Charlie Higson

SilverFin 

James forced his feet to run faster, his lungs to breathe deeper, his heart to force the blood round his aching system quicker. He could barely feel his legs, they were jelly-like, separate from the rest of his body. He worried that they might just pack up and collapse under him.
  This was the hardest thing he had ever done. None of his training could have prepared him for this. His body was telling him to stop, telling him that it couldn't go on, that he had used up every last drop of strength; but his mind was telling him to go on. He wasn't going to be told what to do by his stupid body.
  He could do it.
  Up ahead, Hellebore was nearly at the edge of the trees now, but he was tired too, he had slowed right down and was struggling to keep going.
  The ground took one last dip downwards. James growled through his clenched teeth and found another pocket of strength from somewhere. It was like breaking through an invisible barrier: suddenly he was racing forward, his feet gliding over the ground.
  He was going to do it. He was going to get past Hellebore.
  Hellebore finally became aware, too late, that there was someone behind him. He looked back and his red face twisted with fear and anger. Still James raced on. Nothing could stop him. He was level, and now he was pulling ahead.
  In his anger and frustration, Hellebore tried to trip James up, lashing out with a leg, but James's senses were on full alert and he simply hopped higher as Hellebore's foot passed harmlessly beneath him. In the process, however, the American tripped himself up and went tumbling off the path into a boggy patch of mud and rotten logs. James heard a splash behind him but didn't risk looking back. He hadn't won the race yet.
  Then he was out into the light, and he could see the spectators way up ahead and hear their faint shouts. His vision was blurring, everything swimming in and out of focus, his blood whistling in his ears with the sound of a waterfall. He was covered in sweat, it was thick and oily on his skin. It stung his eyes, it dripped into his gaping mouth, it filled his running shoes.
  He tried to keep his pace up, but faltered. It was too much, he'd pushed himself too far. He slowed down, closed his eyes and a wave of blackness crashed over him. He was asleep on his feet.
  But then a tiny voice spoke up at the back of his mind. 'Come on, Bond,' it said. 'Keep going . . .'
  No, wait a minute, he recognized that voice. He opened his eyes and looked to one side; there was his little group of friends - Pritpal and Tommy Chong, Butcher . . . And there was Mr Merriot; it was his voice that James had heard.
  'Come on, Bond . . . Keep moving!'
  'Go on, James,' yelled Pritpal. 'There's no one can catch you!'
  James glanced back; there was no sign of Hellebore. It was a clear run home. That cheered him up. He was able to summon up one final burst of energy . . . and he was home, staggering across the finishing line, the tape wrapped round his chest. He wobbled on for a few steps then fell to the ground, surrounded by a group of cheering boys. He closed his eyes once again, and for a moment he was bobbing in the waves on a sunny beach somewhere a million miles away . . . but then all the pain he'd been holding back flooded in, from his ruined muscles, the stings on his face and arms, his scalded throat, his tattered lungs. He groaned and someone helped him to his feet.
  It was Mr Merriot.
  'Don't lie there, Bond, you'll seize up.'
  'Sorry, sir.'
  'Don't apologize, boy. You've won. I knew you could do it.'
  'Who . . . Who came second, sir?'
  'They're only just coming in now.' Mr Merriot pointed and James looked back to see Carlton, plodding doggedly along, an expression of mingled pain and concentration on his face, and, behind him, covered in green mud and limping badly, was Hellebore.
  The boys cheered them in. Carlton was lifted into the air by his supporters, who knew that the cup was his, and Hellebore fell to his knees, his face in his hands. He was alone. All his friends were out on the track and there was only his father here.
  Lord Hellebore took one look at his son, in third place, the loser, and turned away, disgusted.
  It was an awful thing to see.
  George Hellebore raised his face towards his father and James saw that he was crying. Tears had made little tracks through the mud plastered to his cheeks.
  'I did my best, Dad . . .'
  But his father wasn't listening.
  George suddenly turned and glared at James.
  'You,' he said, getting to his feet.
  'Forget it,' said James. 'It's all over.'
  George limped over to him. 'You could never have caught up with me, Bond,' he said. 'Unless . . .'
  'Unless what?' said James as boys began to gather round them, sensing a fight. 'Unless I'd cheated? Is that what you were going to say, Hellebore?' James stared into the boy's red eyes. 'Are you accusing me of being a cheat?'
  George looked round at the other boys, then down at his feet.
  'No,' he muttered. Then he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. Someone started to laugh, then someone else, until all of them were laughing, and George Hellebore hunched his back and appeared to shrink.
  But James couldn't join in the laughter. A bitter taste had come into his mouth.
  This wasn't the end. From now on, things could only get worse.

SilverFin © Charlie Higson, 2005. Published by Puffin Books.