“The Pit and the Penitent” by Steve Toase

Before he retired the Athlete never competed at this particular athletics club, but had spent many race days in similar places. The changing room smells of chlorine, sweat, and his own old age. He feels it in every muscle that was once so finely tuned and now rebels against him. To try and distract himself, he glances at the walls, the off-brown tiles stained where water leaks down from the roof. Staring at his hands he wonders, not for the first time, what he is doing here.

His agent convinced him. The one he retained to find small jobs opening supermarkets or visiting fans who watched him all those years ago. Ones who no longer remember why he stopped competing.

“Bit of an unusual one this,” the agent had said, her voice crackling as the phone tried to hold onto the connection. “Local quiz show. Challenge type thing. Goes out late at night and pays well, so best of both worlds. You get money and some attention but not thrust into the spotlight where you end up back on the front pages.”

They’d decided long ago that reputation rehabilitation was not possible. Flying under the radar and getting money was the best he could hope for. It was over a decade since he’d seen his agent in person. “I don’t mind working on your behalf, but can’t be seen in public with you,” she’d said several times over the years. He respected that, but wished he could buy her a drink to say thank you.

The changing room is cold, and he looks at his skin covered in goosebumps, hanging slack on out-of-condition muscles. So many times before it was his decisions that let him down. Now his body has caught up. Across the room a hand dryer keeps turning on, guttering lukewarm air like a dying asthmatic trying to catch their breath.

Continuing to stare down at the ground, he doesn’t notice the door open until the production assistant coughs, shivering despite their branded fleece.

“Are you ready? They want you in front of camera now,” they say, taking a sip of coffee from a corrugated cup. No one has offered the Athlete a drink since he arrived two hours before. He wonders how much they know about him. How much they know about why he is turning up at trading estates in the midlands at nearly midnight rather than working as a pundit for one of the main sports channels.

“Sir. The Presenter is not a patient man.”

The Athlete waves his hand vaguely in an attempt to dismiss the assistant but they do not leave.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Finally he is left alone again.

A long time ago, there were routines he would go through before competing. Rituals. Not just the time spent concealing himself, trying to find a hidden vein. Phrases he would say to fire himself up. Now he knows they were all for nothing and he can’t bring himself to repeat them anymore. He opens the door and walks down the narrow corridor to the athletic track.

The sports hall is vast and cold. He is surprised to hear the motorway in the distance, expecting some kind of sound dampening for the recording. The racetrack curves around the outside of the vast room, looping the activity concentrated in the center, everything focused on the long jump pit. He walks over, between the banked seating and toward the man he recognizes from other low-budget programs he has watched, usually in hotel rooms while he waits for sleep to come.

“Hello,” the man says, stretching out a hand. His palm is rough and over-moisturized at the same time, as if his skin could not absorb any more product. “Glad you could join us. Tonight.” The cadence feels off, as if he wants to taste the words before speaking them. He rocks back on his heels, leaving space for the Athlete to say something. He does not, instead gazing around him. Now he is at the center of the room, it’s difficult to see beyond the rough circle marked out by temporary seating. He knows there is an audience, in the same way he knows that they do not fill the rows, but he cannot make them out.

Instead he turns his attention to the long jump runway and pit.

“May I?” he says. The Presenter turns as if remembering the Athlete is there for the first time.

“May I have a practice run?” the Athlete continues.

The Presenter looks him up and down.

“I think you would be better preserving your energy, don’t you?”

The Athlete recognizes the contempt in the Presenter’s voice. He knows that the man is at least three years older than him, despite what the official biographies say. Instead, the Athlete turns around and walks the runway. Everything is high quality, competition level, though way past its best. The plasticine beyond the foulboard is old and cracked. He kneels down and presses his finger against it, expecting the putty-like material to give, or at least preserve his fingerprint, but it does not change. Glancing back to make sure he is not yet needed, he walks over to the sandpit. A half-hearted attempt has been made to rake the surface flat, but he still sees several bird feathers and cigarette ends in the sand and wonders what lies beneath.

“When you’ve finished inspecting the facilities, we’re ready to start.”

The Athlete stands, ignoring the crack in his knees as he rises, and walks back over to the Presenter. The Girl standing with him is in her early teens, wearing a tracksuit of some athletic club he does not recognize. She stares at him as she ties her hair back, and as her hands fall to her side, continues to stare.

“Have you met each other before?” the Presenter says. The Girl shakes her head, a small smile on her lips as she looks him up and down again. “Heard of each other?” The Athlete knows this question is not directed at him.

“Only by reputation,” she says. He can’t place the accent, but there is no mistaking the contempt in her voice.

“That’s right,” the Presenter says. “You weren’t even born when he,” he pauses to search for the right words. “Retired from public life.”

A shiver goes through the Athlete, and it’s not just the cold of the vast hall. He wonders if the plan is to talk about what happened. Bring it back into the public eye. He considers walking out, but knows that the money is already in his account — he checked before leaving home — and any breach of contract would only result in more attention.

“How long have you been competing?” the Athlete asks the Girl, trying to focus on what they have in common rather than what separates them.

“Eight years. Since I was five,” she says, then turns away as if there is nothing more to say between them.

The Presenter also ignores him. In the distance, the Athlete hears a buzzing like insects trapped in the walls. Above him, mobile studio lights flicker. Someone coughs, and he hears whispers between members of the audience, the seating creaking as they move around. He thinks he hears his name, but then it’s gone.

The arm around his shoulders shocks him back, not even realizing he’d phased out. The Presenter leads him back to the start of the runway. the Athlete does not realize the man is talking to him, and it takes a moment to properly hear what he’s saying.

“And how long has it been since you last competed?”

There is no contempt or mocking. The Presenter plays his role perfectly, each word, sentence and phrase designed to relax the Athlete. To leave him at ease.

“I keep fit, but the last time I was in any international competitions was twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years? So long. Shall we jump ahead to meeting your rival for the evening?”

The audience laughs at the joke for far longer than it deserves.

While the Girl walks into the halo of light, the Athlete realizes how nicer everything now looks. The part of the hall caught in the camera seems to shine and glisten, the floor vivid as if freshly laid, the sand completely level. Even the audience looks attentive, leaning forward in their seats in anticipation, though he still cannot see their faces. He catches sight of the cameras, tracking the one currently in use by the slight red light glowing in the darkness.

He realizes he has stopped paying attention and turns around to find the Presenter and the Girl. They’re both talking and looking at him, sharing a joke he cannot hear.

“Are you ready to start ?” the Presenter says, and the Girl laughs, taking off her tracksuit top to show she is more ready than him. She is barely into her teens and at a fitness level that is a distant memory for him.

The Presenter explains the format. How each of them will make a jump and whoever wins that round will get the points.

“You can go first, old man,” he says. The insult does not diminish the Athlete, but makes him more determined to succeed. Walking around to the start of the runway, he goes into himself, remembering those motivational phrases he used to say, the encouragement his coaches used to give him before they started refusing his calls.

Stood at the start of his run, everything drops away. The film crew are gone. The Presenter is gone. There is no rival. No rivalry. Just him, the run, and the jump.

Muscle memory helps him place his feet correctly, with his take-off foot in the exact place he needs it to be. His body might be worn, but some things are not forgotten. He sets off, and in the forty meters until he hits the board, he loses the rhythm. Like a half-remembered song, it slips away and when he takes off, it’s on the wrong foot, at the wrong pace, and he does not have enough energy. Yet his body still carries him through the air, and even though the landing isn’t perfect, he is pleased just to gain distance.

Pushing himself up from the sand, he walks back to the Presenter. The Adjudicator walks over to the pit, her blazer buttoned up tight. She holds the tape measure like a noose, laying it from the takeoff board, along the edge of the pit until she is level with the depression left in the sand. Voice quiet, she relays the distance to a microphone clipped to her lapel. Somewhere behind the Athlete a scoreboard glitters to life, the numbers glitching until the cameras settle on them.

The Girl prepares for her jump. Though it is the first time he has seen her compete, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance. Not only is she in better condition, but she is more determined, every atom focused on one thing. She runs and every footstep lands perfectly, so that when she reaches the takeoff board she explodes through the air and lands far beyond the mark left by his own run. The Adjudicator presses through the darkness left by the studio lights and measures the jump.

“And that round goes to our young challenger,” the Presenter says. She is no challenger, the Athlete thinks to himself. That title belongs to him.

“What was your greatest achievement?” the Presenter says to the Athlete.

“I won gold at the Olympics.”

“But that was such a long time ago, wasn’t it? And you,” the Presenter says, turning to the Girl. “What’s your greatest achievement?”

“I haven’t achieved it yet,” she says. There is an economy when she speaks, as if to say too much might waste breath.

A ripple of laughter and applause goes through the crowd and the Athlete feels the rage that got him into so much trouble rise, but realizes the consequences are not worth the relief.

“Are you ready for the next round?” the Presenter says. The Athlete nods, holding on to the anger so he can transform it into motivation. He can smell the sweat soaked through his own clothes.

“Then prepare. Yourself,” the Presenter continues, his voice sounding odd and too far away. The Athlete walks once more to the start of the runway. There is no signal to start him. He waits, letting the tension build in the room. Letting the tension build within him. The buzzing in the walls gets louder, and he feels it under his skin.

“Come on,” someone out of sight says. He ignores them, rocks back on his foot and explodes away from the line.

Halfway down the runway he realizes something is off. Something is wrong. The runway feels shorter, and his pacing is out. When he hits the takeoff board, he is again on the wrong foot, and the wrong pace. When he lands the sand is like concrete, and the whole weight of him comes down on his ankle, bending the foot in the wrong direction, snapping the bone and stretching the tendons until they tear.

This is not his first injury, and he stays still, waiting for someone to help him up. Nothing happens. He remains sitting on the surface. Through the burning in his ankle, he realizes he is grinding his teeth together and has bitten the inside of his mouth, blood spreading over his tongue. No one approaches to help him stand. Someone in the audience coughs. Out of sight water drips through the ceiling to pool on the racetrack. Pressing against the surface of the pit, he raises himself, first to his hands and knees, then to his feet, and, ignoring the pain, moves to the side of the pit.

He hears the Girl making her run before he sees her, the even rhythm as she hits the runway again and again, her foot hitting the takeoff board, launching her into the air.

“Congratulations,” the Presenter says as the audience’s applause lessens. “That’s round two to our young challenger.”

She walks past the Athlete, the toe of her running shoe catching his foot and sending a wave of pain through his leg.

Minutes pass and there is a flurry of activity around him. He feels cold, apart from the burning in his leg. He’s snapped his ankle before, it goes with the territory. Every time he tries to move his foot, splinters of bone grind against each other, releasing another wave of nausea. The Present kneels down beside the Athlete.

“Get up,” he whispers. There is no disguising the contempt in his voice. No pretense once the microphone is turned off.

“I don’t think I can,” the Athlete says.

“If you don’t get up and complete the runs then you don’t get paid, and as you already have the money.” There is no need for the Presenter to finish the sentence. The publicity would spread like wildfire. But it is not the threat that makes him climb unsteadily to his feet. He glances over and sees the expression on the Girl’s face. The look of disgust. Contempt all mixed in with triumph. She knows she’s won. She knew she’d won as soon as she agreed to appear, before they’d even started the first round.

The Athlete climbs to his feet and winces as he walks back to the start of the runway.

“Look a bit slow there, Old Man,” the Presenter says. “Need a walking stick?”

The laughter comes from all directions, and he tries not to gasp as he walks on the damaged ankle.

In the old days there were injections and salves to ease the pain. Now there is nothing, just the intensity that runs through his leg every time the foot takes his weight. On the start of the runway, the Athlete is able to concentrate enough to make a plan. He will make the run, and even if he stumbles, as long as he hits the sand it will count. The contract will be fulfilled. The buzzing of the insects that infest the fabric of the athletic hall has intensified with the pain in his leg. He limps on, and waits, putting as little weight on the damaged leg as possible. There is no signal to start, but he is wary of waiting too long. He knows the joint is swelling, the pain intensifying. Adrenalin will get him through. He has no alternatives to call on any more. He rocks back and forward, judging the distance to the takeoff board, takes a breath, and sets off.

Nothing about his progress toward the takeoff board can be called a run. His damaged foot drags behind him slightly, and when he hits the wooden marker, there is less of a takeoff and more of stumble. He just manages to lift both legs, bringing them in front so that his weight will carry them forward. He is in the air and the pit is below him. He lands.

The sand is soft and cloying. He feels his legs start to sink below the surface, the weight of himself carrying him down, the weight of the pit restraining on all sides. Pressing down on the surface, he tries to lever himself out, but his hands disappear out of sight. He is lost to the waist, and he twists to try and get to the side. His torso turns, and somewhere deep in his back discs sliver out from between vertebrae sending a wave of agony and nausea through him. He manages to pivot and is facing the runway. In the distance the Presenter leans into the Girl, whispers. and they both laugh. The buzzing in the Athlete’s head is worse. He imagines insects hidden out of sight below him, and tries to raise his legs. The sand is no longer pliant. He is pinned in place, the pressure against his chest constricting his breath. He gasps for air as waves of nausea flood through him. Any adrenalin has run its course and now he shakes as the pain takes hold.

Below the surface, the sand moves constantly. Where his ankle has shattered, grains find their way into the wound, rubbing against the broken bone until it grinds its way into the marrow. Elsewhere the sand erodes through his clothes, friction melting the man-made fibers to him, burning him, before the sand grazes away his skin in patches, raw and exposed.

He tries to move his arms from the surface. The pit holds them tight. Just over forty meters away, the Girl prepares herself for her next run. He cannot move. She does not focus on him. He is not the goal. The target. She is focused on jumping as far as possible. He closes his eyes and feels her start to run, each impact of her feet shaking the ground. Something in him forces him to look and he watches her take off, arcing through the air.

When she lands the spikes on her shoes drive through his arms, pushing ruptured skin and muscle into his bones. She does not fall, but stands, pressing further down. When she moves blood seeps from the wounds and tips over into the pit. The Adjudicator lays the tape on his arm as she measures the distance from the board, and whispers the result into her microphone.

There is a pause as if the Presenter is waiting for the Athlete to pull himself out. Both the Presenter and the Girl stare toward him and the Presenter rolls his eyes, swearing under his breath. The Girl makes her way toward the start of the runway. The Athlete tries to close his eyes. Grains of sand are trapped beneath his eyelids and he cannot shut them. Every step shudders the ground, and he sees the exact moment when her toe hits the takeoff board, rising through the air. Spike first, one shoe hits him in the chest, slicing the muscle and powdering the ribs below. Bending him back, the second foot lands on his throat, perforating his voice box a dozen times over.

The Girl steps off him, and The Adjudicator measures the distance, propping the Athlete back up when she’s finished. The sand around him is smeared with muscle and fragments of bone. He can barely see, the lights now faint. Forty meters away, the Girl readies herself for her next run. There is a determination in her gaze. She sets off and rises through the air. He tries to avoid the impact and she lands on his back, piercing his spine. When the weight is lifted from him, the Adjudicator holds his neck down so she can measure the impact. He’s vaguely aware of the Presenter saying something. In his head the buzzing has intensified. He thinks he can hear laughter hidden within the static. Forty meters away, the Girl readies herself for her next run.

---

Steve Toase is a British born horror writer living in the Franconian Forest in Germany. His fiction has appeared in Analog, Nightmare Magazine, Three Lobed Burning Eye, and Shimmer amongst others. His stories have been selected for Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year series, and Paula Guran’s Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror. He is a regular contributor to Fortean Times, and loves classic motorbikes and vintage cocktails. Dirt Upon My Skin, his new collection of archaeology themed horror, is out now from Black Shuck Books.