like the natural thing to do.’
‘How much have you raised so far?’ Marsh asked.
‘Over seven thousand pounds so far from the drivers in the series,’ Myles said, ‘but we’re looking for others to donate. We’re hoping that all drivers across the country will contribute.’
‘Is there a preferred donation sum?’
‘Two hundred pounds. That’s the equivalent of a race fee. But we will accept donations great and small. Derek Deacon, this year’s champion, donated his championship purse to the fund.’
‘Why the generosity, Derek?’ Fergus asked.
This was an answer I wanted to hear. Did it help him ease his conscience? Judging from Derek’s smirk, a guilty conscience wasn’t something that needed easing.
‘I won this championship because Alex died, so it’s a hollow victory. I could never enjoy the proceeds.’
Someone had been practising his lies in front of the mirror.
‘I wonder if I could step forward a moment,’ Vic Hancock said. ‘Hancock Salvage sponsored Alex. We miss him dearly. As a mark of our respect,’ Hancock said as he removed a check from his suit jacket pocket, ‘we’d like to add five thousand pounds to the fund.’
Hancock received a small round of applause as he handed the check to Myles Beecham.
‘How can others make a donation?’ Fergus asked.
‘Through us here at the circuit,’ Myles said.
‘Are there any events planned in honour of Alex?’ Marsh asked.
‘Yes,’ Myles said. ‘From now on, the last round of the Clark Paints Championship will be the Alex Fanning Memorial Trophy. Alex’s father will be putting up a trophy and an additional cash prize for the trophy’s winner.’
‘My son lost his life doing something he loved,’ Mr Fanning said, filled with pride. ‘While that hurts the ones he left behind,’ he said as took Alison’s hand, ‘I can’t turn my back on a community that has gone out of its way to honour him.’
Mr Fanning broke free of his spot in Myles’s seamless arrangement to shake my hand along with Myles’s and Derek’s. It disgusted me to see Derek enjoying the adulation for something he’d caused. I told myself to take it easy. Let him enjoy the applause because it wouldn’t last. His crimes would catch up to him sooner than he thought.
‘All those who have helped here are truly princes amongst men,’ Mr Fanning said, ‘and I thank them all for their kindness and camaraderie.’
We ran through it all again for the BBC, then the affair broke up into individual interviews. Each reporter got their sound bite from everyone concerned. The photographers from both magazines corralled us for pictures. What expression was I meant to show? Happiness for the good we were doing? Sadness for the loss of a comrade? I let the photographers guide me. The only shot where I could raise anything like a smile was when Alison brought out a framed photo of Alex. It was a head shot of him in his racing overalls, smiling. It killed the smiles that had been present until then. I looked over at Derek. Even he couldn’t grin his way through that one. I almost took pleasure from watching him squirm, but Alison killed it. The photographer lined her up in the front with Mr Fanning at her side. The shot reminded me of a photo taken at my parents’ graveside. It’s a pretty famous picture of me standing over their coffins holding my dad’s crash helmet with Steve standing behind me. This new pose, with a different face, but the same unquenchable sadness, smacked too much of déjà vu.
After my part in the affair ended, I hung around outside. I needed to talk to Fergus. I had a ten minute bone-chilling wait. When he came out, I caught him on his way to his car.
‘Fergus, got a sec?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Pretty screwed up about Alex, eh?’
‘Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about it.’
Fergus grappled for his recorder.
I placed a hand over his. ‘This is off the record, OK?’
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
‘Did you see the
‘How much have you raised so far?’ Marsh asked.
‘Over seven thousand pounds so far from the drivers in the series,’ Myles said, ‘but we’re looking for others to donate. We’re hoping that all drivers across the country will contribute.’
‘Is there a preferred donation sum?’
‘Two hundred pounds. That’s the equivalent of a race fee. But we will accept donations great and small. Derek Deacon, this year’s champion, donated his championship purse to the fund.’
‘Why the generosity, Derek?’ Fergus asked.
This was an answer I wanted to hear. Did it help him ease his conscience? Judging from Derek’s smirk, a guilty conscience wasn’t something that needed easing.
‘I won this championship because Alex died, so it’s a hollow victory. I could never enjoy the proceeds.’
Someone had been practising his lies in front of the mirror.
‘I wonder if I could step forward a moment,’ Vic Hancock said. ‘Hancock Salvage sponsored Alex. We miss him dearly. As a mark of our respect,’ Hancock said as he removed a check from his suit jacket pocket, ‘we’d like to add five thousand pounds to the fund.’
Hancock received a small round of applause as he handed the check to Myles Beecham.
‘How can others make a donation?’ Fergus asked.
‘Through us here at the circuit,’ Myles said.
‘Are there any events planned in honour of Alex?’ Marsh asked.
‘Yes,’ Myles said. ‘From now on, the last round of the Clark Paints Championship will be the Alex Fanning Memorial Trophy. Alex’s father will be putting up a trophy and an additional cash prize for the trophy’s winner.’
‘My son lost his life doing something he loved,’ Mr Fanning said, filled with pride. ‘While that hurts the ones he left behind,’ he said as took Alison’s hand, ‘I can’t turn my back on a community that has gone out of its way to honour him.’
Mr Fanning broke free of his spot in Myles’s seamless arrangement to shake my hand along with Myles’s and Derek’s. It disgusted me to see Derek enjoying the adulation for something he’d caused. I told myself to take it easy. Let him enjoy the applause because it wouldn’t last. His crimes would catch up to him sooner than he thought.
‘All those who have helped here are truly princes amongst men,’ Mr Fanning said, ‘and I thank them all for their kindness and camaraderie.’
We ran through it all again for the BBC, then the affair broke up into individual interviews. Each reporter got their sound bite from everyone concerned. The photographers from both magazines corralled us for pictures. What expression was I meant to show? Happiness for the good we were doing? Sadness for the loss of a comrade? I let the photographers guide me. The only shot where I could raise anything like a smile was when Alison brought out a framed photo of Alex. It was a head shot of him in his racing overalls, smiling. It killed the smiles that had been present until then. I looked over at Derek. Even he couldn’t grin his way through that one. I almost took pleasure from watching him squirm, but Alison killed it. The photographer lined her up in the front with Mr Fanning at her side. The shot reminded me of a photo taken at my parents’ graveside. It’s a pretty famous picture of me standing over their coffins holding my dad’s crash helmet with Steve standing behind me. This new pose, with a different face, but the same unquenchable sadness, smacked too much of déjà vu.
After my part in the affair ended, I hung around outside. I needed to talk to Fergus. I had a ten minute bone-chilling wait. When he came out, I caught him on his way to his car.
‘Fergus, got a sec?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Pretty screwed up about Alex, eh?’
‘Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about it.’
Fergus grappled for his recorder.
I placed a hand over his. ‘This is off the record, OK?’
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
‘Did you see the
Similar Books
