Goldengirl

When you mount the victory rostrum in Moscow, the glory will be yours. Little, if any, will reflect on anyone else.

Round the top bend, feeling the pain. If you didn’t feel pain by now, something would be wrong. Why was she doing this? Not for Dean Hofmann. Not Goldine Serafin. They were finished, dead. For Goldengirl.

To be Goldengirl is to know that wherever you go there is warmth, admiration, affection.

Only the stretch now. Still alone. Concentrate on the tape, Goldengirl. Keep your eyes fixed on it. Let it draw you like a lodestone.

For those few days in Moscow, you will be the focus of more pride, more affection than any individual on this earth.

She didn’t need Doc or Sammy, Pete or Jack Dryden. She was going to get her golds and give some meaning to her life, draw a line underneath and begin to find out who she really was.

The line. Keep watching the line.

She was moving, but she couldn’t feel her limbs. A strange sensation, unlike anything before. Perhaps it had been a mistake destroying those tablets, but wasn’t this one of the setbacks she had been conditioned to overcome?

The way you respond is vital to your success.

Success. Keep moving.

Winning in Moscow is fulfillment. Does that figure?

It figures.

She crossed the line.

A metre behind, Ursula Krüll crossed second.

Goldengirl didn’t know. She had collapsed on the track.

Twenty Two

The crowd stood to watch the stretcher-bearers lift Goldine from where she had fallen. She remained immobile. Cameramen walked with the stretcher, recording each step to the tunnel.

‘That’s a crummy scenario,’ Melody commented. ‘Collapsing on the track. I don’t go for that at all. I guess she already did the lap-of-honour bit, so she had to come up with something new. Maybe she’s right. People could have gotten the idea it was easy winning three golds.’

Dryden was sick with worry. ‘You’re a cynical bitch,’ he rasped at Melody as he started for the exit.

‘Thanks. Where are you going now?’

How could she be so dumb? ‘To the medical unit. See how she is.’

‘I’ll come. Who knows — she may need me. She could have staged this to fit in a facial before she meets the press.’

He pretended not to hear.

Below the stand, the area around the U.S. Team Headquarters had been sealed with mobile crowd-barriers. U.S. officials manned it at three-yard intervals. This was a security exercise worthy of the Russians. Half the international press were ranged around the barrier.

One official was arguing with a girl in a U.S. warm-up suit.

‘Easy, buster,’ said a newsman. ‘You know who this is? Janie Canute. She has just won a bronze medal for your country and mine.’

It cut no ice with the official, but Dryden levered his way through the cameras to Janie’s side. ‘Miss Canute, I’m Jack Dryden, a friend of Goldine’s. Saw you first in Eugene.’

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘I have to get inside that room.’ She tried another official. ‘Listen, I must see the doctors who are looking after Goldine. There’s something they should know. If you won’t let me in, would you take a message, please? It could be important.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart. With this crowd...’

‘What is it?’ asked Dryden. ‘What do you want to tell them?’

Resigned to making no headway with the men on the barrier, she turned to Dryden as second best. ‘Well, a few minutes ago I was in the dressing room untying my spikes when two women in U.S. team blazers came looking for the box containing Goldine’s tracksuit. I pointed out which one, and they picked it up and went through the pockets. One of them said, ‘It’s okay, nothing here,’ and they dropped the warm-up suit and walked off. It was only after they had gone I realised what they were talking about — a couple of tablets Goldine had with her before the race. They must have decided she had eaten them, only she didn’t. She crushed them under her foot. I saw. I figure if the doctors sent two people to check on them, those tablets must be important.’

Before Janie had finished speaking, Dryden had jumped the barrier. Two officials ran to tackle him, but he got to the door. One of the heavies on guard there recognised him.

‘Must see Dr. Dalton,’ said Dryden, and to his relief the man stepped aside.

Inside, a huddle of doctors and officials surrounded Goldine’s inert form. They had tugged up her trackshirt to her armpits and put a stethoscope against her heart.

Dalton glanced up at Dryden. ‘You?’ he said angrily.

Dryden pitched into Janie’s story.