Chapter 6

Days turned into weeks, but time stood still for me. I expanded my horizons with Chris’s advice. With only ten days until Christmas, I hadn’t made any progress. My frustration began to show. To subside it, I trained longer and harder. I released my anger by jogging. Father Petrou noticed it as well, from my change of mood.

He attempted to talk to me. It was Saturday morning. We were cleaning the garden, collecting the last of the leaves which had fallen of the trees. “Try and put it all behind you, Tony,” he said. He hit a nerve, how can he say that, after what these people did to my family. I gave him a look of daggers.

I ran into my room, changing into my jogging gear. I steamed out, nearly knocked over Father Petrou. Dodging him, I sprinted out of the churchyard onto the street. I could hear him call my name, as his voice faded away.

I sprinted towards Alexandra Palace. The distance was two kilometres, a warm-up for me, even with its steep ascent. That is when you are jogging. If you are sprinting up there, it is a different challenge. I opened my stride, racing up the hill towards my destination. With most of the distance covered, I was on the last long stretch, which was the steepest part. I was forced to run on the side of the road, due to pedestrians taking up most of the pavement. I was almost there. I forced myself to go faster. Once I reached the stairs ascending to the palace, I leapt, taking two steps at a time, until I was at the top.

I leaned on the pillar, next to the stairs. I buried my forehead onto my arm, exhaling deep, striving to catch my breath. A pat on my shoulder than an unfamiliar male voice said, “Getting ready for the London Marathon, mate.” The group of people he was with, chuckled at his comment. They continued, towards the direction the crowds were going.

When my breathing was stable, I looked around me. You usually don’t get so many, visitors at Alexandra Palace, even on a Saturday. There must be a function in The Great Hall, I said to myself. Making my way to the entrance of The Great Hall, I entered the foyer. A long queue formed on one side of the lobby, everyone waiting to pay to go inside. The large banner above their heads said. ‘Christmas Second Hand Fair,’ in smaller print the admission price, ‘£5 adults & £3 children’. Digging my hand into my pocket, I pulled out a ten-pound note. Cash I keep in my tracksuit for an emergency when I go for a jog. I guess this was a good enough emergency to clear my mind.

I was in the queue for fifteen minutes, before I could get inside The Great Hall. It was worth the wait. Once inside, the stalls were cramped next to each other, forming many rows, starting from one end of the hall to the other side. At each booth, there was something different for sale. Clothes, Kitchen equipment, toys, household appliances, there was something for everyone.

That is what I needed, something to take my mind away from my problems. I walked along the aisles, studying the items that were on display. Smiling at children who were getting excited over a toy, which was a couple of pounds. Their parents would attempt to get a better deal on the toy. The seller would respond by furiously swinging his head from left to right, saying, “no.”

One stall caught my eye. The trader was selling items from the forties. Scattered on a table were World War II pieces, each article showing its age and history. I looked at some medals carefully, being careful not to drop them.

“Only twenty pounds each, son,” the trader said. He was in his seventies, if not more. “My father fought in World War II,” he said

Gently putting the medal back on the display unit, I saw a police baton further down the table. The price tag showed ten pounds. Picking it up, I put my hand through the leather thong. Gripping the handle, I began to move the baton around, making defensive and attacking moves in the air.