Even Stars Die - 1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Shooting stars.

The night sky before morning is silent music. The blackness is deeper and sounds carry farther. The moon settles east over the mountains, and as we climb higher, she grows closer.

The road is endless as it snakes its way into the Outeniqua Mountains in the Western Cape.

I’ve had the holiday of a lifetime.

We’re going home.

We’ve travelled from Cape Town to Knysna, to St Francis bay and George on the east coast.

Dad hasn’t taken a break since George.

He has taken two mugs of brandy and coke.

1018 more kilometres to go before we reach Johannesburg. In half an hour the sun will be up and we’ll be negotiating the summit of the mountain.

I’m 15. I have pimples on my chin. My voice has broken and my fair hair is an overused mop. I skateboard at shopping malls between the cars. I check out the latest movies and sleep over at friends on the weekend. I’m experimenting with different deodorants, searching for the one that is me. I’m getting ready for manhood and my body is shaping itself.

The sky is indigo. The stars hardly move. Dad’s music is not the greatest to listen to on a journey. He likes The Beatles and Elvis; I like Linkin Park and Sting. At least the music’s not loud.

Shooting star.

The turning sky introduces her morning reds and sheets of gold and orange. The peaks of the mountain pierce the heavens, and the first glimmer of snow on a distant peak comes into view. Below us, bubbles of clouds spread across the valley below.

We come to the summit where the road becomes a tight s-bend.

Dad reaches over the seat and searches for his bottle of brandy, which I have given to mom, all this time seated quietly beside him.

In desperation he turns his head to face me.

It’s over in a few seconds.

The pain of screeching metal, the sight of blood spilling and the loudness of bones cracking is forever a part of my soul. I hear a scream but I’m not sure to whom it belongs.

We’re catapulting through the air.

I’m falling out the broken back window.

I’m landing on my back and watching the car as it heads straight into the air. For a moment, a fraction of a second, it hovers in the air above me.

Then falls.

I can’t move.

I’m directly beneath it.

I’m 15. I have pimples on my chin. My voice has just broken and my fair hair …

All that has changed.

My name is Keegan Mansfield and I am a bilateral amputee athlete

This is where I live.

Chapter 1

I make myself ready at the starting block.

Unlike able bodied athletes, I can't feel the block, so I correct my position several times to ensure that it doesn't slip at the push off. It's important to leap into the start as soon as possible. It's equally important to relax before the gun is triggered. I loosen my jaws and shoulders for optimum freedom of movement. My legs are apart, ready to go. Coach watches me. If I lose, he'll have something to say about my starting position. In practice, if my starting position is wrong, he calls me back to start all over again.

I crouch, not too low, lean forward, wait for the gun to go off.

'On your marks, get set...'

Deep breaths.

A sharp crack.

Exhale. Push feet into the blocks. For a split second my upper thigh locks. I see movement ahead of me; some of the athletes have cleared the starting point. I leap forward, not too fast, not too slow.

Four hundred metres.

Head down. My spine is bent until 10 metres into the race. I taste the adrenaline in my mouth, play the Minute Waltz in my head; get the beat going to perfect my stride.

Two hundred metres.

The muscles in my thighs loosen. My head is up, my spine straight. Pelvis pulled in. I feel comfortable and I know I can run faster, fast enough to beat my previous time. My carbon running blades thump the track. The blades look like they'll make you faster, and they're lighter than natural legs, even though they need an external force to work, whereas natural legs generate their own force.

My arms swing, balancing my stride. The veins in my neck and arms and legs swell as my stride becomes faster and faster. I'm tempted to look back, but Coach's voice is loud in my mind, "Don't worry about who's behind or on the side or in front. Just run."

Breathe to the rhythm.

One hundred metres.

I'm a lion, my thighs are strong. The thinking stops. The music stops. My breathing is heavy and the sweat running off my brow washes my face. My vest is wet, sticks to my chest. The crowd roars.

I'm over the line and come to a slow halt on the edge of the track. Coach heads towards me, waving his arms, his mouth is moving and I can't hear what he says above the roar of the crowd. The electronic information board announces my result.

Second place. Geoffrey Marx takes first place - again. Coach heads toward Marx, offers him a congratulatory handshake and tells him they could never have won without him. I'm shattered but can't show it.

On his way back to his office, Coach approaches me. 'What the fuck do you do to yourself? Marx has you eating out of his hand. He's a fraction of a second ahead of you every time,' He checks his stopwatch. 'Your time, 46.35. Marx's time, 46.34.55. Okay, so you beat your last time of 46. 54, but you hesitated at the start. What did I tell you about the sound of the gun? You have to feel that sound through your being, Mansfield. Listen for the B in the bang, not the G. Now get to the change rooms and don't compromise this new time by doing stupid things before Saturday. Eat the right foods and no sex! You hear me, Mansfield?'

No thank you for beating my own time. No congratulations, let's celebrate, no word of encouragement.

His favourite line, always, no sex. Like anyone would be remotely interested in me. I think I'm not normal, well, most of the time I can be square; not a social butterfly. I look always for the deeper meaning in ideas and thoughts. Perhaps that is the reason I have so few friends.

I needed this race. It slipped from my fingers. So near. So near.

 * * *

Jean bounces my way with a smile on her face.

I've known Jean since high school. Her lips are slightly crooked from a stroke she had during her teen years. She considers herself a 'plain Jane'. To me, she's an attractive woman with blonde hair down to her shoulders, blow waved every morning. Her green eyes are always moist, and it seems she's always crying. One day, she'll make a man very happy. She's a petite, small woman, and her nose is turned up slightly, her cheeks always a bloody red.

I admire her courage to deal with students who pass rude comments about me. I ignore them, its Jean who has the problem. They tease; she chases, and in the process is laughed at by everybody. I tell her to stop, she ignores me. I tell her to relax, she tenses up. I've warned her it's not good for the heart.

'You were marvellous'. She bounces across the corridor of the track and wraps her arms around me while the cameras, reporters, and TV crew flutter about, eager to get as much of Marx as possible.

'You reckon. I hesitated at the start. Coach saw it and he's not happy.'

'He's an arse hole and a slave driver. Master over all. No one dare go against him. His attitude sucks.'

'I'm sure he's different at home.'

Her eyes roll up, 'I beg to differ. By the way, Patrick's having a small get together at his place tonight. Interested?'

'A small get together?'

She sighs, rolls her eyes. 'A party.'

Parties, raves, discos and malls. Too many people. I know what goes on in their heads. Poor guy, must be difficult for him to interact, how can he come here if he can't dance? How can he be here if he can't walk? I'd rather stay home and watch movies than get drunk and the following day wish the world would end. Jean knows not to push me into agreeing.

'Nah. Not interested. Plenty to do at home.'

'I heard that.' Flamboyant, loyal friend and wheeler dealer, Patrick, approaches us from the other side of the track. He and I have been friends for two years. 'Too much to do? Here's the deal. I'm going to take you home, you're going to get changed into your best party-on kit, and you're coming with me.' His thick mass of long black hair is in my face, 'otherwise, I'm going to lick your beautiful pecs, and give you a blow job right here. Understand?'

‘Well, firstly, your lips are too thin. Your tongue is too short. You’re slightly squint. You have several crooked fingers, and, oh, what do I see on your hands? Warts. You’re growing warts like a witch. But, even witches have lucky days. Okay, I'll come, but not all night. Rather that, than a blow from you.'

If I knew that from this moment my life would change, everything that follows I would have done sooner.

'Best you do.’ He points a finger at me, ‘I've hired this amazing band, sooo you have to be there.'

Jean stands back and giggles. 'I should have tried the blow job angle long ago.'

My smile's more like a smirk, 'Well it's been tried and tested now, so it won't work next time.'

'Don't you worry, mate,' He says, 'I have more surprises in store for you.' He moves away to the next group of people, waving his hand in the air.

    * * *

The dressing room smells like cheap chemical detergent.

Marx, surrounded by athletes congratulating him on his win, notices me as I walk in. The other athletes retreat. A couple approach me, shake my hand, smile and walk off to their lockers. I approach Marx and extend a hand, which he ignores.

He glares at me with cold blue eyes. Marx, like me, is a bilateral amputee which means that both legs have been removed, and, like me, he'd lost them in a car accident. His face is the size of a rugby ball, with gelled hair, thick and greasy and shaped like a dozen church spires. His deep brown eyes stare, the left eye is slightly squint, eyes that hold emotions without ever having to succumb to them.

This is competition and he sees me as a rival.

'This game has no room for losers.' He says, turning the key in the lock.

'I'll second that!' Crazy Norton de Beer echoes. He's on the gymnastic team. Once upon a time he was just an ordinary guy without a goal. Like so many first year students he wanted to be recognised and worshipped, and then he met Marx who introduced him to the gymnastics coach and, apparently, saw potential in him. Everyone calls him Crazy Norton, and he idolises Marx.

He approaches me and whispers so that no one else can hear, 'when are you going to realise that you're just not wanted around here, footless?' Then leans into Marx's face and whispers in his ear.

They call me names all the time. There is no reaction from me. I turn away and make for my locker. Just as I'm about to open it, Marx's loud voice pierces my ear. I spin around and he's standing right behind me, almost touching me with his naked chest.

"So, nancy boy is going to Patrick's party tonight! Hey everyone, nancy never told us she likes balling.' He pushes me with a finger. I remain rooted to the spot. 'So, do you want to play ball, gay man?' He pronounces each word as though making some great announcement.

He pushes again. I fall onto the hard white tiles and knock my elbow against the locker. I wish Coach would come in, but he doesn't. I stay away from conflict whenever I can, there's enough conflict at home between my mom and dad to last me a lifetime, and try as I might, I can't wish away this scene, pretend it's not happening.

Crazy Norton must have overheard Jean inviting me to Patrick's party, how else would Marx know about it? He bends over me, raises both fists, brings them down hard onto my chest and I cringe in pain. I hear laughing, it's Crazy Norton. I'm expecting to be beaten to a pulp, instead, Marx walks away, rubbing his hands together, mumbling something to the effect that I'm a sissy.

Conrad Smit helps me to my feet, he's on the team. 'Why don't you fight back?'

'Nah. He'll get his due one day.'

He lifts my elbow, examines it. 'Let's fix that elbow, its bleeding.'

In the wash room Con cleans me with a gentle hand, dabbing Dettol soaked cottonwool onto my wounded elbow before applying a plaster. His nick is Con. Everyone calls him that. I offer a polite apology and take some of the blame for the ruckus but he won't hear of it. He'd seen what had happened and it had left him disgusted. He's a soft spoken guy. Voice hardly audible above 5 decibels. His voice is bass deep, and he never forces a conversation, never repeats himself. He shies away from me and heads towards the towels, and my toes stiffen, he's trying to avoid eye contact.

As he turns I reach for his arm. 'Con. Look at me.'

He spins around to face me.

'Thank you.'

He hesitates a fraction of a second and says, They’re all bigots. Don’t take anything they say to heart. All this will pass.'

I laugh. ‘You think. This stops when I graduate. Anyway, you’re right. It doesn’t matter what people think.’

We stare at each other in silence for a few moments. Our eyes searching for a reason. There must be a way to beat this feeling of fear.

I glance away. ‘So, will you be going to Patrick's party?'

He turns to pick up the towel off the rack, and hands it to me, 'I wasn't invited.'

'Do you want to come?'

'I...I...'He stammers.

I wipe my hands dry and hand him the towel. 'It should be good fun. Besides, I owe it to you. You'll be with me.'

He ponders my suggestion with cautious consideration. Glances at me, then at the floor, then back at me and smiles, ‘Should be fun. 'Anyone here to take you home? I could drop you off wherever you want to go. Anyway it gives me a chance to brag about the new gadgets in my car.'

I smile and hug him, ‘that’s kind of you, but I don't want to let Jean down. Maybe tomorrow.'

He turns to pat me on the back like I'm his little brother and winks as he walks through the door and I follow him to his car.

He has a charming manner and a patient, one-leg stride; on the track he’s lightning fast. I feel a connection to him and I'm not sure what it is. If it has anything to do with my mixed feelings and stereotypical image of being gay, then all the better. I don't feel the desire to sleep with him. I would like to nurture our connection and hope it grows into a fruitful friendship, beneficial to both of us.

After all, he was the only one who stepped forward to help me.

His car is underground across the road, near the circular Ponte Building.

At the gate, a place where cars must stop and be written into a book, I turn to him and say, 'Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it'

I extend my hand which he takes and draws me into a warm hug. 'My pleasure. I'll see you at Patrick's place at what time...say seven thirty?'

'Perfect.'