The footage moved back to the peloton, slowly accelerating away from the scene of the crash, leaving Tony bouncing in his seat. ‘He’s not going to get back on a bike, is he? Someone tell me what’s going on!’
My breath left my lungs one more time when the coverage switched back to Colin, swinging his leg over a bike saddle and clicking his helmet back on.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck! The devil fucking take that boy. What is he doing?’
Apparently, this wasn’t over yet. TheTour. That’s what wasn’t over. But as I stared at his image on the screen, his head up, shoulders back in that cocky Colin Gallagher pose he’d developed some time around his 21st birthday, I couldn’t help thinking this meant my time with him wasn’t over either.
‘Bensaïd has handed his bike over to Gallagher. He’s not too far behind the bunch but, with those injuries, I don’t fancy his chances of making the time cut. This is the Tourmalet and he’s still a long way from the finish line, but wow – he’s going to attempt it.’
He looked a little wobbly as he took off, blood smeared down his arm below the hastily applied dressing. As the footage followed his tentative first few metres, I noticed – along with the rest of the world – that his jersey had split down the back. Valerio the dragon was eyeballing the camera, apologising for nothing, daring the world to underestimate him.
And further down, where the rip reached nearly to the top of his thigh, was the number 91.
‘Would you look at that? Gallagher seems to have lost one of his numbers in the crash, but he has a spare,’the commentator said with a chuckle.
‘Is that a tattoo?’ Tony’s voice was high. ‘When did he get that? Farking hell. That boy can’t help making headlines for all the weirdest reasons.’
Whether it was on purpose or not, Tony glanced at me with those words and heat rushed up my chest. I should keep quiet, stare at my shoes, not rock the boat. I was a woman in sports, always having to prove I belonged. But looking at Colin and remembering the day we’d got those tattoos made me unexpectedly stubborn. And proud.
‘He’syourson, Tony,’ I said lightly. ‘What did you expect?’
He regarded me, his expression drawing in. ‘That’s what I’m worried about, child.’
Chapter 35
Colin
The Col du Tourmalet had it in for me. The road was so long and straight, poking its tongue out at me as I slogged it up, throwing in a few switchbacks every now and again to steal my breath and make my muscles burn.
Today, it wasn’t only my muscles. My arm was blowing up, which made me a little wobbly with concern. Angie had taken a look while I cruised alongside the team car, but there wasn’t a lot she could say for certain without an ultrasound or an X-ray. It was up to me to decide how this stage played out.
I’d fucked around for ten stages like a hurt little boy and now the only chance I had to make something of this Tour was to get to the top of this vindictive mountain while I was losing blood.
Lucky I knew something about the motivating properties of spite. I’d explained it at length to the one person who made me want to take my life more seriously. I wondered what she was thinking now.
She was something so bloody special and I had a lot of making up to do. I just had to… get to… the top.
‘Still with us, C?’
Nellie’s words snapped me out of a glazed pause in my thoughts. I was clinging to his wheel, letting him take the friction of the air instead of me. Without him, I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I wasn’t sure I’d make it anyway.
A sting in my side accompanied that thought. My jersey was in shreds, which would be bloody embarrassing later, watching footage of me with half an arse-cheek on show. But, for now, it was just a little extra ventilation from the cool mountain air over my sweat-soaked skin.
The drips onto my handlebars were pink and profuse and my breath was tight. I wasn’t sure what shape I’d be in when the adrenaline faded.
That was when I realised I was also starving. Bloody rookie error, forgetting to keep up my carbohydrate intake. We burned through about 8,000 calories on a day like today – I’d probably need more after the shock of the crash.
Fumbling in the pockets at my lower back, I found skin and loose Lycra – and a stinging graze that made me grit my teeth harder. Not only were my pockets empty, they were no longer pockets.
‘Uh, C?’ Alan’s voice came over the radio. ‘You done something to your heartrate monitor or are these readings accurate?’
My throat was dry.
‘You’re not bonking on us, are ya? Come on, mate. Someone get him a gel!’
Groping for the bidon on my frame, I guzzled some water, waiting for the spots at the edges of my vision to recede. Blinking furiously, I started when someone waved a little sachet of energy gel at me and I snatched it with relief, squeezing it down in one go, even though it was the cat-piss flavour.
‘Thanks,’ I growled, still no idea who’d handed it to me. ‘How much longer?’ I knew every summit around here, every curve and incline, but it was all a blur of green and blue and pain, throbbing through me at unexpected moments.
