling. He wished George was with him. George would know what to do. The crowd pressed up to the window and Brandon blinked at the camera flashes. And then, suddenly, like an apparition, George's face was there, his fists beating on the glass. Brandon saw George's lips forming words he could not hear. George's fingers squealed against the glass as the car pulled away.

*

Newcastle Hospital.

At the exact moment Brandon was being arrested Anna was giving birth. She had called Brandon's mobile when the contractions started, before driving herself to the hospital.

Matilda Shay Summers entered the world fast like her Daddy. Pink faced, she took her first breath and howled. Anna had never seen anything so perfect. She pictured the beginning of a beautiful life.

The three of them. Together. Forever.

CHAPTER 30

Sydney Tribune: Summers sentenced to 2 years – Out of Olympics.

So it ends people. The dream is over.

Brandon Summers, despite his clear talent and potential, has sold Australia up the river. Instead of competing in London he will spend the next 2 years in a State correctional facility. Summers did not appeal his sentence for serious assault and battery of a police officer and possession of methamphetamine (ten grams had been discovered inside the pack he was carrying at the time of his arrest, with a street value of two thousand dollars; an inconsequential quantity for which he offered no explanation).

Alas the juggernaut that was Brandon Summers is no more. He entered with a bang and left with a bang. Some will say they saw it coming. Others will feel cheated for having believed. For the record I was a believer. I held my breath as Summers lined up and destroyed Dwayne Stables. I felt the goose bumps and my hair standing on end when he pushed Charles Dent to the line. Summers will be twenty-five when released, young enough to try again, but any come-back will be difficult. He has the talent but will he have the courage.

But readers, if there is a tragedy in this story, it is not ours. Ours is only a spoilt sense of loss for those magic Summers inspired moments. The real tragedy is the life Brandon Summers leaves behind. A young partner and a one-month old daughter. They, not us greedy by-standers, are the real victims.

So I say thanks and no thanks to Brandon Summers. Thanks for those special skin tingling moments. But no thanks for playing me for a fool. I have but one question.

Why?

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Cheated

Part 3

CHAPTER 31

Two years later. Maitland Correctional Centre.

A guard checked Brandon's face against some papers then led him to a heavy steel door; the divide between the imprisoned and the free. The door swung open and Brandon blinked against the sunlight. The guard noted the empty car park. Even the worst always had someone to pick them up.

"Town's that way son. Good luck and don't let me see you again."

The door slammed shut. Brandon let the sunlight fall on his face. Compared to the sunlight on the inside it felt warm and limitless. The air chilled his scalp. He had shaved his hair symbolically short. Out with the old and in with the new and all that.

He turned his collar up against the cold, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started the long walk back to things.

*

A lot can change in two years – isn't that the truth.

Brandon stood looking at his home. A BMW was parked in the drive and kids' bikes stood near the side gate. He was shaking as he knocked on the door.

Has she moved on? Will she look at me the same?

A middle-aged woman appeared. Brandon lost his way. He was not expecting a stranger.

"Ah...Anna and Matilda? Are they home?"

"They don't live here anymore," the woman said through the fly-screen, "we own the house now."

A man appeared.

"Hey. Aren't you that sprinter, Brandon Summers?"

"Yes. Do you know where the previous owners moved to?"

The man opened the fly-screen, excited by his brush with celebrity.

"Yes. We dropped off some papers last week. They friends of yours?"

"Yes," Brandon said.

*

The house was south of town, in the small ill defined _have some_ transitory space, between the _haves_ and the _have nots_ ; single story, red brick, the same as every other house on the street. The street was quiet, just the rush of wind in the trees. No one answered when Brandon knocked and he sat on the steps to wait. The waiting fuelled his anxiety. He had not seen or heard from Anna for two years.

Why am I here?

The truth; he had nowhere else to go and he clung to a belief that Anna and Matilda (the daughter who did not know him), might still care for him. That there was a logical reason Anna had not corresponded with him during his time in prison. That her letters had been lost in the mail.

When Anna returned she got halfway to the house before she saw him. She looked older; motherly. But it was the child on her hip that marked their time apart. Matilda had been new born and awkward when Brandon last saw her; she had grown into herself. She had her mother's blonde hair and features.

"I got out this morning."

Anna stared at him without emotion.

"I wanted to see you," he said.

"Why?"

The single word shattered his dream.

"Because of, _us_."

"There is no _us_ ," Anna started up the steps, " _us_ ended two years ago Brandon."

She turned Matilda away from him as she fumbled with her keys, desperate to get inside.

"I want to talk..." Brandon began, but she cut him off.

"No Brandon. There is nothing to talk about. You dragged us through the dirt but we dusted ourselves off. We made ourselves better. And we have moved on."

Matilda moaned and Anna bobbed the child on her hip.

"What happened to our house?" Brandon asked.

"I let it go," Anna said, "couldn't pay the rent."

Brandon saw things slipping away and wished he had planned this differently.

"We don't need you Brandon."

Anna spoke with clipped efficiency. Just as Brandon had rehearsed this moment, Anna had rehearsed her side too.

"I can see my daughter," he said.

"No you can't Brandon. I can get a restraining order if I have to. Please don't come around again. We've gotten better and don't need complications."

_A complication_. That was what he had become. Anna unlocked the door.

"What about your father Anna," Brandon said desperately, "what does he think?"

She turned on him then.

"He thinks nothing Brandon because he is dead."

The news stunned him.

"He died a year ago Brandon," there was venom in her voice, "he worked so hard for you Brandon and you threw it all in his face. Can you imagine how it was for him, the father of his daughter's child imprisoned for assaulting a police officer. You ran him into the ground Brandon. You killed him. And I hate you for that."

Anna slammed the door on him.

CHAPTER 32

Statistically seventy-five percent of men re-offend within 6 months of leaving prison. That is of the entire male prisoner population. As for Aboriginal male inmates, well, forget about it. Prison counselors proffer the statistic like gospel. Brandon was determined to beat the odds.

He had lost everything in those two years. His family, money, sponsors, reputation, his dream obliterated in a single moment of madness in the Cross. Cash's shallow world had been exposed with the agent dropping Brandon cold. Strangely, Brandon did not miss that life. A clarity of purpose had emerged now that his possessions had been reduced to the clothes he wore and the few things he carried in his duffel bag.

He got a job labouring. It kept him occupied and stopped him thinking too much. Next he checked into a hotel in town. He could have imposed on his old mates but he did not trust himself with them. George was an option. But he had not seen George for over a year. That part of his life was finished too.

In his spare time Brandon trained, continuing what he had started in prison. He ran morning and night. He was determined to resurrect his sprinting career. He would get back to the top and stay clean on the journey. London had passed him by, but there was Rio in three years. Dent was still top of the sprinting tree, the champion's times having matured like fine wine. Dent remained Brandon's target. And the elusive 9.49 seconds assumed a reverent importance; it became a 9.49 second race to redemption.

But in those lonely hours on the track and construction site, Brandon's thoughts inevitably turned to Anna and Matilda. He did not blame Anna. She was right. He had destroyed everything they once had. But he would try again. He would prove that he had changed. Because without her he was nothing.

*

Memories of Brandon's time in prison surfaced like fragments of a bad dream; painful and inescapable. But they were part of him and they returned randomly, while training on the track, lifting bricks on the building site, and in his sleep. Those nightmares were so stark they shook him awake sweat soaked and afraid.

Anna had said goodbye at the police station. She stood stiff and silent. They had yelled and fought and torn at each other so much that there was nothing left to say. Having mentally disconnected her life from his, she refused to look at him when the officers led him away. His eyes never left her. He was storing up the vision for two long years.

It is true what they say: you enter prison as someone and leave as some _thing_. You learn quickly or you get hurt. You learn that no one gives a shit about you. The guards are not there to protect you but to keep you in and keep you quiet. You learn the prison hierarchy; connected gang leaders at the top, new inmates at the bottom, and Aboriginal inmates somewhere below the bottom.

The heavies lent on Brandon early. The beatings taught Brandon some more. He learnt that the prison medical staff, like the guards, did not care. They roughly tended the lacerations, fractured bones and cigarette burns with a time proven view that he would be back. And back Brandon came. Again. Again. And again. Until he no longer bothered with the medical staff, letting his cuts and breaks heal naturally. Through it all Brandon realised an inescapable truth; Karim's ability to get at him was not constrained by concrete walls and razor wire.

George came to visit when Brandon was at his lowest. George was shaking. He had not slept in days. He was horrified by the cast on Brandon's hand. Brandon asked what he wanted. George said he had come to, you know, see him, and talk some. A familiar face should have lifted Brandon spirits but Brandon considered George responsible for all that he had lost. It was George's gambling debt that had brought Karim to his house. It was George who had kicked him out of his home. It was Karim's threat to hurt George that had drawn Brandon to the Cross. He ignored George's clumsy attempts at a conversation, told him not to come again, and left.

Two months in Brandon happened to catch a telecast of the Olympic 100 metres in London. He watched from the back of the recreational room as Dent took gold in 9.55. Brandon did not consider what could have been. He had no right to anything.

"Reckon you would have beat him," one bloke said.

Brandon shrugged and left the room.

Brandon often considered that night in the Cross. Things did not fit right. There had been several kilos of methamphetamine in his pack but the police only recovered several grams. And how was it that a supposedly secure drop had been crawling with police. It smelt of a set up. It wreaked of Reynolds and Karim.

Karim had got a message to Brandon prior to the trial warning him against talking. He had Jackson and he knew about Anna and _just think about that beautiful daughter you go_ t. Karim might have saved the threat, what were the words of a half-caste Aboriginal kid anyway. Brandon knew his place and he took the fall. And once he was in prison his voice was mute.

In those early months Brandon did not care what happened to him. He did not care what happened to anyone else. He was an island with the world moving around him. Brandon considered things he never thought he would. Only one hope sustained him. That Anna and his daughter might visit him.

They never came.

CHAPTER 33

A cold wind blew in from the ocean as Brandon brushed a tiny accumulation of dust from his family's headstone. Oddly the plot had been weeded and the marble top polished. He read the names and years of his parents, and placed both hands on the plaque of his Little Brother. Brandon saw them looking up at him through the earth. Their faces unchanged from the last time he saw them. Marveling at how, having left him barely older than a child, he had become a father.

His parents would have been disappointed in how he had ruined things, but they would have supported him. They always did. And in that moment, totally alone, Brandon wished they were with him. So that he could talk and get out everything he needed to get out. And feel, for a moment at least, that there was someone in the world that cared.

In time he walked away and stared out at the ocean. The connection to his family was comforting but it was not enough. He needed to rebuild things himself. He turned to leave but surprisingly noticed a figure hunched over his family's grave.

"Hey," Brandon said, returning.

The figure turned and Brandon was taken aback. _George?_

*

George's eyes were bloodshot and heavy. His hair depleted and grey. Two years had passed but George had aged fifteen.

"George," Brandon said eventually.

"Kid. Hey. You..."

George struggled to speak. There was too much to say. He wanted to apologize. To learn how the last two years had been for Brandon. To selfishly explain how the last two years had been for him.

"You been looking after this place George?"

George shrugged.

"Reckoned you'd have wanted it that way kid."

"Thanks," Brandon said, "how you been George?"

"Good enough," George said.

It was a lie. He was a wreck. He had suffered two years of guilt. He had drunk to escape things and he had drunk to end things. Numerous times he had driven to the prison only to sit in his car and talk himself out of going inside. It never felt right. He was responsible for Brandon being in there.

"Listen Brandon. I meant to... shit, I'm so sorry. I..."

"It's ok George. It's good to see you."

Neither knew how it happened but they embraced. George held his young friend tight and slapped his back like a father. When they parted George wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Talking suddenly seemed easier.

"You look fit kid," George said.

"Been labouring. You?"

"Still at the gym," George said, "I'll be leaving that place in a box. How are Anna and Matilda?"

"Saw them the day I got out. They looked well. They've moved on George. Don't need me."

The news compounded George's misery. George had visited Anna and Matilda during Brandon's sentence but without Brandon it felt wrong, and he fell out of touch with them.

"I messed up George and I don't blame Anna for anything."

They were silent for a period unsure what to say next.

"I got to go George," Brandon said finally, "it was good seeing you."

George nodded.

"Yeah. See you kid."

Brandon started away but stopped. This was not right.

"Hey George?"

"Yeah?"

"You want to have dinner? We can talk some more."

"Yeah kid. I'd like that."

*

Brandon stopped outside Violet's cafe after a morning run. Anna had told him to keep away but he could not leave things alone. There was too much between them to just walk away. He wiped the sweat from his face, tidied his hair, and sat at an outdoor table.

Anna avoided him for a long time before reluctantly approaching.

"What are you doing here?"

"Passing by," Brandon said.

She scoffed.

"I'm working again Anna. I got a labouring job. I'm keeping my head down. Staying clean."

"Wow. Everyone listen," she said mockingly, "Brandon Summers is working again. And he's living clean. The same as everyone else. Isn't that special?"

Anna bit her lip and looked away.

"I've been thinking about you a lot Anna."

"No," she shook her head, "don't. You can't turn up after two years and act like nothing happened Brandon. Were you thinking about us when you got arrested. We have rebuilt ourselves without you. We..."

She had rehearsed the words a thousand times but still lost her way. There had been a time when Anna had despised Brandon for what he did. But her hatred had been replaced by a resolve to move on and rebuild.

"Look Brandon," she said, "I shouldn't have – but – no. No. No. Why did you do it to us Brandon?"

Brandon had no response. He just looked at her. Wanting to hold her the way he used to.

"I thought about you for months Brandon. I couldn't sleep wondering what it was like for you in prison. But then I gave up. I didn't want to live like that. And I didn't want it affecting Matilda. We don't need you anymore Brandon."

Anna straightened her apron.

"I'm busy. Please don't come again."

Brandon watched her walk away.

CHAPTER 34

Brandon entered Lyno's gym and took in the familiar smell and sounds. The clinking of weights and the thud of padded bags. The scent of linseed oil and sweat.

"Well, I'll be. Is that Brandon Summers?" Lyno looked up from his paper work, glanced from the real-life Brandon to the poster on the wall, "hell, I reckon it is."

Lyno shook Brandon's hand.

"Great to see you kid. How you going?"

"I'm good Lyno. Place hasn't changed."

"You expecting it to?" Lyno replied, "only thing that changes are the people. Young ones come and go. Old ones like me stay and get older. You look fit."

For Brandon, Lyno was a connection with a happier past.

"Got a job with a lot of lifting," Brandon replied, "George around?"

"Of course," Lyno said, "he's back there getting angry with some kids. But hang on."

Lyno pulled the poster down and found a black texta.

"Don't know if you're still sprinting but this could be worth something one day."

Brandon took the pen and autographed the bottom right corner, then started through the gym. Memories struck him; of hours spent lifting and sparring, getting angry with the bags, getting angry with George. Several blokes recognised Brandon and nodded as he passed. George was in _his_ corner with a group of kids. Brandon saw himself from four years ago boxing within the confines of George's imaginary boxing rings.

"On your toes. Cover your face or it'll end up a mess. Move!"

George was in close risking a glancing blow.

"Ya fists are dropping. Ya feet are stuck. Stand still you look like a dill."

The kids were getting distracted and George barked some more instructions and backed up to Brandon.

"They're good," Brandon said.

"They're useless," George snapped.

"You think everyone is useless."

"Everyone is," George said, "what are you doing here? You lost?"

"Came to see you."

George yelled at his class.

"Alright you dicks. That's enough. King and Fredricks you're up. Dane and Blunt, work the weights."

He turned back to Brandon.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to train me."

"What in? Chess? Chinese Checkers? Snap?"

"I want to run again," Brandon said.

George laughed, his whole body heaving into a drawn out wheeze, that seemed more terminal than Brandon remembered.

"Look kid," George said, "I've heard some funny stuff in my time but that is priceless."

"I'm serious George."

George wheezed and coughed again.

"You had that checked out?" Brandon asked.

"I'll check out me cough after you check out your brain, cause its clearly messed up," George said, "look kid. Dinner the other night was nice. But let's not get sentimental."

George was stung by Brandon's glare. He had seen it before. Back when Brandon was challenging the top sprinters in the world.

"Alright kid," George said, "let me spell it out for you. You're an athlete. But in sprinting terms you are a dinosaur. You mixed it up with the big names but didn't quite make it. There ain't no shame in that. Go out gracefully, yeah. Let the memory of Brandon Summers be of a kid that came from nowhere and turned the sprinting world on its head then disappeared. You don't need a gold medal to prove nothing."

"Yes I do."

Brandon was aware that the blokes in George's class were listening.

"It isn't over. I've been training seriously. Started when I was in prison and I've kept at it since I got out. But I need someone to push me and keep me honest."

George lifted his chin.

"What do you want to get out of this?"

"Gold in Rio," Brandon said.

"No offence kid but I've been on that ride once before, and I'm happy here."

Brandon glanced around the place.

"I know, how could you leave such a beautiful place?"

"Don't get smart kid," George snapped, "when you're the one come in spinning madness."

"Look George I'm not asking you to leave this place. But it seems we have a misunderstanding. I'm serious. You don't think I am. So how about a trial run? Tomorrow morning. If I don't do the hundred in under ten and a half, I'll admit you're right, and give it up. I get under ten and a half, you stick with me for a month and then decide."

George coughed his smoker's cough and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Alright. Only for you kid. Now get out of here before I wet myself from anymore of your jokes."

*

It was early morning and the cold air misted in front of Brandon's face. He jogged a few laps of the track to loosen up. Then he screwed his blocks down and did some practice starts. A familiar mantra awoke.

Stay low. Stay straight. Drive. Drive Drive.

George arrived late. He was never late. Brandon did not miss the point. It was still a joke for George. George wore his leather jacket zipped up to his chin and carried his terry toweling hat in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His eyes were red.

"Tough night?" Brandon asked.

"No more than any other," George said, "let's get this over with so I can go back to bed?"

George shuffled away to the end of the straight. Brandon shook his legs out and breathed deeply, calming himself. He needed George with him but George was a man of his word. If he failed, George would walk.

It was the usual routine. George held a red rag above his head and Brandon stepped into his blocks. Brandon breathed fast filling his body with oxygen. A moment later George dropped his hand and Brandon sprung.

The world became a blur. His legs and arms were pistons as he rose to his full height and got into stride. An instant later he surged to the line.

George was already walking toward the exit before Brandon wound down.

"How'd I go?" Brandon called.

"You were all over the track. Shape was shithouse."

Brandon jogged after him.

"What time did I do George?"

George stubbed out his cigarette and held up his watch.

10.1.

"I did it George! You got to train me!"

George kept walking.

"What do we do next George?"

George turned around, walking backwards.

"What you do is get your lazy arse down here at six tomorrow morning. You leave the attitude at home and you do as I say. If you're a minute late, deal's off. Now I'm going back to bed."

"Yes," Brandon whispered, punching the air.

The dream of the Rio Olympics was suddenly real and with it another crack at Charles Dent and the elusive 9.49 seconds. And when he stepped on to that track in Rio it would be for Anna and Matilda.

*

For George, training Brandon was a step, flimsy as it was, on the path to redemption.

George had lived with the guilt of knowing he destroyed his young friend's life. The stand-over man, Karim, had come to spread more misery in the weeks after Brandon went to prison. Karim explained that it was George's gambling debts that had drawn Brandon to the Cross.

"And about that fifteen grand you owe me old man," Karim said, "consider it settled. Use it to buy yourself a new life."

George might have used the situation to turn himself around. Instead, George surrendered to his demons. He fell into debt again and sought to drink himself to oblivion.

But now his young friend was back and George had a shot at redemption. Like Brandon he sought to distance himself from his prior self. He cut the drink. He cut the gambling.

But the debt collecting demons kept circling.

CHAPTER 35

Bitterness is one of the hardest emotions to sustain. Time wears it down. The very act of living is at odds with it. So it was for Brandon in prison.

Early in his sentence Brandon saw the ugliest aspects of human behaviour. Prisoners beaten to within an inch of their life. Men physically and psychologically enslaved by other men, while guards looked the other way. Brandon saw things he considered impossible for one human to do to another.

Oddly, it was the catalyst for change. He either became like them or he rose above them. It made him care.

Prison was like life on the street. _You got strong or you got hurt._ He protected himself from trouble but did not go looking for it. The Aboriginal crew courted him but Brandon was wary not to marginalise himself further with them. He made other allies. Enter Tanner, a sixty-year-old old-timer, who had spent thirty-five of those years in prison. He had been released several times but found he preferred it inside.

Tanner spoke sparingly, but when he did people listened. People did not mess with Tanner and he extended that protection to Brandon for no reason other than – _he had seen him sprinting on t.v. and_ _he ain't never met no-one from the t.v. before_. Tanner and his crew muscled up when Karim's connections came calling.

Tanner and Brandon established a daily routine of catching up and talking. Tanner was clear on his own prospects of rehabilitation; he had been inside so long the thought of the outside scared him. But his young friend was different. He was young. He had talent. He had a family. And that was worth fighting for. _You reckon getting locked up proved to everyone they was right –_ Tanner put to Brandon one day – w _ell how about proving em wrong by getting out and staying out._

Tanner wondered why Brandon had given away his sprinting. London was gone but he was young enough to compete in Rio. Brandon resisted at first. But Tanner tormented him – _he was past it, he wasn't that fast, was his event the marathon or the fifteen hundred._ And like all athletes Brandon bit back. He showed Tanner he was wrong.

They worked the weights in the prison gym and ran laps of the courtyard. Tanner supervised him in the prison boxing ring. Every second Friday became race day where all comers were encouraged to challenge Brandon Summers, Australia's fastest ever sprinter, over a hundred metres with a handicapped start. Those that could run entered. Those that could not made side wagers on who would win. It was a welcome distraction for the inmates. It gave them something to look forward to. For Brandon it gave him a purpose. He got stronger and he got faster. And with Tanner no one dared touch him. Karim's enforcers were powerless against Brandon Summers, the main man of Friday race day.

"How old's your daughter," Tanner asked one afternoon.

"Irrelevant," Brandon replied. That topic was off-limits.

"Kids don't bear grudges," Tanner said, "remember that son."

*

Brandon was thinking about prison and Tanner's advice as he approached the childcare centre. It was midday and he could hear children laughing and playing inside. A young woman met Brandon in the foyer. An unannounced male was cause for concern – an unannounced Aboriginal male was cause to call security.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Matilda's father. I would like to see her."

"Is something wrong?" the woman asked.

"No. I just want to see her."

"Please wait here," the woman walked away, checking on him over her shoulder.

Brandon tried to see Matilda in the crowd of kids before an older woman, the centre Director, appeared.

"Mr Summers?"

"My daughter, I want to see her?"

"Mr Summers, for the safety of our children, we have protocols for visits and child collections. You are not listed as one of Matilda's guardians, therefore we cannot permit you to see her."

Brandon had not expected this. He was Matilda's father. He had a right to see her.

"Who are her guardians?" he asked.

"Anna Donovan. Her mother. Maybe after Anna has collected Matilda, you can negotiate," the woman immediately realised her poor choice of words, "arrange, rather, to see Matilda."

"So I have to bargain to see my daughter. I'm her father. Every child needs a father, don't they?"

"Maybe. Mr Summers but..."

At that moment Brandon spotted Matilda sitting with another child.

"Matilda! Matilda!"

"Mr Summe..."

Brandon shrugged out of the woman's grip and lurched forward, stumbling into a desk, causing a jug to fall and smash. The centre fell silent. Children stopped and watched Brandon kneel where Matilda was sitting.

"Hey Matilda. It's me, Daddy."

The centre staff responded with practiced efficiency. One called the police, another called Matilda's mother, and the Centre Director stepped between Brandon and Matilda. Brandon tried to push her aside. There was no malice in the gesture, just frustration. Another staff member carried Matilda outside.

"Hey. That's my daughter!"

Matilda watched him over the woman's shoulder.

"I know Mr Summers. But you can't..."

"Matilda!"

The other children were frightened by the loud voice. Several children started to cry.

"Mr Summers. Please."

Brandon allowed himself to be led out of the centre. He had not come to frighten anyone. The Centre Director ushered him to a bench just as Anna arrived.

"Is Matilda ok?" Anna asked urgently.

"She is fine," the woman said, "can I leave you two?"

Anna nodded and the woman left. Anna turned on Brandon.

"What are you doing?"

"I came to see Matilda."

"That is stupid Brandon!"

"I'm allowed to see my daughter."

"No you're not," Anna said, "they have rules. Only I can pick Matilda up and drop her off. You frightened the children Brandon."

"I..."

"No!" Anna was furious, "she is my daughter. I've raised her. I decide what is good for her! And I don't want you seeing her Brandon. I can make it official?"

"Is that a threat Anna?"

"No. It's reality."

"Every child needs a father."

"Not one that's been in prison."

There, it was out. The stigma of prison was tattooed on him. So all the people who had seen him growing up could say – _see, told you he'd end up no good. Just another Aboriginal kid clogging up the system._

Anna bit her lip and looked away.

"I can change Anna," he said.

"I don't care Brandon. We don't need you."

Brandon had nothing left. He was clinging by a thread.

"I just wanted to see Matilda," he said.

"I don't care Brandon! Go! Just go!" she yelled.

Brandon stumbled away. He thought entering Maitland prison was the lowest point in his life – he was wrong.

CHAPTER 36

Rio Olympics; 20 months and counting...

Homeless, Brandon moved in with George, and it felt as if he had travelled back in time. For George the company was comforting and a further step toward redemption. It also meant he could monitor Brandon's conditioning first hand.

Brandon left prison in good shape but George turned him into something else altogether. Excess body fat melted from him like butter. Muscles stood across him like armour. He felt supremely strong. And with strength came confidence. He felt fast. So he was fast.

Training and dreams of Rio and defeating Charles Dent distracted him from the pain of his personal life.

Brandon obsessed about the Rio Olympics. The bitter memory of missing London haunted him. He would get back to the top and prove the doubters wrong.

"I want to race," Brandon said to George one evening.

George had expected this. Every athlete wants to compete. It is programmed into them. And Brandon's times were strong. They had started in the mid 10's but recently shifted into the high nine's, similar to when he had been challenging Dent.

"You think you're ready to race?"

"I'd face Dent now," Brandon said.

"That's good kid. Cause I got you a race."

"State or National?" Brandon asked.

George braced himself.

"Maitland Regionals."

Brandon slapped his fork down.

"Bullshit George. I'm not racing donkeys on a dirt track."

The Maitland Regionals was small and irrelevant. He had won State and National titles. He had raced the best in the world.

"The event is for any dick that rolls out of the hills. I've raced Dent and Cole and Stables. I've..."

George raised his eyebrows, willing Brandon to continue, but Brandon slumped back angry and breathless.

"Wow," George said, "they ironed out most things in prison but missed the _I'm so hot my shit don't stink_ , attitude."

Brandon made to speak but George cut him off.

"Shut up and listen. Right now kid you're little more than a fly buzzing around a giant pile of shit. Everyone reckons you hung up your boots. Worse, you got baggage from your exit. I mean how many former inmates do you see lining up at State and National level. To get a shot at the big names you've got to show 'em something. You enter this meet and one other, and win, which with your attitude I'm not so sure, they might start you in something bigger."

George let his words settle.

"Now, is all the bullshit out of your system kid?"

Brandon glared at George, pride spiking him like a million pin pricks.

"Good. Now finish eating kid and get the cards."

CHAPTER 37

Sydney Tribune: Brandon Summers Returns to the Track

The recent Maitland athletics meet would ordinarily have passed unnoticed if not for one inclusion in the 100 metres. Brandon Summers. The former Australian Champion and bad boy of the track.

Three years ago Summers took the sprinting world by storm before imploding. Summers' demise was as swift as his rise. An altercation in Kings Cross saw him swap the London Olympics for a prison cell. A nation felt cheated. The believers wondered why they ever had.

But Summers has served his time and he is sprinting again.

For the record, Summers cantered to the line unchallenged in 10.1 seconds. When asked afterwards for his thoughts he was equally flippant.

" _Beats staring at four walls. I like sprinting and I like winning."_

Is this the beginning of a great Australian sporting comeback I ask?

Maybe. But Summers must first regain the respect of the public he so badly burned. At risk of cliché I say: watch this space.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Once bitten twice shy

CHAPTER 38

Cash stood at the entrance to the training track like a seal sweltering in the desert. He wore a dark suit, sunglasses, and white shirt open at the neck. George saw him as Brandon was warming down.

"Look what the cat dragged in. Want me to tell him to piss off?"

"No George. I'll handle it."

Brandon walked over and the agent shook his hand vigorously.

"Running again Brandon? You look good. But you haven't been returning my calls. What gives?"

"Nothing _gives_ Cash. Why are you here?"

"Now," Cash laughed, "that isn't the way to greet an old friend."

"Friends don't desert each other when things get tough."

Cash considered the rebuke. He had avoided Brandon during his prison sentence, afraid something ugly might stick to him. But hey, that was then this is now.

"I tried to keep your sponsors Brandon. But, and no offence yeah, it's hard to give them value from inside prison."

"Ain't seen you for two years Cash. Why are you here?"

Cash avoided the last two years and focused on the present.

"To get you back to the top, with some money."

"That's your world, not mine," Brandon said, "I'm running. I'm happy. I don't need the circus."

Cash laughed.

"Oh come on kid, save me the purity and wellness routine. But look, I get it, you don't need all the bling. So live the sparse life. Become a monk, become the fastest monk in the world. But let me get you what you're worth."

Brandon was not interested. Cash was a parasite. First to feed when things were good but first to leap when things turned bad.

"No," Brandon said, "this time Cash can keep the cash. See you around."

Brandon walked back to George. And Cash, cursing the heat and flies, commenced the long drive back to Sydney.

*

Brandon might have sent Cash packing but the agent had exposed an unavoidable truth. Brandon could not work a building site five days a week and expect to challenge the best sprinters in the world. He needed time and money to train and compete.

George had already thrown everything he had behind his young friend. And the solution came from an unexpected source – _Preston's Juices_.

Doug Preston, one of George's former gym acquaintances, had started a packaged fruit juice business. His footprint was small but he eyed expansion. To expand he needed profile.

For thirty grand a year and all travel and accommodation costs, Brandon got to wear a _Preston Juice_ cap and t-shirt, star in a low budget _Get Real – Get Fresh_ radio campaign, and sip a _Preston's_ juice after every race.

"Forget about money now Brandon," Preston said, "focus on winning. You win, I win. And hey, its bloody hot outside, you want a juice?"

CHAPTER 39

It was dark when Brandon left Lyno's and he almost missed Jackson in the shadows. Jackson looked out of place in his dark jeans and jacket. George sensed trouble.

"You alright Brandon?"

Brandon nodded.

"You want to ride Little Brother?"

Brandon considered things. A world of two groups: He and Jackson, and then _everyone else._

"Yeah."

*

Jackson talked constantly as he drove. About the Cross, about Karim, and a life getting anything and everything you wanted; Brandon had heard it all before. Seeing Jackson brought back memories of things unraveling in the Cross, and him waiting, hoping, for Jackson to save him – _rule 3 never leave your brother_. And staring at the walls and ceiling of his prison cell wondering when Jackson would visit. He never did.

In time Jackson ran out of things to say. He parked beside a harbour backwater and cleared the air.

"It happened so fast Little Brother. There was nothing I could do."

Brandon shrugged. What did it matter, fast or slow, he got caught, he did the time.

"I wanted to come and see you in prison Little Brother."

There had been times, staring down Karim's prison heavies, that Brandon had looked instinctively sideways for Jackson. The world divided into two groups; _e_ xcept in prison

"But I couldn't go near that place," Jackson said, "you live like I do Little Brother, the thought of prison is poison."

"A letter?" Brandon asked.

"You know me Little Brother," Jackson made a crippled dopey face, "can't hardly speak, can't hardly write."

Brandon laughed.

"But I hear you held your own Little Brother. Defended our name."

Brandon wondered if Jackson knew the only defending he did was against Karim's enforcers.

"I'm proud of you Little Brother," Jackson said, knocking knuckles, "you stayed strong. We could use you in the Cross."

Brandon listened as Jackson described again the wonderful life that awaited him. And for the first time Brandon was drawn to it. It was not the lure of what he could have, but the thought of what he could leave behind. Without Anna and Matilda there was nothing left for him. He could stop pretending and become the criminal everyone believed he was.

"Karim wants to see you Little Brother," Jackson said, driving again, "you are the _special_ one. The one that would complete things for him."

Brandon had hoped time and distance might have appeased Karim, but his shadow remained. Jackson pulled up at George's house.

"So Little Brother. What do you think?"

The image of things was enticing. Join his brother, like old times. But there was a flaw; Karim.

"I think," Brandon said getting out of the car, "Karim can go screw himself."

CHAPTER 40

Rio Olympics; 15 months and counting...

With George in his corner Brandon kept racing and kept winning. And with each win came greater profile. Once sceptical spectators returned to watch him. Competitors began to fear him. Kids, captured by Brandon's back from the brink story, wanted to be him again. The unfinished dream began to take shape on the track.

But off the track Brandon was lost. He missed Anna and Matilda.

Brandon sought to separate the two parts of his life, the one that worked from the one that didn't. But it was impossible. Externally he appeared in control and at the peak of his powers, but inside, he was desperately lost.

He had a family and without them the winning and adoration meant nothing. Anna had moved on but for him it was not over. He would give away everything to have them back. But he could not chase them forever.

It was dark as Brandon stood at the entrance to Newcastle University. Pride told him to go home, that there was nothing to be gained, just another kick in the teeth. But he would try with Anna once more. This time, if the walls came up, he would walk away. Forever.

He liked the thought of Anna studying. It showed the difference between them. She was smart and had the courage to improve. She could balance her life between studying, the café, and looking after Matilda. She knew what she wanted while he just kept making the same old mistakes.

Anna's manner changed the moment she saw him.

"What are you doing here Brandon?"

"Came to enroll."

"Really. What course?"

"Nuclear Physics," he replied.

She scoffed and kept walking. Brandon fell in beside her.

"I won a race yesterday," he said, "Sydney regionals. A big one."

"That's wonderful Brandon. I hope you win plenty more."

She paused.

"Look Brandon," she hated that he made her feel guilty, "I'm glad you are winning. It means a lot to you so I am glad."

They were approaching her car and Brandon saw his moment with her ending.

"Remember when we used to just walk forever along the harbour and talk."

"That was a long time ago Brandon."

"It was two years ago."

"That's a long time Brandon."

"We used to say we'd be together forever Anna."

The words spiked memories of happier times for Anna, when she had ignored the danger that came with Brandon and let herself be with him. The crazy excitement of him climbing in her bedroom window at three in the morning. Of listening to him and George talk about taking over the world. She had believed in a happy future back then. But Brandon had twisted things into this uncomfortable version of the present.

"That was before you threw it away Brandon."

"But we said it to each other."

She sighed.

"We said a lot of things Brandon. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you Anna. I wanted to talk to you. I miss you and Matilda."

She was looking at the sky. He saw her throat shift.

"Well we've talked Brandon. I got to go now."

She opened the car door. He started talking quickly, saying anything to hold her a moment longer. He handed her a card.

"Happy birthday," he said, "see, I'm not that bad, just a harmless birthday stalker."

"Please Brandon," she said, steeling herself, the exchange had confused what had been clear to her, "there is no more us. I've moved on and you should too. Good bye."

Brandon watched Anna leave knowing it was the end of things.

A short distance away Anna pulled over and looked at the envelope in her lap. Opening it would only create more confusion. She ripped it open. Inside was a simple card and message.

"Happy Birthday Anna. I've never been good with words, can barely spell my own name. About the only thing I've ever been good at is sprinting down a silly track slightly faster than everyone else. I miss you Anna. I owe you everything and you don't owe me a thing."

Anna slumped back in her seat.

No. I won't let you do it to us again.

She tossed the card in the back and drove on.

CHAPTER 41

It was late evening and the lights were off when Brandon got home. George had failed to show for training and Brandon had come to check on him. George's car was out the front but the house was silent.

"Hey George!"

The kitchen was empty, so too the lounge and dining rooms. Brandon checked the laundry and backyard. The silence unnerved him. He saw visions of Karim and stand-over men come to collect debts.

"George. You..."

Brandon was cut short as he saw George laying face down outside the bathroom. Brandon rushed to him and rolled him over. George was cold and his eyes were closed. There was blood and a lump on his forehead. Brandon fumbled with his mobile as he put his face close to George's mouth. No breath. A pulse. Maybe. George's eyes were distant and unseeing as Brandon flipped his eyelids. The emergency operator barked a stream of questions in Brandon's ear.

I don't know how long.

No. He isn't breathing.

There's nothing blocking his mouth.

He isn't breathing.

Just get an ambulance quick.

George's body flopped like a puppet as Brandon commenced a desperate sequence of CPR. Brandon felt detached, as if he was looking down on things from a place in the sky. George was the closest thing he had to family, and Brandon felt him slipping away.

*

The white washed hospital emergency room was a hive of activity. Doctors rushed in and out. Injured people entered, were assessed, and whisked off to be fixed. Brandon saw Anna arrive and stood up.

"I came as quick as I could," she said.

"Sorry, I had no one else to..."

"It's alright Brandon. How is he? What happened?"

"I don't know Anna. I found him on the floor. I..."

Brandon was shaking. He needed rest but sleep was impossible. He had just seen his best friend rushed into emergency hooked up with tubes and a paramedic working on his chest. The staff suspected an overdose but could not be sure.

Anna stopped Brandon pacing and made him sit down.

"He's in the best place Brandon."

"He's always drinking too much," Brandon said, "I try to get him to stop but he won't. I should have tried harder."

"No Brandon," she held his hands, "it is not your fault."

"When I found him Anna. I..." Brandon broke off, "I thought he was dead. And all I could think was what am I gonna do without him. I..."

"He'll be alright Brandon. He's tough."

At that moment the problems of the past seemed insignificant. Brandon needed her and Anna was glad to be with him. A doctor entered the room and Brandon sprung to his feet.

"How is he? Can I see him?"

The Doctor patted the air.

"He is stable. We performed an emergency gastric lavage and defibrillated adrenalin shock."

"What is that?"

The Doctor described the procedure; standard response to a suspected drug overdose. Then he held up a tiny bottle of white pills.

"These are Matrinox pills. They are prescribed for clinical depression, anxiety, and, in small doses, insomnia. We found them in your friend's pocket and a load of them in his system. Do either of you know what he was taking them for?"

CHAPTER 42

George survived but given his age and history of smoking and drinking, the medical staff kept him under observation for two weeks. Brandon sat with George every day, talking sport and life and watching George sleep, leaving only, at George's insistence, to run laps of the city and to visit Lyno's.

The medical staff ran numerous tests. Their conclusion: George had overdosed on a cocktail of sleeping pills and alcohol. The clinical consequences were his heart rate fell and he collapsed into a transient coma. Brandon's CPR had stopped George declining further and the shot of adrenalin delivered direct to his heart by the paramedics, had saved his life. Amazingly George emerged without any permanent damage.

For Brandon it was a miracle. George was more flippant.

"Waste of time savin' me kid. Been cheaper to let me go."

George claimed the pills were a prescription to help him sleep and he had lost count of his dosage. His story was flawed. The pills were meant to be taken before bed and George had overdosed mid-afternoon, miscounting, by the Doctor's reckoning, by around ten times the prescribed dosage.

The events frightened Brandon. Things could have been so different if he had not come home when he did. He could have been burying his friend instead of talking with him. And why would George do it? Why wouldn't George talk about his problems? Brandon tried to extract the truth but George closed up like a clam. For George, talking about debt collectors and drinking and a life where it was hard to see the light, were a sign of weakness.

Before George left the hospital, Brandon searched his house collecting every jar of pills he could find. And when he drove George home he stopped him on the front porch.

"Now listen George. There's some new rules."

"Aw bloody hell kid. This my house or yours?"

"No more drinking," Brandon continued, "you cut back on smoking and eventually quit. And there sure as hell are no more pills."

"Now kid. Can't an old man just..."

George saw Brandon's look and obediently agreed.

"And no more secrets George. You got a problem, we talk about it. Together we set things right. Yeah?"

George felt like a child. He should have been doing the protecting. And _no more secrets..._

George could not look Brandon in the eye. The doctors had identified something by chance when scanning his brain. It could be nothing, but deep down, even without the follow-up tests, George knew the truth. But he would not burden his young friend with it.

Instead, eager to make up for lost time, he slapped Brandon on the shoulder.

"Holiday's over kid. Get changed. We're hitting the road."

CHAPTER 43

Rio Olympics: 13 months and counting...

It was late afternoon as George put Brandon through his paces on the oval. Pushups – sprint – chin-ups – sprint – pushups – chin-ups – sprint – again, again, and again. Brandon collapsed on the ground, his body wasted from anaerobic stress.

"What's wrong kid. A couple of weeks off and you're out of shape."

Brandon flicked George the finger.

"Better put that away kid. We got company."

Brandon saw Anna and Matilda approaching and hurriedly made himself presentable. Matilda ran ahead but stopped and waited for Anna to catch-up.

"How are you George?" Anna said.

"Like new," George replied.

George was mesmerised by Matilda. She seemed a different child from the last time he saw her. So much like her mother with a hint of her father's mischief.

Anna glanced at Brandon.

"You look exhausted."

"Hanging out with George does it to you," Brandon replied, "but we're getting strong. We're getting fast."

"Not fast enough," George said.

Anna smiled. The pair lived in a different world. Matilda giggled as she played a game of step on toes with Brandon.

"Listen Brandon. I wanted to come see you."

George saw his cue.

"Does this little garden gnome want to help me collect things."

Matilda looked at her mother. Anna nodded and Matilda raced George to pick up the distant cone markers.

"Is he really alright?" Anna asked.

Brandon nodded.

"His lifestyle is shocking but he is alright."

"What about you Brandon? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Brandon said, "spooked, but fine."

They stood looking at each other for a period.

"Brandon," Anna said, "I've been thinking. About Matilda. And..."

It was difficult for Anna but George's emergency had reminded her of the unpredictability of life. How the people you might care for can disappear in a heartbeat. Matilda had a father and she had a right to know him.

"...and I was thinking, if you want to spend time with Matilda. Just you and her, that would be alright. Take her out for a day or afternoon."

The words were magic to Brandon.

"Are you sure?" he checked.

Anna saw the way Brandon watched Matilda chasing George. Something had changed in him. He seemed genuine in his desire to stay out of trouble. The old Brandon had been reckless and fun and when it mattered, self-absorbed. Brandon was more accepting of the world now. Anna wondered what prison had been like for him. What he had seen in there. What had changed him in there.

"I want you to Brandon," she said.

"Thank you Anna," Brandon said, then lost for what next to say, "want a race?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Don't tell me you've lost your competitive streak," he urged, "first one to the footy posts."

Anna slipped off her shoes, pulled a mean face: "Set – go!"

She dashed away, sprinting as fast as she could. Matilda greeted them at the line.

"Mummy won!"

"George," Anna said, out of breath, "he isn't Olympic quality. Work him harder."

Brandon smiled and swung Matilda high into the air.

CHAPTER 44

Sydney Tribune: Brandon Summers – the Real Deal?

Like a phoenix emerging from the ashes, Brandon Summers' rise from criminal also ran, to potential Olympic starter has been extraordinary. Summers signaled his return with strong showings in the Sydney Regionals and a South Coast invitational. No, let's be precise, those races were demolition jobs. The other sprinters were merely making up the numbers as Summers streaked to the line in times of 10.1 and 9.9, his first competitive sub-ten since returning to the track, and even then he appeared to be holding back.

His focus was tight. His style sublime. And his post race critique, razor sharp.

What does he hope to achieve through this?

" _Gold in Rio."_

Have you been watching Dent?

" _Yeah. And he's looking older and slower than the last time I saw him."_

Those are some lofty ambitions and fighting words. While Summers might have the talent, does he have the discipline.

Time will tell. So sit back Australia and enjoy the ride.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Wanting to believe but...

CHAPTER 45

Brandon owed Tanner, his prison protector, his life.

Through cold hard examples of life and loss, Tanner tamed an angry young man. He gave Brandon a purpose. He gave Brandon hope. He reminded Brandon that he had a family who just might care for him.

They ate breakfast together the morning Brandon was released. Tanner made Brandon promise three things: to stay strong; to keep sprinting; and to never let him see Brandon inside again. He requested Brandon get himself an insurance policy. Not the standard type but one with _Tanner style_ coverage, that genuinely protects you.

"And remember son. Kids don't bear grudges," Tanner re-enforced.

Tanner was right.

Brandon took things slowly with Matilda, edging back into his daughter's life. An afternoon at the park and a morning at the beach. Matilda was apprehensive at first but she came around when she saw the playground and the sand. She ran and played and dug holes. She laughed and smiled and babbled the most wonderful stream of words Brandon had ever heard.

When Brandon dropped Matilda off he always spent a moment with Anna. They talked about university and the cafe and sprinting. He made Anna laugh. She made him smile. In this way they found a comfortable place together.

A month on Anna surprised him. Matilda was turning three and Anna wanted to have a party. But for reasons she would not disclose, her home was not suitable. Brandon offered George's place. He watched Anna process the idea, considering all the things that were wrong with it.

"Ok," she announced, "we can do that."

*

On the morning of the party Anna arrived at George's house with party food, balloons, music, and a long list of things to do. She gave George a duster and vacuum and he obediently cleaned his house for the first time in a decade. Brandon set about stringing decorations from the walls and ceiling.

"Thanks," Brandon said as he passed Anna.

"What for?"

"For this."

There was a clumsy awkwardness, neither knew what to say next, and they quickly got back to their preparations.

*

People started arriving around midday. Preston and his young niece and nephew, and the children of Brandon's former labouring mates. They were joined by some kids of Anna's cafe friends. They started some games while they waited for Matilda's pre-school friends to arrive. Anna ran Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs. Brandon led Simon Says and Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Then it was time to eat, and Brandon watched in amazement as Anna managed the group.

"Move over Adam. Squeeze in Jemma. Matilda you're up the front here darling. What's that Harry, you need to go to the toilet, well go find your Daddy, don't worry the food will still be here when you get back."

And then, like magic, silence, as the kids devoured the party food Anna had prepared. Then more games and music. And just like that Matilda was seeing each child off with a bag of lollies at the front door.

After the last child had left Anna slumped on the couch next to Brandon. Matilda was asleep in his lap.

"Thanks for hosting," Anna said.

"I'm sorry Anna."

Anna shook her head. Brandon spelt out what she was too afraid to say.

"No-one came from Matilda's pre-school. The only kids that came belonged to friends of yours or mine. How many children did you invite Anna? Her entire class?"

"It happens Brandon," Anna said, "kids have other things on. They can't always come."

"An entire class?"

Brandon knew the truth.

_Once a criminal – always a criminal._ If the party had been at Anna's place every one of those pre-school kids would have come.

"Do you think they try and move their kids out of Matilda's class," he said, "so they are not mixing with the child of a criminal. Maybe it is better that Matilda does not spend time with me."

Anna held his hand. There had been a time when Brandon had been proud and stubborn and able to brush off anything. Life had changed him.

"Don't talk like that Brandon. You made a mistake. Everybody does. People have no right to judge you."

Brandon carried Matilda out to the car.

"You are a good person Brandon," Anna said, "I had fun today. Thanks."

She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.

CHAPTER 46

Brandon noticed the letter on George's coffee table. He held it up when George entered the room with his training kit.

"What you seeing a doctor for George?"

"Nothing kid. You get wheeled into emergency half dead like me, they want to see you again afterwards."

Brandon was not satisfied. George had refused to talk about what drove him to overdose, and Brandon often returned home expecting to find his friend comatose on the floor again.

"Honest kid," George snatched the letter back, "and how's your form poking your nose in other people's mail?"

"You want me to come with you to the appointment George?"

"Kid, I'm sixty-five or something years old. I don't need you holding my hand. Now we've got some runnin' to do."

George led Brandon out of the house.

"You'd tell me George if there's something wrong?"

"Sure kid. No secrets and all that. Now stop worryin' and start runnin'."

George followed Brandon on his bike, the knot tightening in his stomach. He hated lies. Eventually they became a cage for you.

CHAPTER 47

Rio Olympics: 12 months and counting...

Anna's first thought when Brandon entered the cafe was _I look a wreck_. Then a reality check – _why does it matter?_ But it mattered. The annoying inner voice that never lied, told her it did. She quickly straightened her hair, centred her apron, and set about ignoring him as he waited patiently at the counter.

Brandon knew it was a risk arriving uninvited. He might distance Anna again. But he was, he reassured himself, here only as a friend.

Fifteen minutes later, with Brandon proving persistent, Anna approached him.

"Brandon. I thought we talked about this. I'm really..."

"Was just passing by," Brandon cut in.

"Passing by. Passing by. Always just passing by."

"You look busy," Brandon said.

"I am."

"Want some help?"

"Get real Brandon," she replied, as the kitchen bell sounded.

She went into the kitchen. But when she returned she stopped, bewildered. Brandon was stooped attentively beside an elderly couple's table, pointing to items on the menu, wearing an apron he had found behind the counter.

"The chef's specials change so often," Brandon said reading the blackboard specials, "I find it hard to remember them. But the seared beef fillet and bone marrow mash is delightful."

"Thank you young man," the elderly woman said, "you've been so helpful."

Brandon yelped as Anna dragged him away.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Helping."

"You can't serve customers!"

"Look," Brandon said, "you're busy. I'll take some orders and you can take them to the kitchen. Chef won't know any different."

"No," Anna said, "don't be painful about this. I can call security."

Brandon glanced at the door.

"You don't have any security Anna."

The kitchen bell rang. A backlog of meals was developing. The elderly couple waved in Brandon's direction.

"Excuse me Anna. I have customers to attend to."

Brandon made to leave but Anna pulled him back.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because it's fun."

"I hate you Brandon Summers."

A short time later Brandon handed two orders to Anna at the counter.

"Who's next," he asked.

"Table nine," Anna conceded, "desert and coffee orders. And did I say I hate you?"

"All the time."

Brandon managed several orders, and let Anna take them to the kitchen. When he served the elderly couple their meals the man called him back.

"Excuse me. But are you Brandon Summers, the sprinter?"

"Yes I am Sir."

"You work here?"

"When I'm not training."

Anna butt in.

"He's our apprentice," she explained, giving Brandon an encouraging hug, "we had high hopes for him but he is a little slow. Such a shame."

"I think he's delightful," the elderly woman remarked.

Anna rolled her eyes.

An hour later Anna paused at the front counter and watched Brandon hurrying from table to table, laughing and talking, and looking ridiculous with his apron and notebook. People recognised him and they pointed and enjoyed the novelty of being served by a sports star.

It annoyed Anna immensely that she did not want him to leave.

*

Brandon sat on the harbour break wall while Anna turned off the cafe lights.

"How'd I go?" he asked when she joined him.

"You'd be lucky to get another shift."

"Tough!"

They stood looking at each other.

"So?"

"So?"

"I had fun tonight," Brandon said, nudging Anna with his shoulder. She rocked with the gesture but did not try to move away.

"Why are you here Brandon?" she asked.

Brandon avoided the question.

"You want to walk?"

Brandon wished he had not asked. The happiness left Anna. Like a cloud crossing the sun. It was the same whenever he asked about her home life. There were things about her life she kept close.

"I can't. I got to pick up Matilda. My friend's expecting me."

But she saw his look and sighed, "ok, a quick walk."

Brandon fell in beside her. A breeze stirred off the harbour and Anna pulled her cardigan tight around her.

"How is Matilda?" Brandon asked.

"She's good. She hasn't stopped talking about her party."

"She's special," Brandon said, "you have done a great job with her."

Anna was uncomfortable. She had spent so long mentally removing Brandon from her life, that to be walking with him now was confusing and dangerous. They walked halfway along the break wall before Anna stopped.

"I really have to pick up Matilda," she said.

Brandon walked Anna to her car. She got inside and wound down the window.

"Brandon?"

"Yeah?"

"I had fun tonight. Please don't come again."

She left him and drove away.

CHAPTER 48

Sydney Tribune: Summers lights up the track

The rise of Brandon Summers shows no sign of slowing. Australia's faster ever sprinter continues to sprint and win, most recently a Brisbane AA sanctioned event where he blitzed a hot local and international field.

Dare we look to the Rio Olympics. A farfetched dream several months ago, Rio is suddenly within Summers' grasp.

He looks fast. He looks strong. The confidence and trademark wit are back. But with them a steely resolve. He has the look of a man intent on righting wrongs.

Next stop is the NSW Sate Titles where an old friend awaits. Dwayne Stables, still smarting from his demise 2 years ago, will be out to right some wrongs of his own.

It promises to be a mouth watering match up as the two champions gun for a psychological edge in the lead up to Olympic qualification.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Could it be true?

CHAPTER 49

Visiting Violets became a routine. Brandon stopped in each morning at _his_ table, sweaty from training and intent on getting a laugh and smile from Anna.

Anna tried hard to ignore his jokes and made sure Brandon knew his visits were very inconvenient. But by mid-morning she was watching _his_ table, waiting for him to arrive. The visits were fun. They reminded her of happier times. But those times were in the past and she had moved on.

For Brandon it was pleasure spiked with pain. An agonising glimpse of a life he would never recapture.

*

The hospital car park was busy. The cars and people seemed to swirl around George. He had to sit down. He felt dizzy and ready to throw up. Seeing scans of black spots in your brain does that to you. The spots just seemed to multiply each time he visited the neurologist. His prognosis was due tomorrow, but George already knew the truth. Smoking. Alcohol. Stress. Depression. They eventually catch up with you.

He drove to the training track where Brandon was waiting for him. George steeled himself, making himself walk tall.

"What you looking at kid?"

"You ok George?"

George looked awful and Brandon was worried.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Things ok with the doctor?"

"Yeah, except he thinks I'm over-weight, drink too much, and should drop the smokes – can you believe it? Now give me two laps sub two and half, with twenty chins and sits each end. Go!"

Brandon ran and George slumped to his haunches. It felt like the earth was tipping and he might slip off the side. But he had to stay strong. There were things to do.

Rio. Dent. 9.49 seconds.

CHAPTER 50

It was late and the cafe was empty as Brandon helped Anna clean up.

"For someone supposed to be fast, you're pretty slow," Anna remarked, skipping to the next table.

"Why do you like this place so much Anna?"

"You tell me Brandon, you come here often enough."

"I like the staff," he said.

Anna bumped into him.

"Sorry. Accident," she giggled.

"Seriously Anna," Brandon said, "what is it you want to do?"

Anna considered whether to give away a little of herself.

"I want to own a café like this," she eventually said.

"Tell me about it Anna."

"No! This is silly!"

"No it's not," Brandon said, "sprinting down a silly track a little faster than everyone else is stupid. Go on, describe your cafe Anna."

Anna started talking as she cleaned.

"It will be cozy. Near the water or a garden. An open fireplace for the winter and outdoor tables in summer. A menu that changes weekly. Daily specials written on black-boards, not laminated cards. It'll..."

She glared at him with her hands on her hips.

"You're making fun of me!"

"No I'm not. I like it."

"The chef will be great, not an arrogant celebrity chef, just someone who takes pride in cooking. And the staff will wear a black and white uniform. Matilda will have a table in the corner to do her homework and decorate the menus. People will feel safe and have fun."

Brandon saw Anna come alive as she moved from table to table. The thing that weighed her down, that she would never talk about, had vanished.

"And," Anna added, "there will be a certain runner that visits. I'll let him in if he's clean or send him home if he's dirty."

"That's a wonderful dream," Brandon laughed.

"No it's stupid. It will never..."

She broke off when a figure appeared at the door.

"Hey Anna. Been waiting for you. Ah," the figure paused when he noticed Brandon, "prison boy. Tell me Summers? What you been doing since getting out, apart from spending too much time with my girlfriend."

Brandon was stunned. He had not encountered Reynolds since leaving prison, and believed the officer had given up his pursuit of the truth. But Reynolds and Anna? _Why? How?_

"What? Summers lost for words?"

Brandon approached Reynolds. Anna stepped between them.

"You've been drinking Adam. Wait outside."

"No, I'm interested," Reynolds pressed, "what does an ex-prisoner, failed athlete do after serving time?"

The words barely registered with Brandon. The thought of Reynolds spending time with Anna and Matilda spiked his rage. Anna gently eased him back.

"Please Brandon," Anna said, aware of what could happen, then to Reynolds, "go outside. I'll meet you at the car."

"You're a criminal Summers. Low life Aboriginal scum. Never was anything and never will be," Reynolds called as Anna led him out of the cafe.

"I'm sorry Brandon," Anna said when she returned.

"Were you going to tell me?" Brandon asked.

"About what?" her tone changed.

"About him?"

"It has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me Anna."

Brandon tossed his apron on the counter, started to leave, but returned, standing close enough that he could see and read her eyes.

"I thought..." he started to say.

She raised her eyebrows, challenging him to continue.

"I thought..." pride choked him, "...it doesn't matter."

He left and Anna stood for a long time wondering what just happened.

CHAPTER 51

Losing Anna to Reynolds stung. Why would Anna start up with Reynolds? But Brandon knew. Reynolds was still after the truth, and getting at Anna was the best way for Reynolds to get at him. Brandon pictured Reynolds sleeping with Anna. Tending to Matilda. Playing happy families with _his_ family.

He now understood why Anna avoided discussing her home life. Reynolds was a violent screwed up individual. What had he done to her? And why had Anna not told him?

"Cause she doesn't have to kid," George said matter-of-factly over dinner.

Brandon had told George about Anna and Reynolds; leaving out the dangerous triangle of himself, Reynolds and Karim.

"She's a free woman kid."

Brandon shook his head.

"I believed I was getting somewhere with her. I tried not to but I couldn't help it."

George let him talk.

"I shouldn't have bothered George. Don't expect anything from no one and no one can expect anything from you – right?"

"Wrong kid. You expect nothing, you end up with nothing."

Brandon glared at him.

"So what do I do?"

"Same as always kid, you want something, you go get it."

*

Locating Reynolds was easy. For a police officer, Reynolds maintained a high profile. In bed with the criminal fringe, Reynolds had little to fear from it. Brandon confronted Reynolds inside a cafe in town. Reynolds raised his coffee cup to him.

"Criminal."

"Outside," Brandon said.

Reynolds shrugged and followed Brandon outside.

"What are you doing?" Brandon said.

Adam raised his eyebrows in mock confusion.

"Keep away from my family," Brandon warned.

"Last time I checked you didn't have a family Summers. But if you mean Anna and her girl, well hey they're wonderful. So sweet and trusting."

"What do you want?"

"Same thing I've always wanted."

"Anna doesn't know anything," Brandon countered.

"Maybe Summers, but you do. Tell me what I want to know and I walk away."

Brandon was taken for a moment by the offer, _the truth can set you free,_ right? Wrong. This time the truth would only destroy the fragile triangle that was Reynolds, Karim and himself. Reynolds goes for Karim, Karim goes for Brandon, and Anna and George and Matilda get caught in the crossfire.

"Leave Anna alone."

Adam laughed.

"I can't do that. You see, I think you've told her things. And besides, I'm quite into her. Some of the things she does for me Summers. Like..."

Brandon saw red and forced Reynolds back against the wall. Reynolds made no attempt to defend himself, just let the people leaving the cafe watch.

"Go on Summers. Smack me around a bit."

Brandon held his forearm across Reynolds' throat.

"Come on you Aboriginal criminal. Hit me," he spluttered.

"If you hurt them," Brandon hissed, "I swear I'll find you and I'll..."

"What?" Adam wheezed, "you'll beat me up. Earn yourself a one-way ticket back to prison. They let your type in quicker the second time Summers."

Brandon stepped back.

"That's it, walk away criminal," Reynolds called from his haunches struggling to breathe, "you were never nothing more than an abo with a one-way ticket to the slammer."

*

Just like in prison, sprinting was Brandon's escape. The single-mindedness of training and competition distracted him from things off the track. He had a dream and a target and a need to prove himself.

With four straight victories he got a start in the NSW State Titles, the first in George's pre-Olympics big three; NSW State titles, Pan Pac Invitational, and the Australian Titles. The Australian Titles would serve as an Olympic qualification event – first two across the line in sub-Olympic qualification time, earning tickets to Rio.

The State Titles was familiar territory. Five years ago Brandon had arrived as a no-name kid out of no-where, and left as Australia's fastest ever sprinter. He destroyed Stables and introduced himself to Dent. It had been easy. His potential uncapped. But things had changed. His prison enforced absence saw commentators doubt his credentials. Spectators were unsure if he belonged at the top level. And he doubted his own ability.

Stables was waiting for him in the final. The veteran had reveled in Brandon's absence, reclaiming both the State and National titles. He intended to ruin Brandon's return.

"Prison treat you well Summers?"

George's pre-race advice had been clear; _you're here to race, not debate world peace_. But where was the fun in that.

"Better than time treated you Stables. You look a hundred years old."

The starter called them to the line.

"Start still wobbly Summers?"

Brandon ignored him. He felt the weight of expectation. Fail now, he might never return.

"Set."

Crack.

Brandon saw Stables, but only for an instant. Brandon left the veteran clutching air. Perfect form and power at the start. Style and poise through the middle. Speed and stamina at the close – and – 9.78 seconds.

Relief and the exorcism of self-doubt were surreal. Brandon flitted around the track on an adrenalin high. He signed autographs and posed for photos. And when a reporter cornered him he slapped on a Jenson's Juice cap and started talking.

"How did that feel Brandon?"

"Great. I felt great. I ran great. I won great."

"Your speed Brandon?"

"You saw. What did you think?"

"Do you consider yourself a role model for other indigenous athletes?"

"No – for all athletes," Brandon replied.

"Anything else you want to say Brandon?"

"Yeah. Dent, my man. I'm back and I'm coming for you."

CHAPTER 52

Rio Olympics: ten months and counting...

As good as things got on the track Brandon could not accept what was happening off it. He told himself that Anna's life was her own, but he could not walk away. It was early morning when Brandon stepped into the cafe.

"Why are you here Brandon?" Anna asked.

"Why are you seeing him?"

"Let's not do this Brandon."

Anna would not explain herself to him. But Brandon refused to leave.

"Alright Brandon. What is your problem?"

"Him."

"What about _him_?"

"He's not me."

"There's a reason for that Brandon. Let's not go over it again."

"I don't want you seeing him Anna?"

"Well that's not your choice Brandon."

Brandon wished he could tell Anna everything about Reynolds. But telling her would just endanger her.

"How did it start?"

"No..." Anna began.

"Just tell me," Brandon said, "I _need_ to know."

Anna was surprised by his desperation.

"Alright Brandon. You want to know," she took a deep breath, "I wasn't looking for anyone. After you went to prison I focused on Matilda. She was all that mattered to me. I met Adam by chance at a police gala night, just before dad died. We had fun. Sure he's not perfect. He has his problems like everyone. He..."

Brandon raised his eyebrows, encouraging Anna to continue.

"His brother killed himself. I remember it being in the papers. Dad never spoke about it, an officer killing himself was taboo in our family. But Adam believes someone shoved his brother off a cliff in the bush. Can you imagine what that is like for him? It messed him up. But he is trying to get better."

"What does he do to you Anna?" Brandon asked.

Brandon had already joined some of the clues. How Anna never invited him to her home, with Matilda's pick-ups and drop-offs occurring at the cafe.

"Nothing Brandon."

It was a weak denial.

"I think we can make a go of it Anna," Brandon said, "you and me. The way things used to be."

She shook her head.

"No Brandon. Stop. I like you seeing Matilda. I want her to know her father. And we get along now. But there is no _us_."

"I don't want you seeing him. He is not who you think he is Anna."

"This is going nowhere Brandon," Anna said, "I have to get back to work."

She left him and returned to the kitchen.

*

Fox Studios, New York City.

The studio lights leapt off the gold around Dent's neck and knuckles. All bling and ding for the Fox viewers. It was his first interview in a self-promotion avalanche leading up to the Rio Olympics.

"You've been at the top for years now Charles, what motivates you?"

Dent laughed.

"Now that's a good question. Ladies, this one's a keeper, good looking _and_ smart."

Dent slapped the blushing commentator's leg.

"What I got comes from here," Dent thumped his chest, "my family was one step away from the street. Memories motivate me."

The compare nodded.

"How do you rate your chances in London?"

"In what?" Dent asked deadpan.

"The hundred metres Charles," the host clarified.

"Now I take back what I said about you being a keeper and all, cause you clearly don't know much. I am the greatest sprinter of all time. Winning in Rio is a formality."

"And Brandon Summers?" the compare asked, "he's back sprinting."

The studio played the footage of Brandon's NSW State titles interview. Dent had seen it before and mentally archived it under – _people who have messed with me_.

"Well hey that's my man Summers alright," Dent said, "full of air and wind. I heard he served some time down there. What'd he get done for? Trafficking kangaroos and koalas or something. Hey Brandon, lay off the wildlife, we love all those cuddly furry things."

"He pulled a fast time Charles," the compare cut through the bluster.

"In a nothing event," Dent countered, "a time is just a time unless it happens somewhere that matters."

Dent winked and peace signed and brought the interview to a close.

Later, being shuttled home from the studio, coach Pace leveled with Dent.

"The Australian worries me."

"Why?" Dent replied, "you reckon he's got all bad-arse since he's been in prison?"

"No. He's sprinting and building well. He's a threat."

Dent shook his head in frustration.

"The only threat Will, is you falling in love with him. Summers is nothing. I beat him once and I'll beat him again."

Pace reluctantly knocked knuckles with Dent. He often wondered just how good Dent could be without all the pomp and image. And with his head shoved so far up his own self absorbed arse, Dent would not see Summers coming.

CHAPTER 53

It hurt but Brandon swallowed his pride and kept visiting Anna. The old Brandon would have cut his losses and walked away. But he swallowed his pride. It was either that or lose Anna forever. And when Anna did not show up to work for several days, Brandon asked a fellow waitress what she knew.

"Called in sick," she said.

"Four days in a row?"

The waitress shrugged and Brandon left. But the waitress caught up with him outside.

"Hey Brandon, wait. I can tell you care about Anna, and I reckon she needs caring for. You didn't hear this from me, she isn't sick. She just won't leave her home. And she doesn't want you or anyone checking up on her."

Brandon had heard enough. He started running.

*

It was midday. Anna's driveway was empty and the curtains of the front windows drawn.

Brandon knocked. No response. He peered through the window. He thought he saw movement but could not be sure. Why would Anna lock herself away? Had Reynolds hurt her? Was Matilda alright?

"Anna. It's me Brandon!"

Silence. But Brandon sensed she was inside.

"Are you alright?"

No response.

"Ok. If you don't come out I'm gonna sit out here until you do."

The door opened a crack.

"I'm fine, you can go."

Brandon could not see her through the thin space.

"When you coming back to work?"

"What's it matter?"

"Come out so I can see you Anna."

She waited a moment then shoved the door open.

At first Brandon thought it was shadows but the light exposed her swollen, blue and black eye. Rage hit him like a tsunami.

"What?" she said defiantly.

"Can I come in?"

"Why?" she snapped, "so you can lecture me about why I shouldn't let this happen."

"Can I come in?"

She stepped aside. He felt her energy, tight like electricity, as he passed.

"Where is he?"

She lifted her chin.

"Out doing his beat. Enforcing the law."

He went to touch her but she turned away.

"I don't want you here Brandon. I wish you hadn't come."

Brandon sensed her shame. It intensified his anger. She should not be ashamed. It was because of him that this had happened.

"Have you reported this?"

"To who?" Anna scoffed, "Adam _is_ the police Brandon."

"Where can I find him?"

"Why?" she said, "so you can go beat up a police officer. Get yourself some more years in jail. Yeah, that'd be real smart Brandon."

"What happened?" Brandon asked.

"What does it matter?"

"It matters," Brandon pressed, "what would your father think? What..."

Anna seized on his mistake.

"Don't you dare talk about my father Brandon. My father is dead and I often think it is because of you."

She glared at him.

"You know the dumbest thing Brandon. The day before Dad died he was lobbying to get you out of prison early. My father tried to make good everything you made bad. It was his obsession to fix things, for us, for _you_ , that killed him."

Her words stung but Brandon could not consider them now.

"You shouldn't let him hit you," he said.

"Now that's interesting given your background."

Anna was wounded but she could still cut and hurt.

"What about Matilda? She deserves..."

"Don't bring Matilda into this Brandon! Were you thinking about her when you went to the Cross!"

"Yes. And I haven't stopped thinking about her."

They were shouting but in time they fell silent, wondering where the desire to hurt each other had come from.

"You should go," Anna said, tears pressing at her eyes.

Brandon wanted to hold her. To protect her.

"Leave Brandon!" she yelled, "get out!"

The words propelled him out the door and down the steps. Anna slammed the door and slid to the floor. For the first time in a long time, she cried.

*

George lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. The light globe seemed to swirl, being blown about by a non-existent breeze.

This is what dying feels like.

Laying on your living room floor for no apparent reason, it is easy to get philosophical. Just as Brandon was racing the clock, so was George. The doctors deemed the brain tumour inoperable, but refused to put a precise timeframe on things, how do you bookend the unknown, the proverbial: _how long is a piece of string_. And what is time anyway, George thought, other than a tool to catalogue the past.

But George would not lay down. He had things to do. And he had something better than any medicine; he had a dream. A dream involving his little mate, a gold medal, and a time in the Rio hundred metres that turns the sprinting world upside down.

George collected his training kit, a Jenson's juice from the fridge, and got going.

How long is a piece of string?

When it represents your life – you kind of wished you knew.

CHAPTER 54

Rio Olympics: 8 months and counting...

Anna returned to work before the bruises had healed. She did not cover them. The injuries were hers but they were not her. There was a lot about her life that was not her. And leaving Reynolds had been the first step in fixing things.

She tried not to think about Brandon but it was impossible. She regretted their fight. The words had felt good at the time, pure fire and intent, but their after-taste was awful. Brandon had come to care for her and she had driven him away. _His_ table at the cafe had been empty ever since.

One of the waitress' caught Anna glancing outside.

"Don't know what you did to him but I don't think he's coming."

Anna tried to convince herself it did not matter. What did she owe Brandon? They shared a daughter but they had worked through that.

"I reckon he deserves another chance," her colleague said.

Anna busied herself with her shift, and half an hour later was surprised to see _his_ table occupied. But her heart sank; the occupant was a suited businessman.

"Can I help y..."

She stopped short.

"Hey Anna."

Brandon was barely recognisable. He had cut his hair and shaved. He wore a suit and tie.

"Brandon. I'm sor ..."

"What for?" he stood and modeled his suit, "what do you think?"

"Very sharp. You look real..."

"Stupid and uncomfortable," he said, loosening his shirt collar, "but if I can't be smart I might as well look it."

"What's the occasion Brandon?"

"I'm giving a talk at the juvenile detention centre. It's part of the charity they established after your father. Ironic, me talking to teenagers about making good choices."

Anna smiled.

"They'll want to hear from you. And look Brandon, I-" he made to interrupt, "no shut up and listen Brandon. I want to apologise for the other evening. I had no right to say those things. I..."

"What things?" Brandon said.

She gave up. He was always ready to sacrifice his self-esteem for hers.

"Now Anna," he said, "I'm sorry for coming because you're busy and all but I'm real nervous. Reckon you can spare a moment so I can practice my lines. No look, it's stupid, I'm sorry I..."

"Of course," Anna cut in.

Anna sat down and they talked. Not about Reynolds or work, but happy things. About Matilda and her daycare. George and his pig-headed attitude. Brandon's upcoming races. Brandon confessed how nervous he was about his speech, and she listened and encouraged him. When Brandon stood to leave, Anna adjusted his tie and smoothed down his collar.

"You'll be great Brandon. And thank you."

She kissed his cheek and shoved him along.

*

With only months to the Australian Titles, George worked Brandon hard. George was a realist. He could not control Brandon's personal life but he could control him on the track. He reminded Brandon constantly of what was at stake. Gold in Rio. Beating Dent. And 9.49 seconds.

Recognising the motivational force of Matilda, George craftily included the little girl in their training regime. Matilda accompanied them to the Stockton dunes where George sat her in the trailing sled and directed Brandon up the tallest sand dunes he could find.

"If he slows down darling. You tell him to hurry up."

George remained out of the sun, the heat and dizziness were too much for him. He ordered Brandon around with a megaphone instead.

"Faster kid! You runnin' or walkin'! Matilda wants the roller-coaster not the merry-go-round.

Brandon clawed his way up the dunes, while Matilda squealed, holding her floppy hat down with one hand, and hanging on tight with the other.

Brandon took all that George threw at him because one day, the little girl in the sled, would be proud of him.

CHAPTER 55

It was 3 in the morning and raining when Brandon woke. He heard someone knocking at the door and got up to see. Anna stood shivering on the porch, her hair matted around her face, her eyes distant and afraid.

"Anna. What happened?"

Cold and disoriented she could barely speak.

"He came home. He was going to – I – I – ran. I'm sorry. I had nowhere else to go."

Brandon felt the anger surface, volcanic and difficult to control.

"Did he hurt you? Where's Matilda?"

"She's safe. She's with a friend. I owe the taxi driver. I have no money Brandon. I ran without anything."

Brandon got Anna a towel and went to pay the driver. When he returned Anna was sitting shaking on the couch. He started a warm shower. Afterwards Anna found a pair of tracksuit pants and a t-shirt on the bed. She put them on and returned to the living room. Brandon handed her a cup of coffee.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You're staying here tonight," Brandon said.

"No ..."

"Yes. You can have the bed, I'll sleep here."

She looked around, curious how Brandon lived without her. He had cleaned up when she was in the shower; things were tidy enough but not quite in the right place. She saw a framed picture of Matilda and herself on the window sill.

Brandon noticed the way the light from the kitchen lit Anna's face. He had watched her sit like that many times before. Back then he had taken it for granted. Now, just having her inside his house, was a gift.

They talked about trivial things avoiding what really mattered. But Brandon wanted to know.

"What happened?"

She shook her head.

"It's over. I was an idiot. I thought he..."

She broke off but steeled herself.

"I kicked him out but he came around late tonight. Said he wanted to talk. Said he was going to do something stupid. He was drunk. He started on like he always did, confronting me about you. Saying that you knew things about his brother, about how he died. He demanded to know what you had told me. He we going to -," she broke off, and looked away, "I never run from anything Brandon but I ran from that."

Brandon held her hand.

"Why does he think you know about his brother, Brandon?"

Brandon paused. A selfish part of him wanted to tell the truth. But the truth would only implicate Anna.

"We had some run-ins, Adam, his brother, and I. Back when I was getting into trouble. His brother died around then. Adam associates me with that time."

Anna rested her chin contemplatively on her coffee cup.

"How did life get so complicated Brandon? I didn't ask for any of this."

Brandon realised just how deeply he had failed her. All of this was the result of his poor decisions.

"You're safe here Anna," he said.

Anna looked around the room and saw the irony of things. Brandon had always been the one unable to get himself right, but he had managed. And now her life was a mess.

"You've done well Brandon," she said, "to bounce back like you have."

"When you've lost everything, you can't get much lower" he said.

Brandon watched her in the half light. He would do anything to have her back, but the thought was ridiculous. She had come here, not to be with him, but to get away from someone else.

He took both their cups to the kitchen. She watched him from the doorway.

"Thank you Brandon," she said.

"You would do the same for me," he said.

Anna was not sure she would. She had despised him after he went to prison, and had done everything she could to forget him. But he had changed. That time and those emotions seemed so long ago. He was trying to turn his life around. She had no right to judge him.

She stepped into the room. The kitchen was dark, lit by the green and orange glow of the appliances. She found his hands and linked her fingers with his. He looked at her, confused, wanting to believe but afraid to.

What happened next happened quickly. It had to. Because if they thought about it, it would be lost. The touch of their lips was like electricity. In that instant, what had seemed so awkward and impossible, suddenly seemed possible and right.

Brandon lent back against the bench and Anna leant into him. He felt the contours of her back as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her breathing was urgent as his hands played through her hair. Anna felt the strength in his arms and the way his body withstood hers.

Brandon felt compelled to check.

"Are you sure?"

She pulled his face toward hers.

"Don't ask questions," she said.

Wrapped in each other they stumbled to the bedroom.

*

Anna did not so much move in, she just never moved out.

It had taken a moment of fear to lead Anna back, for her heart to override her conscience. Brandon had made mistakes, everyone does, but he was making an effort to change. Being with him came with risk, but with him she could picture a life. He made her laugh. He made her feel safe. And in this world that is pretty good.

Matilda, like any three-year-old, barely noticed the change. They set her up in Brandon's spare room; _Dora the Explorer_ on the walls and soft toys on the dresser. Brandon doted on Matilda profusely. Her company was fun and infectious. And in this way, the little girl that looked so much like her mother and behaved so erratically like her father, with the stubborn streak of both of them, became the glue that bound them.

Brandon adjusted his routine around his family. He dropped Matilda off at pre-school and picked her up when Anna was at university. Matilda accompanied him to the gym where she sat, propped up on a stool, helping Lyno with his paper work. She was a smart child. She had her father wrapped around one finger which left nine others for anyone helpless enough to be captured by her three-year-old charms. When Matilda was not at the gym she joined Anna at the cafe, where she put on an apron and followed Anna around taking orders from customers. She became known as Violets' doll; cute as anything but sharp as nails.

Life was good and Anna and Brandon wondered how they had ever lost things.

But the past is never far away.

Reynolds came for Anna at the cafe. Anna played the restraining order card. It was a hollow threat. He was a police officer. He could make her complaints disappear. But he took the rebuke and kept his distance. There would be other times, and Reynolds would choose his moment.

*

George was pleased to see Brandon back with Anna. He hoped they would make it work. But George's focus was the track and the stop-watch. Whenever Brandon got ahead of himself George reminded him that the dream of Olympic gold was just that. He might be king in Australia but Dent was king of the world.

Brandon took out a Sydney Metro invitational race and a NSW regional event. George was pleased but wanted more. He plied Brandon with more weights, more kilometres, and endless repetitions of his start, until he was getting away like seamless magic. Two months on Brandon took out the Perth invitational, the second of George's big three, in a time of 9.71. And in the crazy aftermath of photos and interviews Brandon remembered his good mate, the _King of Bling_ , on the other side of the world.

"Dent. We missed each other in London. But I'm coming for you in Rio."

George allowed Brandon his moment but was already thinking ahead. The Australian Titles, the Olympic team qualifying event, was only months away. It was there that the dream would start or end.

CHAPTER 56

Reynolds was waiting on the porch steps when they returned home one evening. Clearly drunk, Reynolds stood and clumsily smoothed out his police uniform. Brandon got out of the car but Anna gripped his arm.

"No. Please Brandon."

Brandon ignored her and met Reynolds halfway across the lawn. Reynolds' eyes were red and fidgety.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nice place you got criminal. Sure you're not gonna dismantle it and burn it, ain't that what you people do?"

"Go home."

"I'm not going anywhere criminal. I came for something," Reynolds glanced at Anna, "so this is it Anna. You leave me for a criminal?"

Anna stood by the car, Matilda asleep in her arms.

"Go home," she said.

"But we're tight Anna. You and me."

"We have nothing," Anna said.

"Now," Reynolds said laughing, "after all the things I did for you. You go and screw around with this black-fella ex-con."

Brandon felt it then; the anger of the Cross from three years ago. Only the sound of Matilda whimpering reminded him of what he stood to lose.

"Take Matilda inside," Brandon said.

Reynolds watched Anna leave and then faced Brandon, his thumbs tucked under his belt like an old-time gunslinger.

"Tell me Summers how does a coloured criminal afford a house like this?"

"I'm getting sick of your bullshit," Brandon said, "piss off home."

"There ain't nothing for me at home," Reynolds said, "what I want is right here."

"Do you beat up women often?" Brandon said.

Reynolds ignored him and started for the steps, Brandon pulled him back. The punch was quick but Brandon ducked and Reynolds stumbled away. Reynolds swung again, a clumsy punch that flew wide, and Reynolds fell awkwardly. He struggled up on one knee, drawing his gun, fumbling with the safety. His eyes filled with hate and pride.

"No!" Anna shouted from the house.

"Stay inside," Brandon yelled.

"Ah. The tough criminal not so tough anymore."

Reynolds relished his power as he wiped the blood off his lip.

"I should have put you away years ago Summers."

People were out on their lawns watching. A lot of stuff goes down around the _have nots b_ ut an officer waving a gun around was special.

"What are you looking at!" Reynolds yelled.

He laughed as the watchers disappeared inside their houses. He stared at Brandon and tensed the trigger. Brandon stared at the gun unfazed.

_See the things I have seen, experience what I have, and then try and scare me with a gun_.

There was an instant where anything could have happened. But there were people watching. Reynolds might take Brandon down, then what? He goes after everyone on the street? There would be other times. He holstered his gun.

"This isn't over," Reynolds said, "watch your back criminal. Cause people don't believe the word of your type once you've been inside."

Brandon watched Reynolds drive away.

CHAPTER 57

Rio Olympics: 7 months and counting...

Anna implored Brandon not to approach Reynolds. He was her problem and she would fix things. But she was wrong. Reynolds was Brandon's problem.

_Never show fear. Never back down_. And – recent addition to the mantra – _protect your family._

It was surprisingly easy locating the residence of a corrupt police officer. Brandon knew people, who knew people, who talked.

Brandon knocked. Adam's face appeared in the window beside the door; standard procedure for a police officer, or just the corrupt ones?

"Crim boy," Adam said, "what brings you here?"

"You do."

"Come to return what's mine?"

"Do not come near my family again."

Adam raised his eyebrows considering the threat.

"Come in?" Adam opened the door.

"No," Brandon said, "this won't take long."

"Suit yourself. So how does it feel knowing your girlfriend's been with me? But hey it's not really about her is it? I don't reckon you told her anything."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Brandon countered.

"Stop the bullshit Summers! The night my brother got pushed. You were there."

Brandon relived the moment in the bush. The stunted cry and disbelieving eyes of Reynolds' brother as he fell. Then Karim glaring at him considering what came next.

"Nothing to say Summers? Your mates are not as mute as you. Some money, some drink, the threat of arrest, and this is what they tell. My brother meets you in the bush. You don't get what you want so he gets pushed. Then the police, unable to solve it, and worried about any shit rubbing off, dress my brother up as some screwed up suicidal jumper. They spit on my brother's grave. My brother would never jump Summers."

Brandon's features did not falter. If only Reynolds understood Karim's role in things? The truth was under Reynolds nose, but too close for him to see. But what is the truth in a world of corruption and lies? The moral hierarchy was clear to Brandon. The truth was important but family more so. Reynolds did not deserve the truth.

Brandon stepped up close to Reynolds.

"You will stay away from my family."

Reynolds laughed. "Now Summers we both know that's not..."

"Consider this," Brandon countered, "Officer Adam Reynolds, ten years in the force and corrupt to the core. Widespread narcotics side business. I'd always wondered how the stuff got passed around so freely, with so many cops watching. In bed with the Newcastle gutter scum, and hired help and protection for Karim Madoo."

"That's bullshit," Reynolds said.

"Is it?"

Reynolds watched Brandon carefully. His fingers drumming his gun holster.

"I should just take you out now Summers."

"Maybe. But you won't. You come near Anna, I talk. Not directly, 'cause who'd believe the word of an Aboriginal criminal, but I'll plant some seeds to get people looking in the right places. You'll do some time. Not long. But long enough. You see, corrupt police officers are on par with peadophiles and wife beaters in the in-house justice system."

Reynolds stared at him. The truth, or at least the threat of it, was a powerful weapon.

"I'll take that as a yes," Brandon said and left.

*

Getting Brandon a ticket to Rio meant everything to George, but he felt himself slipping away. He was constantly nauseous and his hands shook uncontrollably; symptoms of the inoperable tumour growing inside his brain. He survived on a cocktail of pain killers and pick me-ups.

When Brandon mentioned his sickly appearance George laughed it off.

"You get to my age kid, just breathing's a bloody struggle."

George was deteriorating. Medication might delay things but it would not cure him. He was too proud to fight a battle he knew he would inevitably lose, but he would not burden his young friend with his plight. Instead, George lived his life through Brandon's. And the turn-around in Brandon's life inspired him.

George was the first to congratulate Brandon when Anna fell pregnant again. It was crazy, they were so young and wildly erratic, but they were the closest thing to a family George had. Their excitement was infectious. They reminded George of a time when his outlook had been fun and limitless.

Stability off the track made Brandon unstoppable on it. With two months to the Australian Titles, gold and Dent and _9.49 seconds_ were suddenly something George could taste.

*

The past is unshakeable. Try and shake it and it shakes you.

Sitting down to dinner Anna mentioned her visitor from earlier in the day. Anna was used to random people, journalists, agents, sponsors, chasing her man, so the visit was not unusual.

"What did he say Anna?"

"Not much. Just that he'd been waiting for his Little Brother."

Brandon covered things well. He shrugged dismissively, ate dinner, kissed Anna, put Matilda to bed, and left to go visit George. But once on the road he started south to Sydney, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.

His home and family were sacred and he intended to rid himself of Karim forever.

*

The Cross. Lights, activity, people and pain. Memories of the place were still raw for Brandon. It was dangerous him being there.

The bouncer at the club eased Brandon back. "Easy bro, we're full."

"Tell Karim Brandon Summers is here."

The bouncer was dubious but turned away with his mobile and ear-piece. A moment later he stepped aside.

"Lucky day Bro. Private room Level 2."

People were jammed so tightly inside, that the entire place, people and walls and ceiling, seemed to be moving together. Brandon skirted the dance floor, climbed the spiral staircase, and approached the room in the corner. Bouncers looked him over before letting him in.

Plush sofas and chairs. Stainless steel mirror-backed bar. Wood panel walls muting the music outside. Karim was seated with several half dressed women. Jackson was with him.

"Little Brother. Good ..."

Brandon ignored Jackson and went for Karim. Two minders blocked him.

"You come near my family again I will kill you," Brandon yelled.

Karim's features did not falter; as if the outburst were some misunderstanding.

He simply nodded in Brandon's direction.

"Ladies. Meet Brandon Summers, fastest man in Australia. A genuine celebrity. But he's gotten so big he's forgotten where he came from. Forgotten his family."

"You are not my family," Brandon yelled.

Karim clicked his fingers and the girls left the room.

"Little Brother. Come sit with us, have a drink, let's talk."

"You threaten my family. You come anywhere near them..."

Karim glanced at Jackson.

"Jackson, I'm making allowances for our Little Brother because he's family but I only have so much patience."

Jackson stepped in.

"Relax Brandon. There is plenty to drink and many girls to go around."

Brandon glared at Jackson. He saw the fine clothes and jewellery, the long slicked back hair. He saw a second Karim.

"I am not staying," Brandon said.

"But Little Brother, there's lots to talk about."

"Talk?" Brandon snapped, "come and visit me sometime and we can talk. But don't come wearing all this crap. Come," Brandon sought the right word, "normal."

Brandon stepped closer to Karim. Karim's minders muscled up, but Karim waved them back. Brandon leant near Karim's ear.

"You come anywhere near my family. I will talk. I will tell everything I know."

*

Karim nodded slowly. Then he spoke quietly, so only Brandon could hear.

"Reynolds' brother said exactly the same thing to me before he died. Said he would expose me. He whimpered like a trapped pig before I shoved him off the cliff. Bastard forgot his loyalty. But you know all of this already don't you Little Brother."

Karim glared at Brandon.

"Loyalty. So powerful but so brittle. You must eliminate anything and anyone that threatens it."

Brandon stepped back but the minders hemmed him in. Brandon knew in that moment, surrounded by Karim's men, anything could happen.

"It's good to see you Little Brother. Come anytime," Karim soothed, "and hey, you got a lovely house. The woman, what is she to you, girlfriend? Just beautiful. And the little girl, Matilda, lovely. A wonderful life Little Brother. You keep an eye on it all, I would hate ..."

Brandon rushed at Karim. But the minders were there again, a human brick wall.

"You bastard," Brandon spat, fighting to get around them, "you come near my home I will kill you. I swear I will."

Karim smoothed out the invisible creases in his jacket, as the bouncers shoved Brandon back.

"Come anytime Little Brother. You are always welcome."

The bouncers wrestled Brandon to the door where one of them struck him in the stomach, doubling him over and then kneed him in the face. The two assailants took off their jackets preparing to deliver more but Jackson got between them. The bouncers looked at Karim. Karim nodded and they stepped back.

"It is true, blood is thicker than water," Karim said, "but Little Brother, if you disrespect me again, I won't mess with your face, I will break your legs. See how you run without them."

Jackson helped Brandon out of the room and set him down at the top of the nightclub steps. Jackson was laughing. Crazy drugged out laughter.

"That mouth of yours Little Brother. Bloody crazy. But you should join us. This is the life."

Brandon used his shirt to stop his blood nose.

"What happened to you?" Brandon shouted over the music, "how much of Karim's dirty work are you doing now?"

"It is the life Little Brother," Jackson was genuinely upset Brandon could not see what he saw, "you should ..."

"Bullshit Jackson," Brandon shouted, "this is nothing and it will end badly. I am a father. I have a daughter. You have a niece. You should meet her sometime. This," Brandon waved his arm around the club, "means nothing to me."

Brandon got up, stepped around Jackson, and left.

CHAPTER 58

Sydney Olympic Stadium. The Australian Titles. Night. Lights. Noise.

D-Day. The moment of Truth. Go strong or go home.

The moment had seemed forever so far away but now it had arrived tension drew Brandon taunt like a spring. Nine and a bit seconds to make or break his life.

George had Brandon in the shape of his life; as George put it, _I got you eating metal chunks and shitting hand grenades_. But fear of failure left Brandon uneasy. Win; there was a ticket to the Rio Olympics and a chance to be something. Lose; he would forever be nothing, just the Aboriginal kid that might have run fast. And that, more than anything, frightened him.

Brandon had qualified fastest for the final. He avoided Stables' attempts to put him off in the marshalling area. There was no space for pride and theatrics. A robot, Brandon stepped to the line and settled into his blocks. The crowd fell silent.

Set

Brandon rose. Still and strong. Every muscle primed to get away quick.

The crack of the gun was a shot of adrenalin.

His start was seamless. His early section flawless. His middle pristine. Stables tried to respond, but he was in a different race. With forty to go, Brandon was gone, soaring, floating, sprinting on an invisible flying carpet of hopes and dreams.

The dream had suddenly become a reality.

CHAPTER 59

Dent, the King, was aware of everything that happened in his domain, and his domain included Australia. He stopped mid-workout inside his home gym to watch the Fox Sports replay of Brandon Summers annihilating a clearly sub-par field in the Australian Titles in Sydney, before unleashing some anti-Dent propaganda for the cameras.

Always got lots to say when you can't see me.

"But I see you Summers," Dent muttered, "and I'm going to destroy you."

*

Posting a time fast enough to make the Australian Olympic team was one thing, getting the Olympic ticket Brandon was entitled to, was another. The Australian Olympic hierarchy protected their elite status. It was not open to just anyone. A wayward individual was risky, a wayward indigenous athlete with a criminal record, well, where do you start?

Brandon and George attended a large Sydney boardroom where the two Senior Australian Olympic Committee members were waiting. Dressed in suits designed to intimidate, they shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and requested their visitors to sit.

"We'll stand," George said, "we're not staying long."

George had not been invited but had come anyway.

"As you please," one of the men said, then turned to Brandon, "Mr Summers it is a pleasure to meet you. Your performance in the Australian Titles was remarkable. So too your rise through the ranks."

"Thank you," Brandon said. He felt the men scrutinising him.

"However," the man continued, "the Australian Olympic tradition is one of high performance, integrity and goodwill. Our athletes are public figures Mr Summers. The media reports what we do well and also where we err."

Here we go again.

The second suit stood, choosing his words carefully.

"We felt the need to explore certain matters Mr Summers. You have, how shall we say, a colourful history. Time spent in a correctional facility for violent abuse. Tabloid pictures of you leaving clubs black-eyed in the early hours. Gang related behaviour and criminal activity have no place in our team Mr Summers."

There it was again. The spectre of the past. What was the use of changing? People only see what they want to see.

"Are you saying I'm not clean enough to be on the team?" Brandon demanded.

"Indiscretions and damning headlines impact our image. We are role models Mr Summers. Our Olympic team has zero tolerance for..."

"Look mate, sir, your highness," George cut in, "cut the bullshit. The kid has made mistakes but he's also done a hell of lot of good. I'll personally vouch for his character. And we're not going to sit and listen to a pair of piss-ant suits, who don't know their arse from a bee sting, pass judgement. He's a brilliant athlete and he's a good kid. He's twenty-four and he's been through more than most people confront in a life-time. He's my mate and I'll be stuffed if I'll let anyone talk down to him. So is he on the team? We ain't going to beg."

It was the most words Brandon had heard George string together in one go. Brandon watched George dare the men to challenge him.

"Very well," the CEO said, sliding a folder of papers across the table, "it seems you share quite a bond. We have determined to offer Brandon a spot on the Australian Olympic Team for the Rio Olympic games. Brandon, we wish you every success."

CHAPTER 60

Rio Olympics: 8 weeks and counting...

Once the euphoria of qualification passed George got Brandon busy on the track. What was qualification anyway, other than a letter and a plane ticket. What mattered were the nine and a bit seconds on the track in Rio. But the goal was suddenly real. It consumed Brandon's waking hours and dominated his dreams.

Three months out from Rio, George ramped up their training. There was no cotton wool treatment. Instead he ordered more weights, more kilometres and more refining of Brandon's technique. Come Rio, George would have Brandon at the peak of his powers.

Their last competitive race was the Stawell Gift, Australia's most prestigious prize race. Run over 120 metres in front of an old pavilion on a country oval, competitors were allocated a time handicap. Qualifying fastest, Brandon earned a record eleven metre handicap.

The small complex in regional Victoria was filled to capacity. People came from great distances to see their hero's final outing before Rio. And Brandon obliged by signing autographs, posing for kid's selfies, and spruiking Jenson's Juice like it was holy water. A reporter tried to land a headline.

"Dent says he's in the form of his life. Anything to say about that Brandon?"

Brandon glanced at the reporter.

"Only that I'm gonna dent the Dent."

"Brandon. Brandon. Another question..."

But Brandon was gone, swept away toward the starting line.

*

Brandon settled into his blocks. One of the front markers looked back grimly. Brandon nodded – c _oming to get you_.

George had laid down the law earlier.

"It's practice kid. No injuries."

But the crowd had come to see Brandon race. He would not disappoint.

Set

Brandon rose with the field. Still and strong. He sprang with the gun. The perfect transition from stillness to power. He passed two of the back markers at thirty metres. Took two more at fifty and cruised up to the front runners. He felt free, in control, at ea-

He heard the crack but kept running. Then his foot seemed to fold, as the pain caught up like liquid fire. He stumbled and fell.

Get up. You can't lie down. Not in front of all these people.

Brandon tried to stand but his foot would not support him. The officials were there anxious and unsure what to do.

"Take it easy."

"What is it? Foot, knee, ankle?"

"Someone get the medical staff."

George pushed to the front.

"Stay down kid. Don't move!"

Brandon saw and heard everything as if it were happening to someone else. And beyond the circle of helpless officials he was aware of a profound silence. The crowd was stunned. A doctor arrived and carefully removed Brandon's shoe. His foot billowed up like a balloon and Brandon knew the truth.

His foot was shot and Rio and everything he had dreamed of was gone.

CHAPTER 61

Serious injury is an athlete's worst fear. The body that worked so perfectly only moments before, is ruined in an instant. And all that has been worked for is gone.

George got Brandon in front of the best sports therapist in the country. This man had the power to fix people, which made him the closest thing to god for an injured athlete. The doctor studied Brandon's foot and the x-ray, and announced: _ten weeks._

George was on his feet. "Bullshit. We're racing in Rio in eight."

The Doctor was not offended by the rebuke he had heard it all before. He calmly explained his diagnosis and described the conditioning exercises Brandon could do until he got back on his feet. Brandon hobbled out of the surgery as the doctor was talking.

*

Rio was gone and the realisation left Brandon disillusioned. He had come so far and endured so much for it to end so suddenly. George, however, would not give up. For him, it was the lure of Brandon and Rio and a gold medal that got him out of bed each morning.

Lyno looked up from his desk as they entered the gym.

"Aw hell kid, that's a sight I hoped I'd never see. How's the foot?"

"Screwed."

"Tough. But you got time. You need anything, just ask," Lyno said.

Brandon hobbled deeper into the gym. Familiar faces nodded and muttered encouragement. George took Brandon's crutches and set them in the corner.

"Now kid. You got two hundred and six bones in your body and right now only two of 'em are stuffed. The rest of your bones and muscles are free game. We'll keep you strong while you're off your feet, so when you get 'em back, you'll be super-human. We start on the press."

Brandon did not buy George's talk. He could not challenge Dent and Cole and Halifax on one leg. He reluctantly followed George to the heavy bag but the sight of his bandaged foot destroyed his resolve. The sights and smells of the gym that used to inspire him suddenly depressed him.

"Hit. Circle. Balance," George instructed, "you fighting or loving."

Brandon moved quicker but his foot got caught and he fell into the wall.

"Enough!" Brandon shouted.

"I didn't tell you to stop kid."

"Forget it George!" Brandon yelled, "its bullshit! It's over!"

The gym was suddenly quiet.

"Only if you want it to be kid."

"No George. It's over because I'm a sprinter and I don't got my feet! And you're clinging to a useless dream, 'cause you got nothing else."

Brandon got his crutches and hobbled out of the place.

*

Training and competition are glue for an athlete; take them away and he can just fall apart.

Anna watched Brandon unravel with a sense of dread. She had seen it before and knew where things could end. She tried to convince Brandon there was time to get his foot right. She told him he owed it to Matilda. But Brandon ignored her and settled into a dark place. The pull of the past and the demons that lived there, suddenly felt very comfortable.

George understood the kid's response. Everything Brandon had worked for had been taken from him. He had seen boxers driven to madness in the same circumstances. Ambition and bloody-minded determination are perfect when things are good, but dangerous when things turn bad.

When Brandon stopped coming to training George gave him space. Brandon would return when he was ready. But when rumours circled about Brandon getting around with his old crew, George acted. He had failed Brandon once. He would not fail him again.

*

Anna met George at her front door. Seven months pregnant she looked exhausted. Matilda was crying inside.

"Little one alright?" he asked.

"She's not well," Anna said, "no one's well George. You looking for Brandon?"

"Yeah?"

"I hoped he was with you," she replied.

The dam walls cracked then. She had been alone so long that she needed to talk.

"Why does he do this George? I don't care if he never runs again. The running has never mattered to me. But we've been here before. Last time he ruined everything. I promised I'd never let that happen again."

Anna's words and Matilda's crying focused George's resolve.

"I'll find him. I'll bring him back."

CHAPTER 62

George found Brandon in the front room of the Newcastle City Hotel, drinking with a bunch of criminal misfits. George was not intimidated.

"Time to go kid."

Brandon glanced at him drunkenly.

"Just getting started George."

"Get up kid. We're out."

Brandon shoved George away.

"He don't want you around old man."

George recognised the speaker; a local hard man, tall and strong, built to hurt. George did not care. He would fight an army of them if he had to.

"Shut-up you fat-arsed dickhead," George said, "don't interrupt us again."

The man got off his stool, towering over George.

"I'll give you a chance to apologise old man."

"Alright, second time for the dummies," George said, "sit down you fat-arsed dickhead before I sit you down."

The man took a swing. George avoided the blow and unleashed a razor sharp right – left cross, that even he forgot he possessed, and his opponent went down. A bouncer appeared. He sensed Brandon had a foot in each camp.

"You want to fix this Brandon or do I throw all of you out."

Brandon turned to George.

"Alright George. Outside."

Brandon got his crutches and exited into the deserted rear parking area.

"We got to talk kid."

"We got nothing to talk about George."

Brandon steadied himself against the building drain pipe.

"Is this how you play things kid? We have a hurdle and you chuck it all in?"

"It's over George. Me foot's screwed."

"The doctor gave us time," George countered.

"Bullshit George. How do I sprint without me feet?"

For George it was no longer about sprinting and Olympic gold. It was about stopping his young friend destroying himself.

"Look at yourself," George said, "a drunk idiot hanging around with drunk idiots. I thought you left that behind."

Brandon laughed.

"Now that's something coming from the biggest bum of all. You're an alcoholic gambler George. You take drugs to go to sleep and you take drugs to wake up. Your life is so screwed up George you can't even face it. You don't think I know why you overdosed that time? You don't think I know where all the money I give you goes?"

The words hurt. Because they were the truth. But George would take them if it meant saving his friend.

"You're a waste George. You just hang around. You hang around the gym. You hang around me. You are nothing."

Brandon was an injured warrior. Stripped of his pride he would attack anything. He got his crutches and started inside.

"You want to know something," George said.

Brandon turned around.

"What?"

"I recommend you sit down kid, 'cause this one's gonna hurt."

"Whatever George."

George took a deep breath.

"That drug addicted alcoholic bum you detest so much. He's more like you than you think. He's family Brandon. "

"What are you talking about George?"

"I'm your uncle Brandon."

"Bullshit George. I've got no family."

"It's the truth kid."

The car park suddenly felt very small to Brandon.

"I am your mother's brother kid. She didn't tell you about me, cause, like you, she was ashamed of me. I was an alcoholic waste. Couldn't hold down a job. Couldn't keep any friends. Couldn't keep a wife. I was nothing kid."

Brandon watched George carefully.

"You think you've lost kid. You've broken your foot and now everything's gone. Let me tell you a story about losing."

Brandon did not want to listen, but he could not leave.

"Your mother spent her adult life despising me. I was a disgrace. Wasn't even worthy of seeing me nephews when they were born. And then bang, she's gone in a car crash. The night Donovan told me I cried kid. She might of hated my guts but we were still family. Then there was you and your brother. I stepped up to take care of you. I was family. That's the way it works, right? Wrong. They deemed me unfit. I was so stuffed up they just laughed at me. They let you live with strangers instead."

Brandon shook his head, refusing to believe it.

"Hurts don't it kid?" George said. "Knowing you're related to a bum like me. But do you know what it is like kid, the whole town knowing I should be taking you in, but everyone aware I was an incapable derelict? I watched you in foster care. I see you careen off the rails. I see you get mixed up in crime. I see you makin' choices I reckon I could have changed. I see all of this and know I'm responsible for it."

"I don't believe you," Brandon managed.

George continued undeterred.

"And then one day, a decade later, Donovan, about the only person who ever gave half a shit about me, enrolls you in one of my classes. He knew your mother and how she despised me, but he saw enough in me to give me a chance. Ironic. Me, the biggest drunk no-hoper on the planet, entrusted with trying to turn around juvenile no-hopers. But do you know what I thought when you appeared?"

Brandon stared at him.

"I felt here's my chance to make a difference. That I've been given a chance to right some of the wrongs. Give you some things you never had."

"No. You're talking bullshit George."

"It's the truth kid. And right now I don't care if you never sprint again. But I'll be stuffed if I'll stand by and watch you ruin your life. You got a daughter and a beautiful woman who loves you. They need you. You worked hard to get them back. You got the best part of your life ahead of you. I'll die before I let you ruin it."

George had laid everything out and felt naked in the darkness. For Brandon it was too much. He got his crutches and left.

*

It was one in the morning when Brandon returned home. He had been hoping to find his bed, but Anna met him in the corridor.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

Brandon stepped around her and went to the kitchen. He saw her reflected in the darkness of the kitchen window, holding her pregnant stomach.

"I'm not going to endure this Brandon. You ruined us once, not again. I don't care what happens to me but Matilda deserves better."

Brandon's brain was reeling from alcohol and what George had told him. He did not want to have this conversation.

"Why do you do this Brandon?"

"This," Brandon lifted his bandaged foot, "it's screwed. I can't run. Everything is gone."

Anna shook her head.

"I don't care about your foot Brandon. You were supposed to pick up Matilda from daycare. She was crying and afraid when I got there."

Brandon dimly recalled this responsibility.

"You neglected your own daughter to drink with a bunch of dead head criminals. I won't stay Brandon. I won't let it happen again," Anna was shaking.

"I was so close, and then ... my foot. It's over Anna."

"Life is about more than a track and a stopwatch Brandon. There's..."

"What do you dream of Anna," Brandon cut her off, "what do you aspire to?"

"Being happy Brandon. As inconsequential as that sounds. I don't need a gold medal to prove anything."

"And working a café is happiness? Waiting on people. Doing as you're told."

The argument was meaningless and destructive. But now that it had started neither could back down.

"Better than drinking yourself to oblivion. You're a coward Brandon. The Brandon I used to know was not like that. That Brandon would have..."

"Run riot around town," Brandon shouted, "fighting, shoplifting, vandalising. He would have lived up to his reputation and been the no-hope aboriginal everyone thought he was. You're right, this is about more than sprinting Anna, I was nothing," he said evenly, "and sprinting let me become something."

Brandon left the room. The baby kicked and Anna patted her belly. It hurt to know that she was bringing another child into _this._ She stopped by Matilda's room on her way to bed. Brandon was passed-out on the floor holding his sleeping daughter's hand.

When Anna woke the next morning he was gone.

CHAPTER 63

At five in the morning Lyno's was still dark. Just a circle of light in the far corner and the sounds of an early riser hitting the heavy bag. George put his pack in the storeroom, took a broom and started sweeping the main floor. He had hardly slept and had come seeking comfort in routine. But he stopped when he rounded the centre ring.

Brandon wore a pair of running shorts and a singlet. Sweat glistened on his chest and back as, poised on one leg, he belted the heavy bag. Brandon had been a wreck when George saw him last night. Now he circled the bag like a tiger. George edged closer, unable to help himself.

"Left. Right. Get under his ribs."

Brandon adjusted to the instructions, grunting as he pounded the bag. Then he sent the bag spinning wildly sideways and stumbled back breathless.

"How long you been smackin' that thing for?" George asked.

"Couple of hours."

"Didn't see a car outside?"

"Walked."

George glanced at Brandon's broken foot and the crutches against the wall; it was several kilometres from Brandon's home. George got behind the bag and Brandon started hitting it again.

"Why didn't you tell me George?" Brandon grunted.

"What's it matter kid?"

"It matters George."

Brandon stepped back from the bag.

"I got family George. You're my family George. I never knew it but I had someone who gave a shit about me."

George did not know what to say. Brandon ducked and punched and stalked the bag.

"I want it George," Brandon changed the subject.

George let Brandon talk.

"I was so close George. Dent, Cole, Halifax, I had 'em. I wanted it so bad George, not for me, but so people like Anna, Matilda, you, my family, would be proud of me."

"You got anything else to say kid?" George asked after a silence.

Brandon shook his head.

"You can still get it kid."

Brandon stared at the ceiling. He wanted to believe but was afraid of failing.

"There's not enough time."

"Then why you here kid?"

Brandon shook his head.

"I'll tell you why kid, 'cause you got ticker. If you really want it," George prodded Brandon's chest, "you can get it. I watched you growing up and saw you doing a lot of things but I never saw you quitting. You ain't a quitter kid."

Brandon digested the words.

"Get behind the bag George. I want to hit it some more."

George did as he was told.

Rio Olympics: 6 weeks and counting...

CHAPTER 64

Sydney Tribune: Brandon Summers and That Foot

Not since David Beckham broke the 2nd metatarsal in his right foot before the 2006 Football World Cup has a foot had such focus. The Foot dominates conversations on Australian morning peak hour trains and around office workstations. Families discuss it over dinner. School children present on it for news. Summers' right foot even got a run in parliament with the opposition leader likening it to the government's flawed mining tax – promised so much but failed to deliver – before cordially wishing Brandon a speedy recovery. The foot is trending madly on Twitter. Blogs have been established in its honour. People all over the country hang on any snippet of news.

But behind the hype are two simple questions.

With only six weeks to Rio will Brandon Summers run? And if he does, can he win?

Personally I believe Summers will run. Bloody-minded determination will get him there. Can he win? No. You don't challenge the best sprinters in the world with nil preparation. But the nation will hope and dream. Why? Because Brandon Summers has the power to make people believe. And that people, is a gift.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Realist...

CHAPTER 65

George was a dreamer but also a realist. He knew the first time Brandon would sprint properly would be a few days before the heats in Rio. Dent and Cole would be easing into the final stages of their preparation, getting ready for the cotton wool treatment. But that, George believed, would be their downfall. They would be pampered and nursed to the starting line. Brandon would be hungry and hurting until he stepped on to the track.

George tailored a training regime for Brandon's condition. Free weights and resistance equipment. Heavy bag and speed bags. Laps in Newcastle's Ocean baths to maintain stamina. Video footage of Dent and Cole to keep him hungry. Brandon did all that George asked. And whenever he felt like stopping he thought about Matilda and Anna. Everything he did was for them.

Brandon had spoken with George after _that_ night and George had described the secrets of his past. Brandon learnt about a man who had had his self esteem beaten out of him. Brandon did not judge his parents for what they did to George, he could not fairly assess things from a different time and place. But George had looked out for him when no one else had. He would sprint for George. Dent might annihilate him but he would at least get on the track and see.

Three weeks on the doctor was non-committal. The foot was improving but it was impossible to tell how fast. Four weeks later, however, the doctor was more optimistic as he pointed to the bones on an X-ray.

"Back together," he announced, "magic isn't it."

"So he can run again," George asked.

"Not quite," the doctor said, "I advise against heavy running."

"How long?" George asked.

"Until the foot is fully healed? Six months."

"Six months?" George said, "we're racing in two weeks!"

"And you can," the doctor smiled, "a time-strapped Noah launched his ark minus reinforcing planks. It floated. It worked. You can run Brandon. But with an elevated risk of re-injury."

It was enough. They tested the foot on grass.

"Kid?" George asked after the second lap.

"Feels ordinary George."

It felt like the slightest impact would break it again.

"Bound to. You've been off it so long," George said, "we'll avoid sprinting until it's right."

"There's not enough time George."

Entering the Olympics like this was ridiculous.

"You want to wave a white flag, wave it by yourself," George said, "now get up and keep running."

Brandon did as he was told. But each step confirmed the madness of things.

How do you win the Olympic 100 metres if you can't even sprint?

CHAPTER 66

Rio Olympics: Eight days and counting...

Brandon woke early and left Anna and Matilda sleeping.

It was still dark outside. He tested his foot, better, but still awkward. The limited time to Rio had passed in a blur. He was flying out of Sydney in the evening, and sought comfort in his familiar early morning routine. He stopped briefly at the cemetery and touched each of the names of his family. He promised them he would do his best. Told Christian he'd try and bring home a medal, but not to get his hopes up because his foot was still stuffed. Then he jogged down to the beach. He ran within himself, protecting his injured foot. Running had always been natural and free. But now, so close to the biggest race of his life, it felt awkward and wrong.

The sun crested the horizon as he started along the sand. He pushed harder, felt a twinge, and eased up. Phantom pain _;_ the mind inventing non-existent injury. It had ruined many athletes before Brandon. George had advised some tricks to combat the mind games. But how does a mind game stop a mind game.

Brandon passed a couple of surfers.

"Hey Brandon Summers," they called, "good luck in Rio man. Bring it home."

Some early morning swimmers stopped to let him pass.

"You got it Brandon."

"You can do it Summers."

A pair of garbage collectors clapped him on.

"Good luck son."

"Smash that twit Dent."

Each well wish was a shot of adrenalin. He ran fast. He ran free. For the first time in a long time he ran without fear. A group of kids were waiting at the base of Flagstaff Hill and followed him around to Foreshore Park where he stopped stunned.

A crowd, two hundred, maybe more, had assembled at the base of the slope. A giant banner had been strung between two lamp posts.

Brandon Summers. Going for Gold. Newcastle is behind you!

Cheers and car horns and music as the people had gathered to see off their local hero. He did not deserve this. This town, these people, did not owe him anything. If anything he owed them.

"Brandon – Brandon – Brandon – Brandon!"

The chant intensified like a forest fire. The kids beside him rubbed their arms to keep warm.

"A race," one of them said.

Brandon dropped into a starting crouch. The kids dropped with him.

"Set!"

"Go!"

Brandon gave them a start. Then he wove through the giggling group, before easing up and letting them win. The crowd swamped him. Clapping and cheering and slapping him on the back. A myriad of familiar faces. Former construction site workmates. Customers from Anna's café. Lyno and a bunch of gym regulars. Faces he knew by sight only from his morning runs. The _Haves_ and _Have Nots_ and _Have Somes_ , come to see off their hero. The Aboriginal kid that had come from very little but had the power to cut across social rule, to connect people and help them believe. Newcastle's mayor shook Brandon's hand as he posed for photos and signed posters and t-shirts, and Preston handed out free samples of his new breakfast juice.

Anna, the organiser of it all, stood back from the crowd holding a still sleeping Matilda, proudly watching her man. The boy who had turned her life upside down and inside out, and finally given her someone to believe in.

Part 4

CHAPTER 67

George and Brandon arrived in Rio a week before Brandon's first heat. Flying in over the sunlit Guanabara Bay, Christ the Redeemer statue beckoning with outstretched arms, Brandon was struck by the enormity of things. This was Rio. This was the Olympic Games.

Brandon had been invited to stay in the Olympic Village in Barra Da Tijuca but George had been denied access. They checked into a hotel in the northern districts instead.

Within hours of arriving, George had Brandon on the track for some jet lag cleansing laps. The training track was old and poorly maintained; just as George had hoped. He wanted Brandon out of the spot-light. The local club athletes, mostly kids from the surrounding favela slums, recognised Brandon and made him welcome; an onsite Olympian was a rare novelty. They marveled at his starting power and pestered him for tips. Within hours, Brandon had become _their_ man.

The next morning they went to the gym. Like the track it was old and beneath the standard of most elite athletes. A former paper printing facility it matched Lyno's for the raw scent of sweat and physical activity. George kept Brandon off the heavy weights preferring short sharp reps of the light weights. The aim was to turn the bulk they had created in Brandon's lay-off into quick twitch explosive power.

"There isn't enough time," Brandon said mid-session.

"For what?" George played dumb.

"I'm racing in four days George and I haven't run full tilt for three months!"

George knew Brandon was underprepared. The media knew it, commentators knew it, anyone with half a brain about the sport knew it. You don't challenge the best sprinters in the world with Brandon's preparation. But Brandon was not an ordinary sprinter and George had a plan. Another day of rehabilitation. Another day of building up the kid's hunger. And then set him lose.

"You're gonna peak perfectly kid," George said.

But as George watched his charger favouring his injured foot, he knew the odds were stacked against them.

*

Sports people know better than to read the papers, but they all do. Why not find out what you are thinking from a bunch of journalists that have never met you. Brandon scanned the online version of the Sydney Tribune and the latest from lead sports writer Alistair Pun.

The Ancient Greeks, the creators of the Olympics, had a saying, "τυφλή ελπίδα στο αδύνατη", good luck unravelling that one, but roughly translated it means, "blind hope in the impossible". That people describes Brandon Summers' tilt at Olympic gold. He is a fine sprinter, the best Australia has produced, but, updating the ancient cliché to the present, his chances of winning gold in Rio are Buckley's and None. Zero. Nil. Nada.

He is capable. He has the skill and determination. But he is under-prepared. You don't beat the best sprinters in the world being off your feet for three months. Olympic legacies are fickle. People do not remember how you got there, just what you did there. And Brandon Summers will do very little. He will be annihilated.

Contrast Summers to Charles Dent. No athlete is a sure thing in Olympic competition but Dent is as close to it as anyone in history. He is hot right now. Unbeaten in his last 18 starts and bettering his world mark in his last two. He is the king. Everyone else, including Summers, is making up the numbers.

At risk of a patriotic backlash I say that Brandon Summers is an ill-prepared Olympic minnow and Charles Dent is an unbeatable giant. He...

George snapped the laptop screen shut.

"What is that rubbish?"

"Truth," Brandon said.

"Bullshit is what it is," George countered, "now get yourself ready. Today we sprint."

Brandon's face turned white.

"What?" George said, "you forgotten how?"

*

It was still early morning but the humidity had already settled over things like a damp blanket, as Brandon stood at the top of the training track. He hopped from foot to foot, shaking out his legs and rolling his head on his shoulders. He had been given the freedom to sprint but he remained apprehensive. The next ten seconds would define his future.

Would his foot hold? Would the speed be there?

George had enlisted some of the local kids for simulated competition. They fidgeted in their lanes as they waited for George to give the signal.

Brandon dropped into his blocks.

Stay still. Stay straight. Drive, drive, drive.

George clapped and Brandon sprung.

There was no hang-over. The sensation was instantly familiar. There was no time to consider his foot as he surged past George.

George whistled and showed him the clock.

9.8 even.

"Quick kid. The foot?"

"What foot? Let's do it again George!"

Brandon felt more alive than he had in months. His foot held. His time was sharp. And after a three-month diet of soft weights and swimming, he was supremely hungry.

George felt bad at having stopped the clock several tenths early; the kid trusted him. But it was part of a plan. The mind, George had learnt long ago, was a far more powerful weapon than the body.

Believe you are the fastest and you will be.

But the kid had a lot of work to do as George clapped and started him again.

CHAPTER 68

Rio Olympics. T minus nil... show time...

Joao Havelange Olympic Stadium; the heats of the hundred metres.

The change rooms before an Olympic event are chaotic. Officials pass in and out calling competitors and giving instructions. Athletes pace about. Some pretend to sleep. Some nod to headphone music. Some stare at the walls and ceiling. Each with their own routine to pass the long moments before stepping on to the track.

There was little, half an hour before his first heat, that George could do for Brandon physically. It was all mental now.

"You didn't draw any of the big guns kid," George said, "Dent, Cole, Halifax, they'll come later. But give it everything. You don't want to be chasing this one."

Brandon heard the roar of the stadium crowd above. He felt dangerously out of his depth. Like a gladiator waiting in the corridors beneath the coliseum. He kept rolling his foot around his ankle.

"Foot's fine kid," George said.

An official entered the room and called the competitors to the track.

"Now listen to me kid," George said, holding Brandon's head in his hands, "you busted your butt for this. Make it worth something. You got speed to burn."

"Ok George. Now stop talkin', you're makin' me nervous."

Brandon winked and followed the other sprinters out of the room.

*

Nothing could have prepared Brandon for the moment he stepped on to the track. The noise and lights and colours hit him in a rush. Eighty thousand faces shifting in the stands that seemed to go up and back without end. The energy fuelled him as he screwed his blocks into the track. One, two, three, practice starts. He felt good. But as he glanced down the track, anxiety crept in. His preparation had been poor. His foot was dodgy. The men he was racing were the best in the world.

The stadium announcer introduced Brandon and the camera sent his wink and smile spinning around the globe. The perfect charade. Externally, total control. Internally, a swirling mess of nerves.

The field stepped to the starting line. Spikes clinked in metal blocks. Brandon breathed deeply. The surrounding noise dissolved. The pings of camera flashes became peripheral fire-flies. He focused on the distant white timekeepers.

"Set."

The starter held them and Brandon started to feel for the track.

Crack

Brandon got away slow. Only tenths of seconds slow but when he looked up at thirty metres he saw the work ahead of him. But he did not panic. He maintained his form. He dug in and started to move.

He passed the back markers at halfway and surged through the field at seventy. The leaders tried to hold him but he ran past them and powered to the line.

He glanced at the big screen.

9.90 seconds.

Somehow, against the odds, he was through to the second round of the Olympic hundred metres.

CHAPTER 69

Jackson should have seen it coming. The inevitable underworld power struggle. Jackson had been Karim's right-hand man. The man Karim trusted to look after his interests, with all the perks and trimmings that came with that position. But things had changed.

Nothing had been said but Jackson's sway with Karim had changed. He was no longer invited into strategy discussions. Karim had cozied up with others. Inexplicably, Jackson was back delivering and collecting merchandise, and putting his arse on the line.

Jackson did not know it but it was because of Brandon. Karim could not keep Jackson close when his brother was a walking liability. If Brandon decided to talk and Karim was forced to silence him, could he rely on Jackson. Blood and water; one always thicker than the other.

Jackson felt cheated. He had risked life and limb for Karim. He had been with Karim from the start. He had turned Karim into an underworld kingpin. And this was his reward.

But Jackson had connections. He had sway with people.

He had more sway with people than Karim knew.

CHAPTER 70

Late evening at the training track. The heat of the day remained as the lights of the surrounding hillside favelas seemed to float in the darkness. Convention recommended light training during Olympic competition, but convention was for the conventional. George was rigorously picking apart Brandon's start.

"You got away ordinary kid. Against better competition you're finished."

Brandon crouched, and set, and sprung. His start, like his foot, eroded his confidence. It was something he could never master.

"Now kid. We're fussin' with your start today, so you don't got to worry about it race day. Yeah?"

Brandon settled again but he was distracted by a commotion at the entrance to the track.

"What is he doing here?" George said.

Charles Dent led a group of reporters and cameramen on to the track. Decked out in expensive pants and white silk shirt, Dent looked like a king from some far off land come to check on his poor subjects. George met the advancing army. He had chosen the small track to keep Brandon out of the lime-light.

"Private track people," George said, "you read the signs?"

"George, my man," Dent said, "long time no see."

The champ made a grand display of assessing the place.

"Mind the pot-holes in the track Summers."

"Place suits us fine," George said, shoving the cameras out of his face.

"So George," one of the reporters cut in, "how do you rate Brandon's chances in the quarter-finals?"

"Solid," George said, "now-"

"And his start?"

"Solid. Now you people are trespassing, so you-"

George was drowned out by a barrage of questions. The distraction allowed Dent to corner Brandon alone.

"Summers, how goes it?"

"Good until now."

"Now that ain't the way to greet an old friend?" Dent soothed, "but it's better than the things you've been saying in the media. Anything you want to say to my face."

"Only that I will kick your arse in three days time," Brandon replied.

Dent chuckled. He had come to unsettle Brandon. Let him know who he was messing with.

"You got some backbone my friend. Unfortunately there's only room for one on this stage. I will crush you. Mind your foot yeah. I hear it's still wobbly."

The reporters, tiring of George and realising the real story was behind him, hurried over to Brandon and Dent. The perfect showman, Dent wrapped his arm around Brandon's shoulder and gave the thumbs up.

"Just came to check on my good mate Summers. See how his foot is."

"Are you afraid of him, Mr Dent?"

"I'm not afraid of anyone."

"And you Brandon? Can you beat Charles Dent."

"About time someone did."

Then one of Dent's entourage produced a walking stick, and Dent made a grand show of presenting it to Brandon.

"For the foot. Help you get to the race on time Summers."

Dent led the hysterical media group out of the stadium.

"Dent e musto gusto testa gusta!" One of the local kids called.

Roughly translated: _Dent is a dickhead of the highest order._

*

In his quarter-final Brandon produced what athletic purists described as one of the worst and best sprints in Olympic history.

Despite all George's attention, Brandon missed the start by an eternity. A terminal margin in Olympic competition. But the remainder of his sprint was flawless, as he held his form and nerve, and ran through the field to finish a metre ahead of medal hopefuls Hoff and Pierre.

In an event ordinarily settled by factions of a second, the performance was astonishing. His style was seamless. His form perfect. He seemed to float above the track while the others wrestled with it.

In those magical 9.61 seconds he made the world stop and take notice.

A group of reporters cornered Brandon at the edge of the track.

"Your start Brandon – what happened?"

"Not much. I was asleep."

"Were you worried?" the reporter asked.

"No. Did I look it?"

"And the foot?"

"Good. How's yours?"

Brandon was in his element. High on the adrenalin of success.

"9.61. Were you expecting to go that fast today?"

"Faster," Brandon winked to the camera.

"Will you be watching Charles Dent's quarter-final."

"Not if I can avoid it. But he's the man. He's the king, the number 1 thing, and all that. So-"

Brandon broke off as he spotted George struggling with trackside security, waving his mobile.

"Kid! It's Anna. There's been an accident!"

CHAPTER 71

Brandon found a quiet place inside the stadium.

"Mr Summers. Can you hear me?" Brandon heard a male voice on his mobile.

"Yes."

"My name is Doctor Hird. It is about your girlfriend, Anna. She is in hospital she..."

"What happened? Is she alright? Is the baby alright?"

"Your wife is in our pre-natal emergency ward Mr Summers. She suffered a placental abruption. She was admitted with severe uterine bleeding. She..."

The doctor's description became a stream of meaningless sounds as Brandon slumped back against the wall. Suddenly Australia and everyone who mattered to him seemed very far away.

"Are Anna and the baby alright?"

"Mr Summers I know this must be alarming for you, but if you would let me finish. Anna is in a stable condition. The foetus is under stress but stable. We see no need to induce early. We intend to keep Anna in hospital until the baby is delivered. There is no cause for..."

Brandon sensed the doctor sugar-coating things.

"Look Doctor. Don't shit me. Is this serious?"

"Ok Mr Summers," the Doctor said evenly, "in terms of what could happen in the third trimester, an abruption is serious. But," the doctor added hurriedly, "she is in good hands."

"What is the worse that could happen?"

"I don't encourage hypothesizing Mr Summers. Your wife is receiving professional medical care. And ..."

"I'm coming home."

"Now Mr Summers," the Doctor said quickly, "I understand your current situation. And Anna predicted your response. She demanded that you remain in Rio and finish what you started."

It was the first authentic part of the conversation.

"I want to talk to her."

"She is asleep Mr Summers, but I will request that she call you the moment she wakes. I recommend you get some rest too. I hear you qualified for the semi-finals. Anna and all our staff are behind you."

Brandon hung up and straight away set about finding the quickest way home.

CHAPTER 72

Sydney Tribune: Brandon Summers Takes Olympic 100 Metres by Storm

The early rounds of an Olympic 100 metres rarely produce surprises. The big-names get through and the others don't. So it is in Rio with Dent, Cole, Chen, Pierre, Hoff, Giovanni, and Halifax comfortably into the semi-finals. But with them, surprisingly, Brandon Summers.

Rather than bowing out as most expected, Summers has turned the event on its head. Recovering from a serious foot injury, merely getting on the track was an achievement. As for progressing, well that is just out of order. His quarter-final performance was ominous for those left in the contest. He gave away a full metre at the start but ran through the field crossing the line unchallenged in a time only 2-10ths shy of Dent's world record mark.

A staggering performance against this standard of competition. And what if he gets his start right? Summers is just two sprints away from Olympic legend.

But Dent remains the man to beat. He breezed through his heats suggesting there is more in the champion's tank. Dent knows how to sprint and he knows how to win. Inevitably, in the pressure of Olympic competition, it is the latter that makes the difference.

But for those that love an underdog, Brandon Summers is your man. Because the wayward kid out of Newcastle just might deliver something special. And to spice things up, if Summers does win, I promise to run the length of Martin Place in my underwear.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Sitting on the fence and don't the splinters hurt...

CHAPTER 73

George coughed and steadied himself, avoiding the blood in the bathroom sink. The dizziness was constant now, so too the nausea. His illness was becoming difficult to disguise. But he had to be strong. His young friend needed him.

Brandon was a wreck. Physically he was in Rio, but mentally he was back in Australia. Brandon had packed his things last night and if not for George, would have taken the first flight home. George encouraged him to phone Anna and she had assured him that she was alright. She ordered him to stay and race.

George had Brandon out training earlier in the day but the zip, and spring were gone. George sensed everything they had worked for slipping away.

George left the bathroom and joined Brandon in the living room. He dissected tomorrow's semi-final over dinner. Brandon had qualified fastest. He would be up against Cole, the giant Cuban. Cole would try and mess with him, and Brandon must not get drawn into a ridiculous dick-measuring contest before the race.

"You listening to me kid?"

Brandon shrugged.

"Alright kid," George conceded, "bed."

George would try again in the morning, when some of what he said might stick.

They retired to their rooms. George sat on the couch until late in the night. It was not right. They had worked too hard to let things slip away. He put his ear to the wall and heard a television. He went and knocked on Brandon's door.

"Who is it?"

"French maid kid – who do you think?"

Brandon let George in and then returned to bed and stared at the television.

"We're going to blow it kid."

Brandon was silent for a long time before he spoke.

"I said when I got out of prison George I would always be there for Anna. What is sprinting, when Anna is collapsing and bleeding out in our kitchen and our second child might die."

George realised then his own failing. He had clung to the comfort of training and racing and avoided the emotional truth. He should have been talking about what mattered to Brandon.

"The night I got arrested George. When they led me away. All I could think of was Anna and Matilda. I failed them George. I made a mess of things and I..."

"Stop it kid," George said.

He did not want to go back where Brandon was taking them. He understood the kid's fear. The world had caved in on him so often that he had lost faith in life. He had experienced more tragedy and set-backs in his twenty-four years than most people would in a life-time.

"Look kid. I'm gonna stop tellin' you what you should and shouldn't do. I mean, look at me, a sixty-year-old overweight alcoholic, dishin' out advice. All I'm gonna say is you're a tough kid. A good kid. And I'll back you whatever you do. If your heart says home, then we'll pack tomorrow and go. Bugger the race. But right now, you got to get some sleep so you can think straight. I'm gonna sleep here on the couch. If you wake up and want to talk, then wake me up. If I keep you awake with my snoring, smother me and put me out of my misery."

George turned off the light and the room was quiet.

"George?"

"Yeah kid?"

"Thanks."

*

The waiting media surged as George and Brandon entered the Olympic precinct. A phalanx of microphone spears and flaming camera flashes. George shielded Brandon from the barrage of questions, and led him to the change rooms.

The room was quiet. Pierre and Chen had a corner each, absorbed in their pre-race rituals. Cassius Cole, the man mountain, sat on the opposite bench, his eyes closed, nodding to headphone music. He had stripped to his running shorts and singlet. His body was an interconnected web of muscle. A mighty Cuban statue immortalising strength and victory. Slowly one eye opened and locked on Brandon.

George got in Brandon's line of sight.

"Ignore him. He's a tank. And tanks are slow."

George did not want any mind games.

"Now kid, I've been talkin' nonstop this morning. But you ain't said nothing?"

Brandon shrugged. "Weather's good."

George laughed. "Yeah it is. Now..."

They were interrupted by Brandon' mobile. It was the fastest Brandon had moved in days.

"Anna! Is everything alright?"

"Yes I am fine. I wanted to wish you well."

"It doesn't matter," Brandon said, "as long you're alright."

"Yes it matters," Anna said, "I don't want you worrying about us. We are safe. We're going to watch you on the television. So run Brandon. Not because you need to prove anything. Just run down that silly track faster than anyone else."

The words were a shot of adrenalin. Brandon stood and jumped on the spot.

"What did she say?" George asked.

"That I should run."

"Good advice."

George kept talking while Brandon stretched. He caught Brandon watching Cole and directed his face to his own.

"Forget him. Bloke's a statue – run's like one too. Now kid you got dynamite in your legs and nitro in your chest. Lightning in your heart and thunder in your soul. You've busted your guts to get here."

An official called them to the track.

"You got this kid. Just another race. Start, middle, finish. Same as always."

*

The stadium was a cauldron of sounds and lights. Shifting colours and movement. The only constant was the man giant Cole in the lane next to Brandon.

"I intend to break you."

The Cuban's voice was pure ice. Brandon laughed.

"Laugh now my friend," Cole hissed.

Brandon tried to ignore the nervous regimes of the other sprinters. The chest slapping and necklace kissing. The looking to the sky for divine intervention.

Whatever's up there won't save you.

Brandon was a realist. The race would be run and won on the track, and he knew he was unprepared. If only to have the last two days back and prepare the right way. Everything felt tight and wrong.

"I hear your start is lose, eh Summers?"

Brandon blocked Cole out, and breathed deeply, flooding his body with oxygen as the starter called them to the line.

"Marks."

Cole was shifting beside him; the Cuban so assured in his own start that he could toy with someone else's. Brandon started to fidget.

"Set".

Crack.

Brandon missed the start badly. And when he looked up at thirty metres he was well back. He had been there before though. He held his form and dug, but failed to reclaim any ground. He panicked. He lost his rhythm. In trying to run faster he ran slower. All arms and legs and breathing, and none of it fitting together right. The final moments transpired in slow motion, like the instant before a car crash. Cole crossed first, ahead of a cluster of bodies, and Brandon with a despairing lunge that was never going to cut it.

His time appeared on the stadium screen – the wrong side of ten seconds – an eternity off his best

Out. Gone. Thanks for coming.

The destruction of a dream is instantaneous and tragic. Brandon willed the track to swallow him. The glare of the lights stung like hot spears. He would have given anything to have those ten seconds back. He had failed everyone that had believed in him. Cole got him, Dent would have done the same, he never belonged. And in that moment, surrounded by a hundred thousand people, he felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

CHAPTER 74

Sydney Tribune: A dream shattered or reality restored?

Dress it up with poor preparation and ill-timed injuries, but the reality: Brandon Summers was out-classed by better sprinters. With the most unreliable start in world sprinting he was never going to cut it. Cuba's Cassius Cole flexed his muscle and waltzed into the final leaving Summers Waltzing Matilda his way back to Australia.

The questions will inevitably be asked: Did Summers give himself the best chance of success? Did Summers lose things in the mind or on the track? For me a wayward lifestyle, pig-headed outlook, and unconventional coach, cost him. Talent only gets you so far.

Thanks for the memories Brandon Summers, as fleeting as they were.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Vindicated

CHAPTER 75

It was early morning when the plane landed in Sydney. Brandon switched on his mobile to a myriad of missed calls; journalists seeking the inside story on what went wrong. He slipped his sun glasses on and started the long drive home with George.

Brandon had endured the flight in silence. Fourteen hours of soul searching. A thousand re-runs of a failed ten seconds – _if only I'd done this_ or _that_. But those ten seconds were gone. They were not his. They never were.

George gathered himself to say something when they parted at his home but could not find the right words. He patted his young friend's shoulder and trudged inside.

Brandon went directly to the hospital.

*

Anna's eyes flicked open when Brandon kissed her. She smiled and gripped his hand. She looked tired and drawn.

"I'm sorry Brandon."

"For what?"

"For being in here. If I hadn't...you would have..."

"No," he said, "I lost because I wasn't good enough. But it doesn't matter. Now it is gone, I don't miss it."

Anna did not believe him. He was a sprinter. You take that away from him and what do you have?

"Are you alright Anna? How bad was it?" he asked.

"I am ok now."

But Brandon wanted to know.

"I was bleeding a lot," she said, "I did not want to lose our baby. I was scared Brandon. I wish you were still over there but I am glad you are back."

They lay together listening to the baby's heart through the monitor strapped to Anna's stomach. The steady _whump – whump – whump_ of the baby preparing itself for the world.

"You are going to run again," Anna said. It was a statement not a question.

"What does it matter?"

"You missed out this time but I won't let you give up."

She knew how much the dream meant to her man. Brandon traced his index finger over Anna's pregnant stomach.

"You missed the start," Anna said.

"I always miss the start."

"What happens?"

"I shake. I get wobbly. I lose it," Brandon said matter-of-factly, "the good sprinters stay still."

Anna squeezed his hand.

"You should go see Matilda, then get some sleep. Come back tonight."

Brandon had been away so long he did not want to leave, afraid if he did something bad might happen. She gave him a shove.

"Matilda. Go."

*

Brandon saw Matilda at the daycare centre. Caught up in her four-year-old world Matilda had little concept of him being away; as for him having competed in the Olympic 100 metres, well, there was more profound news about the sand-pit and finger-painting. Brandon listened and smiled and hugged her, then left for home.

*

Brandon became instantly alert when he saw the car parked in front of his house. Jackson got out to greet him.

"Little Brother."

They knocked knuckles. Jackson was impeccably dressed, dark pants, dark jacket, white shirt and gold bling around his neck.

"How did you know I was back?"

"I have eyes everywhere Little Brother."

Same as Karim. Eyes watching eyes watching eyes.

"You got time for a ride Little Bro? Like old times."

Brandon had not seen Jackson in half a year. There was no logic to this visit.

"Watched you on television," Jackson said as he drove, "I'm gonna find the bastards writin' stuff about you and break their hands."

Brandon sensed the small talk was a front to something bigger. Jackson pulled into a deserted car park overlooking an empty football field.

"What are you going to do now Little Brother?"

Brandon shrugged. "Haven't worked it out."

Jackson eyed Brandon carefully.

"I need your help Little Brother."

There. It was out.

"Karim is weak," Jackson continued.

Brandon was instantly alert. Karim had always been King. Now, suddenly, he was weak.

"He's wealthy. He's got it all," Jackson said, "it has made him complacent. He is vulnerable."

Brandon felt a growing nausea.

"I'm taking Karim down."

Brandon felt as if he was going to throw up.

"Karim has spread himself too thin," Jackson said, "he-"

"You don't want to mess with Karim," Brandon cut him off.

Brandon had seen Karim deal with threats like this before.

"I need your help Little Brother," Jackson pressed, "you are the only person I trust. Just this one last time. You always wanted Karim gone. Now is your chance."

"Leave it Jackson," Brandon said, "come home. You can live with us. We don't need all that."

"Impossible. What would I do? I don't got no talent like me Little Brother," Jackson laughed, "and Karim can get at anyone, anywhere. You think he'd just let me walk? But the dumb bastard doesn't know what's coming. Will you help me?"

*

Brandon sat alone inside his house. Jackson had given him an impossible choice. He owed Anna and Matilda to stay out of things. But how do you abandon your brother. They were tight, life and tragedy made it so. A world of two groups: Brandon and Jackson, and then Everyone Else. And Jackson was offering a chance at the impossible; to rid himself of Karim.

Brandon's mobile distracted him. He answered. The caller, surprisingly, was one of Tanner's (his prison protector), mates on the outside.

Tanner wants to talk. Visiting hours are 3 to 5.

Brandon had not seen Tanner since leaving prison and now Tanner wanted to talk. Brandon gave up on sleep and went to visit his old mate.

The prison visitor room was stark white and sparsely furnished. Just a row of tables and chairs, and the hushed tones of prisoners and loved ones talking. Brandon took a seat opposite Tanner. The old man looked the same. Aged but ageless.

"Thought I told you to keep out of this place," Tanner said.

Brandon shrugged.

"You looked good in Rio," Tanner said, "had money on you winning. But tell me, how are Anna and the baby? Heard they had a scare."

Brandon was amazed that Tanner should know all of this.

"They are being looked after."

"So you've got your game plan for Tokyo in 2020."

"Unlikely," Brandon said.

"Now that's dumb. I didn't waste my time training a quitter."

Brandon shrugged and Tanner leant across the table, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Karim knows."

Brandon watched him.

"Now keep your face straight kid. They got cameras everywhere in this place. Your brother's gone for his maker too early. Karim knows and is gonna take your brother out, permanently. You too, if you're dumb enough to get involved."

Brandon was shaking as Tanner talked.

"The walls of this place might be concrete but they leak like a siv," Tanner said.

"Jackson's plan was tight," Brandon said.

"Plans always are."

"So how do I change things," Brandon asked.

"You don't need to be involved."

"He's my brother."

Tanner nodded. Then laughing and smiling, he described how Brandon might save his brother's life. When Tanner finished he pushed his chair back and stood.

"Pleasure seeing you kid. Now don't let me see you in here again."

CHAPTER 76

Brandon was a mess as he drove to the hospital. The excitement of the Olympics was less than twenty hours old but belonged to a different lifetime. He stood now at the edge of an abyss with Jackson dragging him down. There was a time when fear and love meant nothing to him, when he had nothing to lose, but he had Anna and Matilda now. He owed it to them to stay out of things, but...

Never leave your brother.

The mantra remained. Jackson was family and Tanner's plan was workable. Jackson might feel some heat, but at least he would live.

*

Anna was having her blood pressure checked when Brandon returned. She saw Brandon's drawn look.

"Are you alright?"

"Tired," Brandon said, "any movement?"

"No. You are a sprinter Brandon but you've fathered a marathon runner."

She patted the bed beside her.

"I was thinking about your start," she said.

"Irrelevant but tell me."

"Think of this sound." She pointed at the baby monitor.

Brandon heard the steady whump-whump-whump of the baby's heart like a rallying drum.

"What's wrong," Anna asked, "I know there's someth..."

The bedside phone interrupted her. Anna picked it up.

"Hello. No, I'm not giving birth. If I was, do you think I'd be talking to you?"

Brandon hid a smile.

"Yes he is," she said to the caller, "I'll put him on."

She handed Brandon the phone.

"Someone _absolutely must_ talk to you."

Brandon took the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Mr Summers. You don't know me but I'm Alistair Pun. I've ..."

"You're wrong I do know you. But which one is it today, Alistair Pun _the believer_ or Alistair Pun _the cheated_?"

"Yes. Well. Fact and opinion. I'm a journalist Mr Summers, that is what I do. But I've been trying to contact you..."

"I've been avoiding people like you. I've-"

Pun cut in.

"Mr Summers. Clearly you haven't heard. You got another chance."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Olympic 100 metres. Abitova, the Russian, tested positive to a banned substance. He's out of the final. You were next fastest, spot's yours. People are looking everywhere for you."

"This is a radio prank, right?"

"No. It's the truth Mr Summers. Switch on the television."

Brandon turned on the television. The news was playing a rerun of his semi-final with the scrolling banner beneath:

" _Abitova dumped from 100 metres. Brandon Summers into final."_

A muted shouting brought Brandon back to reality. Pun was calling to him through the phone.

"Do you believe me Mr Summers? You're going back to Rio?"

It was all happening too fast.

"I got to think."

He put the phone down and paced the room. The impossible had suddenly become possible. Anna realised he was incapable of ordering his thoughts.

"You get George. You get on a plane. You race. You do what you love Brandon."

"What about you?"

"What? You want to give birth for me?"

She gripped his hand.

"Look Brandon you got a second chance. Don't throw it away. I'm safe. Go and finish what you started."

Brandon stared at the girl he loved.

"But what if I screw up."

"And you would rather not try? Finish what you started Brandon. Run and win. Run Baby run. And when you get wobbly think of this."

Brandon listened to the heart monitor and then kissed Anna and dashed out of the room. Once Anna was certain he had left, she pressed the emergency buzzer.

"My waters just broke," Anna said to the answering nurse, "I think the baby is coming."

*

Brandon knocked on George's door. No answer. He let himself in. The house was quiet, the lights off, dark in evening shadow.

"George. We got a plane to catch!"

George was crouched over his bloodstained bathroom basin. He tried to stand but the room spun around him. He was cold. Disoriented. This was what dying was.

He could hear Brandon inside his house, but he could not let the kid see him like this. George washed away the blood and splashed some water over his face. He met Brandon in the corridor.

"George! You gonna answer me? Had me worried."

"It's a sad day when a man can't have a moment of peace on the throne."

"Whatever George. Now did you hear? Abitova got cut for doping. I'm in the final. Get your stuff, we're flying back to Rio!"

George had been dreading this conversation.

"I ain't going kid."

"What do you mean George?"

"What I said. I can't come with you."

Brandon looked at him like a confused child.

"I don't unders..."

George saw white and had to steady himself against the wall. Brandon guided him to the couch.

"Shit George. You alright?"

"It's nothing kid, just old age."

Brandon saw through George's staged bravado.

"What's wrong George?"

George did not want to lie, it was the quickest way to build a cage for yourself. But Brandon competing in Rio with a clear conscience was an exception.

"Alright," George said, "only because you're a stubborn pain in the arse. When I got hauled off to hospital that time, they found a lump in my brain."

Brandon felt ill.

"Why didn't you tell me George?"

"Why? You suddenly a brain-surgeon?" George snapped.

"Because we tell each other these things. So we can help each other."

"Look kid, it's nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing George."

Don't ask me no more kid. Don't push for the truth.

"It is _nothing_ kid and I got an operation ahead of me to get rid of it," George said.

"I'm going to stay with you George," Brandon said.

George was out of his chair in an instant.

"Hell you are kid. You-" the nausea caught up with him and he fell back down.

"Look at you George. You're not well. We'll get you right together. You'd stay for me."

"Yeah because I'm old and got nothing better to do. If you'd give up winning gold to look after an old bastard like me, you're even dumber than I thought. Now get to Rio and kick Dent's arse."

For Brandon, the thought of competing without George was all wrong.

"I need you with me George."

"Hell you do. You know what to do. You're a natural kid. You got heart," George tapped Brandon's chest, "and no matter what anyone says you deserve to be there. Abitova, or whatever that drug-taking cheat's name is, broke the rules. Go!"

George shoved him away. But before George knew what was happening, Brandon embraced him. In that moment Brandon felt just how frail George had become.

"Get off me kid."

"Thanks George. I'm gonna run and then I'm gonna get back here and get you right. I promise."

"Alright kid."

"Can I call you George?"

"What am I, your girlfriend?" George snapped, "yeah, you can call me. Now go."

*

Tanner's plan was simple, and Brandon moved quickly in actioning it. A string of phone calls and an incriminating text to Police Officer Adam Reynolds. Then he called Jackson.

Sorry brother. But not this time.

Jackson did not protest. He had seen the headlines.

Good luck Little Brother.

Brandon felt awful knowing he had just hung his brother out, but it was the lesser of two evils. Jackson would feel some heat but at least he might live.

Then Brandon picked up Matilda. He could not do it alone. And with his four-year-old bundle of dreams beside him, he flew out to Rio, to finish what he had started.

CHAPTER 77

Brandon arrived in Rio in the afternoon jet-lagged and tired. What little sleep he got on the plane was spiked with nightmares about Jackson and Karim, and just how ridiculous returning to Rio was. He was unprepared. The humiliation of his semi-final defeat still stung. And he missed George.

Brandon settled Matilda in the hotel with a nanny Anna had arranged, and went immediately to the track. Word spread quickly and the local kids crept out of the city cracks and ran laps with their hero. They inspired Brandon with their enthusiasm and amused him with their blunt assessment of his competition. Abitova was a twit for cheating with drugs. Cole was a boring nobody. Halifax a loud mouthed pest. Dent an arrogant princess. And despite what everyone was saying, Brandon could win tomorrow from lane 8.

"Where is Mr George?" one of them asked.

"He is not well," Brandon replied, "he could not fly."

They muttered solemnly. _The grouch_ , as they called George, was important for Brandon.

"Hey Mr Brandon," a kid called, "you run laps all day or you try and sprint? We have a watch."

The kid with the watch jogged to the end of the track and the rest lined up alongside Brandon. The timekeeper raised his hand, did a little Brazilian dance, and then dropped his arm.

Brandon sprung. And in that moment, George's absence, the enormity of tomorrow, the greatness of Charles Dent, ceased to matter. He ran. He floated. He was free.

"Uau Mr Brandon!" the kid with the watch said, "e 9.65 segundos. Incrível."

CHAPTER 78

Brandon sat at the window of his hotel in the middle of the night watching the shifting lights of the city. Sleep was impossible. Each time he closed his eyes he was overrun by visions of tomorrow's race. Dent and Cole would destroy him. They had done it once and they would do it again. He turned on the television. As would have it, Sky Sports was replaying Dent's semi-final.

Dent toyed with the field, the playground bully letting them believe they belonged, before he flexed his muscle and destroyed them. The champ thumped his chest and raised his – _I'm number 1_ – finger, already winding down as he crossed the line in a world record equaling 9.55.

Brandon was mesmerised. Dent was the ultimate athlete at the peak of his powers. A colossus. Brandon could not beat him. Not like this. Not ever.

"I'm the king. Pretenders come and go. But class is timeless.... I am the best. The baddest. The fastest man to ever live..."

Brandon cut off Dent's post-race beat-up.

Brandon stared at his reflection in the window, deconstructing his adversary in his mind, but whichever way he put Dent back together, Dent came out stronger and better. Dent was unbeatable. He had no weakness. He always won. The media was right, the race was Dent's, and everyone else were merely making up the numbers. Brandon should have remained at home and saved himself the embarrassment.

*

Unable to rest Brandon went out for an early morning jog. He passed the early morning street cleaners, newsagent owners, all-night convenience store operators. He tried not to think about the final. But in his mind he saw Dent and Cole and Halifax fighting it out in the middle of the track. He was in Lane 8. No one ever won from Lane 8.

His mobile rang.

"Anna! Is everything alright?"

"Yes I'm fine. And I'm holding your little baby boy."

The world around Brandon dissolved.

"He's the most perfect thing," Anna said, "his eyes are open right now. His lips are so soft. His nose has cute white spots on it. Everything is perfect. He looks like you. I'll put him on."

Brandon heard the sounds of breathing and an awkward little moan. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

"He arrived in time to watch you race," Anna said, "now run baby run."

Brandon could not speak. Anna told him he didn't have to. Just relax and race and hurry home.

Brandon's mind was spinning.

"I just had a baby?" he called to woman setting up flowers by the river.

"Now that's some achievement," the woman replied, in a surprising British accent.

"My girlfriend back in Australia. A boy," Brandon clarified.

The woman gave him a daffodil from her stand.

"For the little one," she said, "hey, aren't you that sprinter?"

Brandon nodded.

"Well good luck love," the woman called after him, "and beat that, what's his name, Bent, yes Bent, he's a right twat."

CHAPTER 79

Sydney Tribune: Summers back from the dead

Such is the unpredictability and mystique of Olympic competition. Brandon Summers, who crashed and burned in his semi-final, has been given a reprieve. Abitova, the Russian who came from no-where only to be exposed as a drug taking cheat, was rightfully scratched, and Summers is back competing in Rio.

He will line up in lonely Lane 8. But many will remember a buffed up Kieren Perkins completing a stunning 1,500 metres upset in the choppy water of Lane 8 at the Atlanta Olympics. While a lonely scene, the outer lanes are not a death knell. And Summers will avoid the super-sized egos and chatter in the middle lanes.

But flying twice around the world in three days is very ordinary preparation. Summers will have a double dose of jet lag as well as the toughest Olympic 100 metre final field in history to contend with. For me, Dent will win. His early heats have been flawless. He is the king. He is the greatest. And inevitably quality and class shine when it matters.

But Summers is back and that gives him a chance.

For the record, I restate my previous commitment to run Martin Place in my underwear if Summers wins.

Alistair Pun (Sporting Tragic) – Desperately wanting to believe but...

CHAPTER 80

Brandon showered before the final with the radio up loud, and shadow boxed the mirror as he dressed. The energy and self-belief were back. Expecting chaos at the stadium, he arranged for Matilda to leave ahead of him. The hotel staff gathered in the foyer to see him off, clapping him out the door where the media scrum rushed forward.

"You're in the final by default. What do you say..."

"Dent's an unbeatable favourite..."

"Is your foot still broke..."

Dodging the cameras Brandon stepped into the waiting car.

CHAPTER 81

The dressing room before an Olympic 100 metre final is an intense melting pot of nerves and adrenalin, spiced with the prattle of foreign dialects as coaches issue final instructions to their chargers. The race is won on the track but can be lost in the moments before.

Brandon sat alone in the corner. He had his headphones on and his eyes closed. Nerves twisted his insides. He missed George's reassuring voice.

Cole was laid out on the opposite bench his arms tucked behind his head as a trainer massaged his legs. The Cuban caught Brandon's eye and nodded knowingly. Halifax was in a corner with his trainer. Chen and Hoff were at the far end, keeping to themselves. Dent was notably absent.

Brandon got his spikes out of his pack.

" _I Luv yu Daddy. Go Daddy."_

Matilda had decorated his shoes last night. Brandon put them on as Dent entered the room. The champ came in fast, walking tall, before he stopped and grimaced.

"Damn morbid in here. Someone die and not tell me?"

Cole sat up; Frankenstein coming to life.

"Sit down Dent."

"Hey. There you are Cole. Didn't see you, half asleep and all. And Halifax, my man. Hoff – guten tag. And Summers hiding over there. I can _seeee_ you."

Brandon turned his back on Dent and continued stretching. The real-life Dent was even more formidable than the one on TV.

Dent laughed and began peeling off his track-suit. Cole lay back down and the room returned to its brooding state. Brandon tried to focus and control his breathing. But his mind was a mess. He left the room with his mobile and made the call he had tried to avoid.

"Kid?"

"It feels all wrong George. I don't know what I'm doing. I shouldn't be here. I'm starting out wide, no one wins from out wide," having started, Brandon could not stop, "Cole's here and Dent. Dent's the champion George. No one beats him. He's-,"

"A bloody show pony," George cut in, "now shut up and listen kid. I'm on the other side of the world but my bullshit meter's going berserk. Dent's fast but you're faster. His big mouth catches the wind and slows him down."

George broke into a fit of coughing.

"You alright George?"

"Never better kid," George managed, "about the only thing making me sick is your bullshit. Let me guess, Cole and Dent are throwing their weight around. Ignore it kid. They're messing with you 'cause they're scared of you."

Brandon paced the corridor with the phone pressed to his ear. Athletes and officials moved around him. George broke into a deep guttural wretch that seemed like it would never end. His voice was a strained whisper when it returned.

"Dent won't like you starting from lane 8. He can't see you out there. He's got Cole on one side and Chen the other. Halifax and Hoff one further out. They'll all mess with each other. And last time I checked the outside lanes ain't no different to the ones in the middle."

George's words began to break-down Brandon's walls of self doubt.

"Now tell me about something else kid."

"Anna had a boy George."

"Whoa! Now that's news kid!" George said.

"I haven't seen him George but I can picture him."

"I reckon he's a deadset beauty kid."

"We named him George," Brandon said, "after you."

There was a long pause. When George spoke next he sounded choked up.

"Now kid, why would you go and do that to the poor child."

"I appreciate everything you've done for me George," Brandon said, "no one never gave me half a chance until you did."

George sounded as if he was struggling to talk.

"Well that's about the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me kid."

"It's the truth George."

Uncomfortable with the emotional twist, George changed the subject.

"You run your own race kid. If you get into trouble, don't panic. You got the speed to finish over the top of anyone."

As George spoke Brandon pictured the stadium in his mind. The red track and distant timekeepers. The camera flashes and flags.

"Fast start, solid middle, strong finish. You know the drill, I reckon I don't got anything else to tell you 'bout racing," George said.

A marshal tapped Brandon on the shoulder and pointed toward the track.

"Showtime George, I got to go. Watch and weep. And have the cards ready when I get home."

*

It is true what they say: you only know what life is in the moments before you die.

Inside his tiny suburban home on the other side of the world, sandwiched between an abandoned service station and an overgrown vacant block, deep within _have-not_ territory, George pulled a blanket up to his chin. Talking to Brandon had sapped his strength. He coughed into his bloodied handkerchief.

On the television he saw Brandon circling the track. Waiting for the start, George got a pen and paper and began writing.

CHAPTER 82

The Olympic 100 metres. Noise and colour. Glitz and glare. A melting-pot of screaming spectators and firefly cameras flashes. The roar of a hundred thousand voices. Posters and flags. A sensory overload directed at the men on the track. Cameramen scurried around like insects, trying to capture the perfect shot. Brandon sent a wink spinning out to a billion global viewers.

The walk brought the sprinters close to the crowd. People held up messages for Dent and Cole and Halifax. A group were draped in the Australian flag.

"We love you Brandon! Go Brandon!"

"Give it to 'em Brandon!"

Then a tiny voice cut through the bedlam.

"Daddy! Go Daddy!"

Brandon stopped and scanned the faces.

"Here Daddy!"

Matilda was perched on her nanny's hip at the base of the stands. Brandon dashed over. He lifted his daughter high into the air. A cameraman captured the moment, sharing it on the stadium screen and around the globe.

"I like my shoes," Brandon said.

"Me too Daddy."

An official ushered Brandon on and he kissed Matilda and continued to the starting area.

*

Each sprinter has their own approach for dealing with pre-start tension. They fidgeted and shook out their arms and legs. Bubka, the Romanian, looked to the sky holding his crucifix necklace. Cole knelt on one knee and said a prayer. Brandon tried to spot Matilda in the crowd, but it was impossible.

Dent approached, speaking without looking at him.

"You're here by default Summers. Off the reserves bench."

"Might not see me out wide Dent. That worry you?" Brandon said.

"Fast action's always in the middle."

Dent strutted away and Cole took his turn.

"We meet again little man," he said, "I have broken you once and I will break you again."

"Good to see you're awake big fella," Brandon replied.

"Joke and laugh but we will see who is laughing soon."

Brandon shook out his legs and rolled his head on his shoulders. He shadow-boxed a passing camera. The perfect show to disguise his internal nerves.

The marshal called the sprinters to the line. Everyone had been right, the outside lane was an awful place to sprint. Brandon was alone on the edge. He tested his blocks. Then he looked down the track. The white jacketed officials seemed very far away. He breathed deeply and looked up at the sky. In the haze of the stadium lights he saw Anna and baby George. And his mother and Father and a five-year-old Christian Summers. And George, fading in and out like a ghost. The visions calmed him.

Brandon waved to the crowd and pointed a cameraman to the words scribbled on his shoes.

" _Summers. Summers. Summers."_

The chant circled the stadium like a forest fire before the field was placed in the hands of the starter.

*

In the early hours back in Australia kids woke to alarms and huddled under blankets in front of televisions. Late night shift workers gathered in communal lunchrooms. Taxi drivers pulled into service stations to watch.

There were cheers of pride as Brandon was introduced. Then a nervous silence as the field settled for the start.

*

Anna watched the tiny television in her hospital room. The normally active ward had fallen silent. The patter of mid-wives was replaced by the buzz of televisions tuned to the footage in Rio.

Little George stirred hungrily. Anna, having already learnt he was an impatient feeder, plucked him from his bassinet, kissed his little face, and shoved his hungry mouth to her breast, never once taking her eye from the television.

"We love you Brandon, you can do it."

*

The inmates of Maitland Correction centre jeered when Dent appeared on the screen. Cole got the same. Then pandemonium as Brandon was introduced. The old-timers proudly described Brandon's _race-days_ in the prison courtyard.

Tanner stood at the back of the room. He could not hear the commentary but did not need too. Dent and Cole looked fit but jaded; like they had already run their race. Halifax looked unsettled. Chen was all ice and Hoff too stiff. Brandon looked sharp and hungry. But Tanner saw the nerves beneath the mask.

Relax son. Take it easy.

CHAPTER 83

Jackson drove to the drop site in silence. How else do you drive to what might be the end of your life? The streets were deserted. Just the odd alien walking in the dark. Immersed in his own private world Jackson did not consider his brother in Rio. His problem was Karim.

Jackson believed he had the numbers but it was difficult to know. It was not politics where the party _Whip_ could poll your support. You run a poll in Jackson's world you get shot before they tally the votes. Jackson understood the consequences of his numbers being out. But he would not submit to Karim.

Jackson's plan was simple. Karim was personally exchanging a significant stash with an opposing group and had enlisted Jackson and several others to be his eyes and ears. Jackson had other plans. He would let Karim complete the exchange and then he would take him down. Tonight Karim would become a memory and Jackson Summers his successor. It would be a powerful message to others; _you want to mess with me – remember Karim – well – yeah – still want to mess with me?_

Jackson stopped a few streets back from the drop. From his elevated position he could look down, unseen, on the abandoned industrial complex where Karim's group had gathered. Jackson slipped a gun inside his jacket and tucked another into the rear waist of his jeans. A knife strapped to his ankle beneath his sock. You go to the dance you bloody well bring your dancing shoes.

Jackson was shaking as he smoothed down his hair. He kissed the tattoo on his arm; if only Christian could see him now. He stepped out and in the same instant was driven face first into the side of the car. An elbow at the back of his neck, a gun at his temple.

"Don't do anything. Don't say anything."

The hands found both guns, missed the knife on the first pat-down but found it on the second. Jackson was freaking. He did not want to die. But, surprisingly, his wrists were handcuffed and he was thrust back into the car.

The man got in beside him. Jackson saw then that his assailant was a police officer.

_What was going on? Had the scene turned hot?_ Then, more practically: _How do I get my arse out of this?_

The officer spoke without looking at him.

"Watch. And then tell me I didn't just save your life."

CHAPTER 84

Brandon set his spikes in the blocks. The sounds and colour of the crowd were gone. His lane became a red corridor. Activity outside of that corridor no longer mattered. Nerves, the fear of failure, and a belief that he was out of his league, threatened to freeze him. He breathed quickly, flooding his body with oxygen. Adrenalin charging his muscles.

"Set".

Brandon rose, holding himself still, leaning forward, ready to spring.

Crack

He burst from the blocks. A perfect, 2-10ths reaction time. He drove hard keeping low, holding his form.

Crack.

Brandon pulled up with the false start, his energy leaking away.

I was away perfectly.

Dent appeared beside him.

"Pressure's on now Summers. Get wobbly, break early, you're out."

The seed planted, Dent strutted away to his lane, as Chen, who had broken early, was disqualified and led, head down, from the track. Four years of work gone in a fraction of a section. The false start had upped the stakes for everyone. Break early now and the years of preparation would be for nothing. Brandon tried to focus but Dent's words took hold. His start was loose. Always had been. He got away fast once, the odds were against another.

"Marks"

Brandon dropped robotically into his blocks.

"Set"

Anxiety took over. Brandon felt for the ground. He closed his eyes.

And there it was.

Whump – whump – whump

The urgent beat of little George's heart.

Whump – whump – whump

"Crack."

Brandon broke cleanly just a fraction late, but a fraction late in a race settled in fractions of fractions. He was in trouble. But he had been there before. He kept calm, arms pumping, legs driving, over the first twenty metres. Then he began to straighten, unfolding, maintaining form and speed. At forty metres he got into stride and the race really began.

Dent and Cole led in the centre lanes. Halifax, for all his pre-race fanfare could not match them and faded. Pierre and Hoff stuck it to each other for third, and Brandon was a half a metre further back. Commentators and spectators forgot about him and focused on the battle in the centre.

But Brandon drew on every muscle, every fibre, every ounce of energy, and began to surge. He ran past Bubka and Halifax, he passed Pierre, edged ahead of Hoff, and closed on Dent and Cole. But the Champion and _Would Be_ Champion, held him, with forty left to run.

*

Anna leant toward the television.

"Run Baby, run!"

Her milk ducts faltered with the excitement and little George started to cry. Anna slipped a finger into his mouth and he sucked contentedly on the strange object.

"You can do it Brandon! Run!"

*

Tucked under his blanket, George stared at the television.

"Hold it together kid. Easy. Don't panic."

His knuckles were white from gripping the chair.

"You got speed to burn!"

*

Seated in the front seat of his car, unable to move his arms, minutes passed as hours for Jackson. The initial shock of not being executed had passed, and he tried to make sense of things. If the officer intended to arrest him, why stick around? If Karim was behind it why was he still alive?

Jackson watched the figures in the industrial complex. They were getting edgy. The opposition was late. Several men were on their mobiles. Jackson's own phone rang and Karim's number flashed on the screen. The call rang out. Half a minute later it rang again

"He desperately wants you," the officer said, "do not answer it."

Suddenly headlights appeared in the rearview mirror and the officer dragged Jackson down below the level of the window. They rose in time to see Reynolds drive past toward the drop zone. Reynolds parked, got out, and approached the group in the industrial complex.

*

Karim watched Reynolds approach. He had enlisted Reynolds, with his dirty hands and tainted soul, to keep the authorities out of things tonight. Ironically, there would be no drop, Karim had secretly called it off. And Jackson Summers would answer to him.

Did Jackson think a decade of empire building would vanish in a day. That the people Jackson trusted did not also serve Karim. Karim had always known this day would come, it was just a matter of when and from whom. But Jackson Summers? After all Karim had done for him and his brother. He had taken them from a life of nothing and introduced them to a world of plenty.

It would be a night of cleansing. Several of Jackson's supporters had already been eliminated. Those that played their hand for Jackson tonight would also die. And Jackson Summers, the ungrateful pig, would die slowly. And Reynolds could witness it all.

"Reynolds. Impeccable timing."

Karim smiled preparing to shake his protector's hand. But Reynolds' hand emerged holding a gun.

*

A life insurance policy. That had been Tanner's parting advice to Brandon when he left prison. Not the standard kind of insurance from CGU or Zurich, rather a simpler version, where there is no question of coverage. Brandon secured his insurance policy through a compelling concealed recording.

Getting the recording had been a risk. But that night in the Cross, confronting Karim, Brandon had been indifferent to risk. If Karim had searched him and found the wires, then none of the rest would have mattered. But Brandon left the meeting beaten and bloodied, with his life insurance policy intact. He kept it in a safe place, waiting for the day.

The day arrived when Jackson revealed his suicidal plan to dethrone Karim. Brandon contacted the police officer Tanner had advised, and told the officer exactly what Tanner said. Then Brandon texted his recording to Reynolds' mobile. The rest was out of Brandon's hands. It was a calculated punt on the most unpredictable of human responses – revenge.

Reynolds had been chasing the truth. Brandon gave it to him.

*

Karim stared at the gun as if in a dream. He knew what it meant. The past catching up with the past catching up with the present. The look in Reynolds' eyes told Karim he knew and that Karim was not walking away from this. Commandment 12, more a proverb adjusted for the modern age; live by the gun – die by the gun.

As George would say, Karim went down swinging. He did not have time to get his own gun so he reached for Reynolds'. A self-solving experiment in relative velocities; hand versus bullet. The first shot knocked Karim back a few paces and he stared at the bloody hole in his shirt front. The second shot sent him to whatever it is that comes next.

Reynolds watched Karim fall – _that is for my Brother_.

*

Jackson watched in awe as Karim collapsed and the place lit up. Reynolds' gun was a magnet for other guns and the place descended into chaos. Jackson's supporters versus Karim's. Or at least they thought so. In the dark who could tell. Reynolds, stranded in the open, got taken out quick, off to meet the brother he sought to avenge. Others fell. Others crawled and hid. Then silence as those left alive wondered what just happened.

"Turn around. Face the window."

The words brought Jackson back to reality. He did as he was told. He knew then it was his turn. He had seen too much. He could think of far better ways to go, but death rarely presents as a smorgasbord of options.

But stunningly Jackson felt the handcuffs spring open. He was too stunned to make a break for it as the officer circled the car and leant in through the open window.

"You got a good brother looking out for you. Now get out of here and consider what could have been."

Jackson, his mind reeling, did just that. He got the car back on the road and started home. As he drove he considered things. Karim gone. Reynolds gone. Countless others that could have talked gone. He had been presented with a unique choice. A new beginning. Or the beginning of more of the same.

Suddenly afraid of the silence he put on the radio and caught the closing commentary of the biggest race on earth.

His Little Brother and guardian angel, tearing up the track on the other side of the world.

*

With thirty left to run, Dent and Cole looked set to fight it out, but things started to happen.

Stamina and strength built from George's unconventional training regime began to pay. As George always said, the race was no longer about who could run fastest but who could run fastest on fading legs. Driven by a profound desire to prove to the world he was something, Brandon began to take some track back from the leaders.

Dent responded. Cole went with him. Brandon followed.

With twenty left to run Brandon pulled past Cole, the Cuban tried to go with him, but fell away. Dent saw the blurred movement out wide where there should have been nothing and dug deeper. But Dent's legs were failing and Brandon closed the gap. Brandon's body screamed for respite. But he would rather die than fail.

And at that moment, unnerved by the threat he could not see, Dent, the greatest sprinter of his time, made the greatest mistake of his career. He turned to see what was happening. It cost him less than a 10th of a second. But in a race settled in less, it was enough. Brandon lunged, chest out, the line a white blur dissecting dreams from despair.

Brandon wound down and collapsed on the track. He glanced at the big screen.

Result pending...

It was too close to call. Dent winked uneasily to the circling cameras as he put the victory celebrations on ice as officials gathered around trackside monitors. Brandon crouched, dizzy, wanting to look but afraid of what he would see. The crowd were a muted buzz of confusion.

Then it was there blinking on the big screen.

"1. Brandon Summers – Australia – 9.49 – WORLD RECORD"

Brandon stared in disbelief.

9.49.

Only when the crowd roared, and the cameras rushed in, did he believe.

*

Anna cried, tears falling on to little George's face.

"He did it," she kept saying over and over, "Daddy did it."

Anna watched Brandon circle the track. That was her man. That was her special friend. And in that moment she thought about her father and wished he could have seen it.

Then Brandon was talking to a reporter. She heard her name, saw him blow a kiss.

*

Tanner stood still amid the pandemonium inside the prison rec room. The result was as he always knew it would be. The kid had merely confirmed his talent.

He left the room and went to bed.

*

Brandon escaped the cluster of cameras and located Matilda in the crowd. She giggled as Brandon lifted her high into the air. Then the nanny handed him a mobile phone.

"It is George."

Brandon shoved the phone to his ear.

"George? We did it!"

"Yeah kid. We did."

Brandon could barely hear George over the noise.

"I couldn't have done it without you George. I wish you were here. It's the greatest. The best."

"Wish I was too kid. I-"

"George," Brandon shouted, "it's real hard to hear."

"It don't matter kid," George's words were barely more than a breath.

"George. I can't hear you but we'll do some celebrating when I get back. This one is for you."

Brandon hung up and was swept away by the swarm of reporters. He circled the track with Matilda on his shoulders and the Australian and Aboriginal flags wrapped around both of them, as the night transcended into the greatest night of his life.

*

George hung up and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He placed the letter he had written in his lap. He felt warm and good. Things did not hurt anymore. His work was complete as he watched the closest thing he ever had to a son, circle the biggest stage on earth, as slowly the vision faded, dissolving into pixels and –

– George's last vision was of a young Brandon Summers swaggering into his boxing class.

George smiled as he entered his endless sleep.

CHAPTER 85

Sydney Tribune: Summers the new King of the track

He won. Congratulations Summers.

For the record I covered the 100 odd metres of Martin Place in my boxer shorts in thirty and a bit seconds.

Alistair Pun (Naked Journalist) – Embarrassed...

EPILOGUE

The air was cold and clean at the cemetery and reminded Brandon of the early mornings when George used to test him on the track. Brandon heard the priest's words. But what were words, they would not bring George back. Brandon stood with Anna. He held baby George and Matilda. A family.

Brandon laid his Rio gold medal and a crumpled piece of paper with 9.49 seconds scrawled on it, on top of the coffin. Preston tossed in one of George's hats, and Lyno a towel from the gym, and they watched as their friend was lowered into the ground. The plot was beside Brandon's parents and brother. George had lived alone, he had done his time, and deserved some company for the long haul.

Afterward, Brandon shared some words and laughs with Lyno and Preston and other members of the gym and employees from the factory where George had worked. For a man who professed to have few friends, George drew quite a crowd to his funeral. They shared uplifting stories and lies about George's life, and knew they would be forever bound to each other because of a selfless unfortunate man, named George.

As Brandon was leaving a familiar face approached. Dressed in jeans and surfie hoodie, Jackson shook Brandon's hand.

"How are you Little Brother?"

"Crappy," Brandon replied.

"You want to drive Little Brother?"

Brandon looked at Jackson then at Anna and little George and Matilda.

"Not today."

Jackson nodded. Then he touched baby George's cheek.

"He looks like you Little Brother."

"Looks like you," Brandon replied.

"Hang in there Little Brother," Jackson said and started away. But he stopped.

"Little Brother?"

Brandon looked up.

"Thanks yeah."

Brandon shrugged.

"It'd be good to see you some time Little Brother," Jackson said, "I'm living local again."

*

Brandon waited until he got home to read the letter.

His initial reaction on learning of George's passing had been shock. Then disbelief and anger that George had refused to tell him the truth about his condition. _No more secrets –_ that had been the deal.

Brandon saw George's surgeon and the doctor had confirmed the tumour in George's brain had been inoperable. The facts did not ease Brandon's sadness but they allowed him to see George better for the man he was.

Brandon's hands were shaking as he unfolded the letter.

First, promise me kid, not to cry over an old senile man like me. Like any old bastard you could say I had it coming. It's just life and death kid. One leads inevitably to the other.

I fought enough fights in my life kid and I didn't have the stomach for another one, and not one I had no chance of winning.

I've done and seen enough. I left the world happy. I wasn't hurting or fretting. I mean the only thing that kept me interested near the end was you. Your sprinting, your ridiculous attitude, and the beautiful family you got. Anna, she's a special one, and Matilda, well her Little Brother won't know what hit him.

I saw you do it kid. I knew you would. Ordinary start but you kept low, you drove, you held it together. You were floating kid, a cut above anyone else. Best bloody sprinter of all time. Best there will ever be.

But hey, that's just sprinting ain't it kid. You taught me more things than that. You taught me what it means to pick yourself up and keep fighting. You taught me what it means to live. I was a better person for having known you kid.

I'll miss you. I'll miss your "I'm king shit" attitude. I'll miss your determination. And I'll miss those times we sat around the table dealing the cards. I tried to hang on so we could have one last game but it wasn't to be.

Give my regards to Anna and Matilda and Little George. And a big "up yours" to Lyno.

And remember kid, you can do anything. And if there is such a thing as eyes after death, I'll be watching you kid.

Brandon slumped back against the wall as tears fell on to the page. He would give anything to have George back. To sit and talk. To have George yell at him and order him around the track. He wondered how he was going to go on.

Then Matilda bounded into the room and Brandon hurriedly wiped his face. He scooped her up and swung her around. She giggled and her blonde hair flew out behind her.

"Race Daddy."

"Yes," he said, "a race."

And Brandon raced his daughter into the brightness outside.

The End

This book is dedicated to track and field athletes all over the world.

Heroes of the past. Heroes of today. Heroes of tomorrow.

Men and women, girls and boys. People that dedicate their lives to that single moment of glory, whatever the stage.

They give us goose bumps. They give us hope. They give us a lesson in life.

For it is not just sport – it is a love story.

And for the record, neither Charles Dent or Brandon Summers is the fastest man alive. That title belongs, currently, to Usain Bolt. I have never met the man, but I see a hero and gentleman of the track.

Also by Max Bolt

The Hunting

Dumped in the Australian outback with no food and no way home and a pack of deranged hunters intent on tracking you down – what do you do?

The Hunting – the thrilling debut novel by Australian writer Max Bolt

When twenty-one-year-old Brisbane drug dealer Stu Matcham crosses paths with Tatani, the king of the Brisbane underworld, his life implodes. Tatani imprisons Stu's girlfriend and dumps Stu and his mates in the outback bush. Tatani gives Stu two weeks to escape and save the girl he loves.

But Tatani won't be letting them out, instead he has assembled a team of professional hunters intent on tracking them down.

Stu must fight for his freedom. It is rocks and spears against knives and guns; deranged evil versus human resolve, as the Australian bush explodes in a fire storm of violence, and Tatani, the hunter, suddenly finds himself the hunted.

And somehow, amid the mayhem, a million dollars worth of Tatani's diamonds have gone missing, and a faceless enemy is challenging Tatani's underworld empire, watching every move he makes, just waiting to take him down.

Set in the bush beyond the reach of the suburban moral code, **The Hunting** explores the human instinct for survival and the madness when faced with losing all you have.

Read **The Hunting** now at Amazon.com (Kindle version), Apple iBooks; Smashwords.com

About Max Bolt

Max Bolt lives in Sydney, Australia. He is the author of the thriller novel **The Hunting** and has been writing all his life. He enjoys stories where people are pushed to the edge. To find out more about Max Bolt and his novels, visit: thehuntingmaxbolt.blogspot.com **.**

