Even Stars Die - 11. Chapter 11

Alex drops me off at the entrance to the sports complex. He'll find a parking and text me his location. I move slowly through the corridors toward Coach's office and I'm walking on air. Alex has made all this possible. I know there will be more possibilities and moments of happiness. I reach his office and there is one other person leaning against the wall in the corridor.

Geoffrey Marx.

No big surprise. I move past him and sit on the bench, trying hard to concentrate on anything else but him.

'Hey, poofter,' he whispers, 'It seems it's only you and me going to Cape Town.'

I have this thing about ignoring people whom I don't particularly like. I make them disappear. They don't exist. Marx is one of them.

'Hey! I'm talking to you! I see your boyfriend is watching us from the end of the corridor.' He turns his head away for a second to check the time.

I whip around to call Alex to join me, but there's no one there.

Marx splutters. 'I...He was there a moment ago. Could have sworn it was him.'

He continues, 'Just so that you know, when we get to Cape Town, stay out of my way. And don't even think of winning. Cape Town's mine. Compromise that, and the entire campus will know that you're a bugger. Got me?'

I can't take much more of this banter. I move off the bench and stand as far away from him as possible.

'de Beer should have put you out of action permanently. You shouldn't even be here.' He digs. There is no stopping his caustic comments. Sweat heat overpowers me as I feel the need to break every bone in his body. But that would make me just like him and I have higher standards, violence is not one of them.

'Your boyfriend looks like a guy who enjoys taking it from behind. Perhaps I should organise a couple of guys to sort him out...'

There's no chance in hell that he is going to complete that sentence.

I feel a surge of power so strong that it takes my soul and blackens it.

Without thinking, I fling myself headlong into his abdomen with the full weight of my body. This sudden power drives me, makes my hunger for revenge even stronger.

He falls.

Grabs my leg.

Pulls me down with him, and, just as I attempt to stand he twists my prostheses and the strapping comes free. I collapse ontop of him and my hands seem to have a life of their own. Clenched fists pound his face. His nose bleeds and his eyes darken with fear.

I have to stop punching, but something is driving me.

The punches fall everywhere; on his head, his chest, his face, sucking the strength from him.

I manage to stand and lunge forward again. Grabbing him by the collar, I lift him off the floor and pin him to the wall, leaving his feet dangling. I know that if I squeeze just a little tighter, he'll be gasping for air.

Suffocate bastard! One part of me says do it, another says he's not worth it.

'If you so much as lift a hand to my friend, I'll kill you.'

Coach opens his office door.

I release Marx. He drops to the floor clutching his throat and points a finger at me.

It comes down to this; two major athletes, both seniors, have distinct problems that Coach has never been aware of. Marx plays the perfect victim by accusing me of using violence and psychological warfare, ensuring myself a place on the team for Greece. I play the perfect antagonist by not saying a word as Coach's words rain down on me.

'Here's the deal,' he says, pointing a finger at us, 'You guys are leaving tomorrow at ten thirty for Cape Town. I would suggest you get your shit together, and behave like sportsmen who have the ability to win. Do you understand?'

Marx weeps. Unable to comprehend the magnitude of his Oscar winning performance, I shake my head, dumbfounded.

'I've tried to make friends with him, Coach, but everytime I approach him he beats up on me. Everytime.'

'I don't give a shit. Tomorrow you guys are going to be best friends, do you hear me. Now both of you go home to prepare. Mansfield, hang ten. I need a word with you.'

Marx sniffs his way to the door, turns and glares at me before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him.

'Is this true? You moer him all the time?'

'How can it be, Coach? I was the one who landed up in the infirmary with bruises and a cracked nose. It's not true coach. He hates me. Calls me names all the time, him and de Beer, that gymnast.'

'Marx did that to you?'

'No. It was de Beer and another guy. I've never seen the guy before. But they're both friends of Marx.'

Coach appears disgusted. He shakes his head in dismay. 'When I opened that door to find Marx hanging from a neck grip, what I saw in your face, and your eyes, I never want to see again. That wasn't you. You were growling and your eyes, it seemed as though they were unseeing. Now, you well know that I have a soft spot for you. Beats me, but I have. The next time you display such behaviour, I'm going to see that you are expelled.'

I understand. I'm grateful. Coach shakes my hand and gestures with a nod of his head that our time is over.

I walk through the corridors aimlessly. Seeing, but not seeing. Breathing, but not breathing.My head spins. I don't know where I'm headed; Alex hasn't contacted me with his location. There's a light up ahead and I'm moving into its void. The stadium. Sunlight screaming at me. Rows and rows of seats, like dominoes, waiting to fall.

The track is being prepared for the intervarsity athletics event the following Wednesday. It needs to be as perfect as possible; the lanes marked out white, various distances measured for precision, and all obstructions removed. I sit in the fourth row of the stadium, alone with my thoughts. Things are looking bad for me and I don't know if I'll be up for Greece. Marx. I fear I may never outrun him. He wallows in his success. If only his fans knew what a prick he is. Yes, I'm angry. It's the way he treats me. If he had a better attitude, if he was a people person, then he'd be deserving of his star status, but he's not any one of those things. His overwhelming homophobia is probably a front for some higher concealed evil.

Or maybe he's gay and refuses to confront it like I've done for so many years. Or maybe a gay person raped him as a young child, could he be a paedophile victim? Could he be a paedophile? Stop! Stop thinking the worst. The plain truth is that Marx is who he is and his engine will need a great deal of repairwork if he is to change. That is, if any one is prepared to take on that task of helping him change.

I'm so deep in thought that I don't hear the footsteps approaching, only at the last moment, catching a glimmer of activity from the corner of my eye, do I realize that someone is standing to the side of me. I gasp when I see who it is.

He's standing with hands in his pockets, and he's staring down at me. A blonde haired guy with small, beady blue eyes and face resembling the rat that he really is. It's Norton de beer, and his eyes are swollen and bruised blue. His bottom lip is cut and scabbed, and his left index finger is wrapped in plaster.

He smiles at me. The moment I see him I search my immediate surroundings for any sign of Marx. I leap from my chair, like a wolf ready to defend his lair.

'What do you want?' My heart is beating fast and my hands shake.

'Please, I...I...just want to talk...'

'Talk? What makes you think I have anything to say to you? Where's Marx?'

He steps closer and I take two steps back. He senses my fear. 'Please...there are things that must be said, and I know you've been treated badly but these things need to be told.'

'What things?' My voice is sharp.

'May I sit here?' He doesn't wait for me to answer, besides, he doesn't need my permission to sit. I slowly relax and take a position two seats away. 'If Marx finds out that I've spoken to you, he'll have my balls. He must never find out.'

'What's so important that needs to be told, and why me?'

'Marx wants to tell the team and the coach that you are gay. He believes he's the star and that if you are not expelled from the team, he's going to walk out.' He pauses, measuring my reaction to his words, visibly, there is no reaction, but inside I'm burning up, my mind wondering between family, friends and athletic career. He realizes I'm not going to react so he continues.

'There's something else you need to know. Marx isn't the star everyone thinks he is. He wins every race, he's aggressive, he's moody. There are things he does to people other than you. Magtig, I have seen him smack women, and cause fights in bars. He wins because...because he's on steroids...'

My mind is very focused on what de Beer tells me.

'I want you to understand that if he finds out what I have told you, I'm finished. He'll moer me like he did yesterday, he may even kill me. Promise me you will never tell him, asseblief.'

'Why are you telling me all of this? I mean one day you're a moron and the next day you're my saviour. What's going on?'

'Asseblief - don't ask me that. I beg of you, don't ask.'

'Well, what do you expect me to say? Petitions. Steroids. There must be something that has made you come forward. Or is this a trap? I want to know what it is. Why did he moer you?'

'Set a trap for you? Is that what you think this is? Nee, my vriend. It's not a trap. I guess it's my fault that he's my friend, there are so many people out there whom I could befriend, but no, I chose the worst guy on campus.'

I'm surprised and a little dazed at this confession. There's more to this than meets the eye, and if I give in to this moron, Marx is going to leap out from behind a seat to humiliate me even more for believing him. What he says next hits me with the force of a twenty ton truck, and to tell the truth, I've never been hit by a truck before so this feeling is a first.

'I'm not going to apologise for my actions because that will seem as though I'm begging for your forgiveness. I want to atone for what I've done, and the only way I can do that is by being truthful. My hemel - here goes. Marx found out yesterday and he moered me. He used to think that I'm this hell of a macho gymnast.' His voice breaks and through the sobbing he explains. 'I hate...the way he...he treats you. I hate waking up every morning knowing that he's going to mock or moer you, or worse, get me to do it for him. At times I wished I was taking those punches instead of you. Truth is, I never wanted it to be this way. He thinks I have scores of girlfriends waiting in line to date me. It's all a pretence. The girls, the sex, the macho man talk about how we want to fuck every chick we see. Fact is...fact is...I'm gay. There, I've said it. At night, when I'm alone, it's ... it's just terrible...alone and cold and the pain stings my heart because i know there is someone out there that needs me, needs my love. One love only I can give without the burden of hurt, of betrayal. Of iced up nights. Its when I'm alone, or at the gym that I learn to deal with things. ' His tears wash his face and fall to the concrete floor.

Everything he said before the steroids was suspect. I felt he was telling me all these things as a plot to get me to react, because everything was about me; that they were planning to have me expelled from the team. The gay story tells me he has come forward out of his own volition, and suddenly I have a new respect for him.

I can't bare to see him cry and I lean over and pull him to me in a warm embrace. His body tightens against mine and he leans his head into my chest.

'Fok! Fok! Ek is so jammer. I'm so sorry I caused you all this trouble. Fok!'

I lift his chin to face me. 'Listen, it's not the end of the world. In fact, you might be surprised that its just the beginning. Thanks for being honest. I never thought I'd see the day when I would respect you. It must have been hard to tell me, but I'm glad you did.'

'Hey, I'm sorry man, for everything.'

'Just...just forget it. Thing is, I'm sitting with a problem and I need your help. Coach needs to know what's going on. Marx's entire career has been a lie. Coach needs to know. Will you help me?'

I have no idea what has come over me. First the fight with Marx where he pretended to be the victim, and now this. I'm on the receiving end of a triple barreled shotgun, and the more I hear, the sicker I become. De Beer in the closet. Marx on steroids. Mansfield flabbergasted. Thoughts and vision swimming in a thick soup. Body hurting from the fight. De Beer takes my hand, beckons me to follow.

'Where are we going?'

'Trust me. I know he keeps the steroids in his locker.'

He digs into his pocket, and, with a smile of victory, reveals the locker keys.

I stay one step behind him as he leads me towards the change room. The door is shut, but not locked, and makes a light echo on opening. The change room is empty, and without second thought, he approaches Marx's locker, glee riven onto his face.

With a quick twist of his wrists, the locker swings open.

And Marx appears at the door leading to the showers.

Blood rushes to his face. He storms at de Beer, clenching his fists. One fight, and he's ready for more. Leaping into the air, he lands just short of his mark but manages to knock de Beer onto the floor. Being a gymnast, de Beer manages to leap up instantly. Marx, gasping for air, lunges forward, hitting him on the nose with his head, again and again until he falls, semi unconscious onto the white tiles. There is murder in his eyes as he moves towards me.

There is nowhere to run, except out and, as I get to the door, I stop dead in my tracks.

Alex's head protrudes beyond the door, I see it through the top glass section.

His eyes are open, deadpan, concentrating on something behind me.

They're darker than ever before, turning black.

He shuts them.

Marx is in reaching distance of me, and suddenly he is flying through the air backwards, landing against the wall beside the shower door. He struggles to stand, heads towards his locker, and finds himself spinning on his two feet like a spinning top. He spins so fast, I can feel the wind where I am crouched at the door. His feet lift off the floor and his body moves towards a window, slowly turning into the horizontal position, then drawn backwards like the nape of an arrow, ready to be catapulted through the window.

'Stop!' I leap towards the door, fling it open, and repeat myself.

Alex opens his eyes and winks at me. 'Best you get those steroids while I have this power. I'm becoming weaker and won't hold out too long.'

    * * *

Coach is locking his office door when I approach him. It's lunch time, and you'll always find Coach in the canteen. He notes the urgency in my voice and follows me to the change room where Alex and de Beer have kept a close watch over Marx. A towel is draped over him, but nothing in this world can make a decent person out of him, not even decency itself.

'What's going on, here?'

I step forward, 'I've always wondered why it is that Marx always has the upper hand at winning. I dismissed it as just my mind talking shit to me. We found steroids in his locker, Coach.'

Alex opens his hand and reveals the package, injection apparatus as well.

'He's lying, Coach. I'm straight. Straighter than this fucking queer.'

Coach points a finger at him, 'You watch your mouth, young man. So, where did you get this, Marx?'

'I didn't. Someone planted it there, Sir. I promise. It was Mansfield, sir. He told me he's gay the other day and likes me very much. This is his revenge for turning him down.'

'Is this true, Mansfield. You're gay?'

I hung my head in shame. 'Yes, I am.'

'Is it true that you tried to force yourself onto Marx?

'No! Sir, it's not true.'

'Okay, one way to settle this. No Cape Town for you Marx . Let's get you to the infirmary.'

'You can't force me to go there.'

'Ahh, but you see, if you want to play on my team, you play clean. If you're speaking the truth, we say sorry, no one is hurt, and get you to Cape Town before Saturday. Until then, there's nothing I can do.'

'Oh, and what about this poofter? Leave him on the team to be their bugger.'

'You have a problem with homosexuality, son. My own son is gay. I accept him wholeheartedly and love him more than I love myself. I don't see that being gay is a threat to the effort of the team. You know what the proudest moment of my life was? When my son stood up and told me. He had the courage, the heart, and the honesty to tell me, even though he feared what I would do. Since then, I have come to know him, love him, and respect him. You think that because you're an athlete, and a macho testosterone driven jock and you think everyone on campus likes you, that you know what courage is? Think again. My son, and Mansfield here, is more of a man than you will ever be, or hope to be. You and I, we know nothing of their courage. As my son says, you need to be more of a man to love another man. So try a little respect, Marx, otherwise you'll die alone.' He glances at de Beer, Alex and me, 'get him down to the infirmary. You too, de Beer. Your face looks like shit.'