Chapter Text
Crowley hated gyms. They reminded him of secondary school, where dressing out was always a prelude to being bashed on the playing field (once, in a post-race newsclip that had flown around the Internet for five seconds or so, he’d said that was when he learned to run fast). They all smelled like a barrel-aged jockstrap and, as if it weren’t bad enough to be in the presence of dozens of people you’d prefer not to meet, were lined with mirrors that reflected them all back at you. In his abortive career at Uni, he’d taken one literature class, The Existentialists, because it sounded cool, and he remembered exactly one line from one play: “Hell is other people.” That guy had it on the nosey.
Crowley made room in his life for a few people. Anathema, his clients, the guy who serviced his bicycle (he refused to leave it at Big Avocado unless he was sure only Eric would put a hand on it). Transactional relationships. They would pay him, or he would pay them, depending, and they’d have a cordial interaction that didn’t meander anywhere and didn’t create expectations.
In the world he’d somehow stumbled out of, he’d have gotten up this morning – Tuesdays were currently his ten-mile day – and sailed into the little eternity that was the freedom of the trail, its long stretches of nothing above him but the sky, nothing crossing his path but the shadows of trees. He’d have done the loop around Roehampton, or Clapham Common, pounding out the earth’s heartbeat with his feet, almost soaring above it.
But here he was, right knee buggered up to a fare-thee-well, we just missed a collateral ligament tear there, Mr. Cowwley, we’re not as young as we were, can’t play the weekend warrior game like we did in our twenties. The little git of a sports doctor had clearly never heard of the 2010 Manchester photo finish, or the Fall To Victory (that was the caption in the Sport section of the Guardian), two years later in Bletchley, when crowd favourite Anthony Crowley, a few days past thirty, had come up from behind that year’s aspiring Olympian, to propel himself over the finish line in a track-and-field hurdle that sent him tumbling through grime and gravel halfway to the grandstand. The photo had caught him in mid-roll, splotched with damp grit, long red hair flying, long lean legs flailing, mouthing a loudish fuck (if he remembered rightly) that had been mercifully drowned out by the yelling crowd.
He’d trashed the knee going off a kerb sideways onto uneven pavement. Fucking bringdown.
“I’ll write you for physiotherapy twice a week,” said Dr. Git. “Here’s a schedule of strengthening exercises – start with the first page, add the second after two weeks – if you haven’t got a gym membership, we have some coupons – best one in West London, too – “
“I’ve got a physio. And I hate gyms.”
“Overcome it.”
So here he was at the front desk of Celestial Bodies, isn’t that adorable, slapping down his Mastercard for a three-month membership (“if you upgrade to a three-year relationship we’ll add the Executive package, plus two free t-shirts”).
“Not looking for a relationship and I’ve all the t-shirts I need.” There was one from every race, stuffed into the bottom two dresser drawers. “Locker rooms?”
“Ha ha. That way – Anthony? Tony?”
“Bollocks,” muttered Crowley, wondering if the annoyingly affable youth would dutifully type it onto his membership file. He could see it in a press release. Maybe a trading card, had runners ever had trading cards? Anthony “Bollocks” Crowley. After a streak of wins that promised international titles, Crowley embarked on a career of marital failure, retail employment, and training pasty civilians to run their first marathon. Only an Antarctica away from the Seven Continents badge, just falling short again, his motto remains: “If the only virtue you have is consistency, run with it.” It was a long time since a race organizer had comped his travel, or waived his fee, or even e-mailed to make sure he planned on entering.
The locker room smelled of commercial cleaner, the disgusting floral fresh scent battling someone’s deodorant spray and a billow of Imperial Leather from the showers. One of the denizens, clearly too excited to restrain himself until he got out on the gym floor, was striking poses in the mirror, popping a bicep with a surface vein like a Thames river map and lifting his cutoff sweatshirt to inspect his artificially-tanned abdominal definition. It looked like a meat waffle. Crowley, who had the modest fat pad you saw on more runners than not – just enough to carry you through those last four miles after you hit The Wall, they’d joke – turned his head to roll his eyes. The voice behind him made him jump.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He hadn’t expected the American accent. A large, lightly callused hand was thrust at him – it looked as if he might have used an emery paddle to smooth it – and a smile as broad and hammy as an advert made him almost squint. American teeth, for sure. Probably capped or bonded or whatever you did. “Gabriel Blessed. No relation to the actor, ha ha.”
“Anthony Crowley.” Minimum compliance seemed the wisest course.
“Here to beef up a little?”
“Uh, no.” The look of mild surprise seemed to beg an explanation. “Runner. Bunged myself up, just rehabbing. Bulking up slows you down.”
“You’d be surprised what upper body strength can do for track athletes. You should subscribe to my Web page. Here’s my card.”
“Here’s mine,” said Crowley, fishing one out of the side pocket of his duffel before slamming his locker. “Sorry, on a clock. Nice meeting you.”
Aziraphale loved gyms. The clang of iron plates being loaded, the thud of a bar onto a lifting platform; the never quite expungible years of layered sweat, the smell of people doing the work of Creation, remaking their bodies to be stronger.
Celestial Bodies wasn’t his usual speed, but it would have to do. Floods happened, especially in spaces below ground level (you didn’t want hundred-kilo Olympic bars slamming to a floor without solid foundation underneath). This time the building inspectors had submitted a shopping list of requirements for mould remediation, electrical upgrades and plumbing repairs before they’d let Strength and Shield open up again. That meant the coaching sessions would have to go on hold – he could get on without the fees, that was what the Trust was for, but he already missed training the next generation of lifters. At least Gabriel would be a familiar face.
The polite young man at the desk didn’t recognize his name, not that Aziraphale expected him to. The public had at least heard of Usain Bolt and Linford Christie; if you mentioned names like Vasily Alekseyev or Cyrille Tchatchet, people were apt to say “Bless you.” And Aziraphale, despite a tidy collection of medals, was no Alekseyev – except, as Gabriel sometimes chided him, for a lesser version of the paunch.
Aziraphale didn’t exactly like his brother-in-law, who on some days seemed to consist of little more than a thousand-watt smile and a relentless appetite for self-promotion. So far it hadn’t yet turned into anything like a guest commentating job (“the Sport channel always wants older athletes to fill the dead air during events, you just have to get noticed”) or a film role. But he’d managed to handshake his way to the the chairmanship of Active London within a year of Aziraphale’s suggestion he serve on the Board; meanwhile, Get Buff With Gabriel, a picture-book of physique instruction (Gabriel showing a junior MP how to use a suspension trainer, Gabriel spotting a sleek television actress in a barbell lunge) sold handsomely, and led to a couple of TV appearances before ending up in the remainder stacks at Waterstones.
It had been Gabriel’s idea to solicit elite athletes for this year’s event. “People’ll get interested if they know they’ll be in it with a big-time soccer player – “
“Footballer, dear. Do assimilate a bit.”
“ – or that girl who swam the Channel last year, or some cricket pitcher or other – “
“Bowler.”
“Maybe even you, Az. Ha ha.”
He really didn’t like Gabriel much at all sometimes.
He threaded his way toward the locker room, trying to ignore the especially offensive bebop issuing from the tannoy and – wait, wasn’t that? – that red ponytail, on the treadmills? –
“Aren’t you Anthony Crowley?”
“What musclehead wants to know?”
Crowley didn’t even make eye contact as he ignominiously powerwalked through the last few minutes of the prescribed warmup, his recreant knee strapped in black Tiger Tape. He could already feel it starting to itch. Ginger skin. He’d have flaming welts from the adhesive in three days, tops.
“It’s – ah – well, really, that is a bit rude.”
The tone of prim offense was so stereotypically effete that this time Crowley couldn’t resist a glance. The man was thick, pink, deceptively soft over a sturdy frame, sweatshirt tight across a rounded belly like a scoop of ice cream. One manicured hand – it looked as if the nails had actually been buffed – held a leaflet of some sort, pinky finger extended, sweet Jesus.
“Is everyone here gonna try to sell me supplements or Crossfit classes?”
“Oh. Forgive me, no, nothing of that sort, but – you are Anthony Crowley, aren’t you? The marathoner?”
“Who else am I going to be?”
“Oh – well, of course – only I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you, you see, I’m – dear me, I suppose it’s a bit rude of me too. Azi Fell.” He fumbled the leaflet into his left hand and extended his right. Crowley ignored it. “I wouldn’t even be in here, only, well, there was this flood – “
“Did you build an ark?” You actually could picture those beefy forearms – the sleeves of the sweatshirt were cutoff – hammering cubits together or whatever the story was.
“Clever. That’s quite clever. No, well, just not at the usual place, only what I wanted to ask was – I serve on the board of Active London, we raise funds for for youth sport? Charity races and so on?”
Crowley wasn’t keen on charity racing – you had to talk to people, for one thing – but he vaguely recalled a 5K “fun run” too low for his radar and a newsclip of the previous Mayor of London matching his skills at footie with a school team captain. “This year it’s a bicycle race, and we’re looking for top-flight athletes to participate – it was my brother-in-law’s idea, Gabriel Blessed, he’s the chairman – “
“That poncey wanker with the six-pack? Ran into him back in the bogs. That where he usually hangs out?”
“Really, you’re doing your best to be obnoxious.”
“Am I succeeding?” The timer on the treadmill was counting down through the last minute.
The man began to look nettled. “I only wondered if you would be interested in doing some good in the world. And Gabriel seems certain it’s good publicity – “
“Bugger off,” said Crowley as the treadmill whirred to a halt on a descending note.
“Excuse me?” Pale eyebrows all but met a tumble of equally pale, almost albino curls.
“Not into soppy benevolence. Have a nice day.” Ignoring the man’s stunned, hurt expression, his almost comical moue of astonishment, Crowley dismounted, favouring the tape-wrapped knee, and walked off without looking back, longing for the trail. That was one of the first things he’d come to love about staying in motion. People left you the fuck alone.
By the time he’d done the prescribed exercises and the prescribed stretches and spent the prescribed time in the whirlpool – he always ran cold, and it was difficult to talk himself into getting out – he’d begun to feel a bit ashamed. The man was nowhere to be seen, though, not among the gladiators dropping bars back into racks with a factory-floor clangour, nor in the area littered with kettlebells and medicine balls and resistance bands. Crowley retreated to the locker room, and almost didn’t notice him bent over the washbasin -- wringing out a flannel in the noisy stream, sponging over a white-furred torso with a vigour that left flushed patches.
Crowley felt a stab of empathy: he’d done his share of swabbing off at the school gym sinks, to avoid the awkwardness of stripping for the showers. People always looked, and you tried to pretend you weren’t looking too, the way he realized he was doing now: at the thick neck scrubbed almost crimson, the broad back slabbed with muscle, the comfortable middle spreading into soft handles that bulged just enough to lap a little over the drawstring waist of the sweatpants. What was his name? – Fell? – towelled his face and looked up into the mirror just in time to catch him staring, averted his eyes.
Crowley cleared his throat.
“Look, sorry I was a jerk earlier,” he said. “I was in a shite mood ‘cos my knee’s buggered up and I can’t train. So, y’know, can’t promise anything, but I’ll take one of those and give it a look.”
Fell brightened. “Oh, would you? I’m going to be riding myself. I’ve never actually raced, but I'm ready to give it a go. I suppose you would have, biathlons and so on.” Crowley hadn’t; competition was running and only running, but Bentley – all his bicycles had been named Bentley – was raceworthy, her black carbon frame featherlight, her gears always gleaming. She took up most of the free space in the bedsit; she was the single most valuable thing he'd ever owned. And Dr. Git had actually recommended cycling.
Fell opened a gym bag and fished out first one of the leaflets, then a sharply folded, brand-new Celestial Bodies tee-shirt, pulling it over his damp curls. “Thank you awfully.”
“Sorry again. ‘Bout – “
“Oh, please. I understand. When you ‘re not able to train it makes even a nice person snappish.”
“Ah, I’m not nice. You don’t know me.”
“We could remedy that. Spot of lunch? I’m fearfully peckish.”
“Uh – not today, got to get to the physio’s.”
He didn’t, not for another two hours anyway. But it was too much like an overture of friendship. Life had been much more peaceful since he’d learned to keep everything transactional.
“Well, another time. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. And it’s very kind of you. I was afraid I’d done the wrong thing.”
“Nah. Don’t reckon you could. I’m just a grouchy arse.” Crowley made to leave, found the perfectly groomed hand extended again. This time he supposed he really had to take it. Fell beamed at him and wiggled. Wiggled.
“It’s an absolute treat to have met you. I expect I’ll be in again on Thursday.”
Thanks for warning me, thought Crowley.
There wasn’t really any reason to look forward to encountering the man again. Was there?