The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

shifting, easing, reframing. It’s like a plug’s been pulled and the negativity I’ve been carrying for all these years – all the guilt and fear and self-doubt – is slowly draining away. I sleep better. The headaches are gone. I feel less angry and stressed and overwhelmed. I feel freer.

And clearly I’m not the only one who suddenly feels this way.

“What the hell’s that?” I ask, as Michael welcomes me into his flat and closes the front door. I stare at the tattoo on his neck.

“Like it?”

“Sure,” I shrug. “Were you going for the just got out of prison look, or—”

“Jesus,” he moans, rolling his eyes, “give it a rest, Grandad.”

“I’m joking.”

I examine the ink on his skin. It’s very skilfully done. An angel ascending with wings open wide. It seems to counterbalance the weeping, tormented angel on his forearm which I’ve always found deeply depressing.

“I hate to tell you this,” I say, confused, “but a smart shirt isn’t going to cover that up when you’re summoned to dinner with your dad.”

“That’s the whole point of it. I met with him yesterday. And I told him… well, everything.”

He looks almost smug.

I raise an eyebrow sceptically. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirms. “And let’s just say me having a few tattoos, playing in a rock band and earning a pitiful wage actually weren’t his biggest disappointments.”

Right on cue, Rob walks out of the lounge in jogging bottoms and an Aertex T-shirt.

“Now he has a far bigger reason to be disappointed in you,” he growls in his Dutch accent, wrapping his arms around Michael from behind, squeezing him tight and kissing him hard on the side of the head.

“Ohh, yes,” smiles Michael, “well, if you’re gonna be a disappointment, why not go all out?”

“Exactly,” agrees Rob, releasing Michael and pulling on a pair of trainers that are by the front door.

“Wow,” I say, “that’s huge. What did he say?”

“Actually, he was surprisingly calm.”

“He had to be,” Rob adds, “you were in a five-star restaurant.”

“True. But that aside, I still think he took it well. He said unfortunately some people just aren’t made right, and that it wasn’t really surprising given that my mother had weak genes and—”

“Weak genes?!” I exclaim.

“Oh yes, he gave me a long and enlightening lecture about my mother’s weak genes,” says Michael, adopting a mock-serious tone. “And then he said that as I’m his only son he would tolerate my situation – very touching – on the understanding that it remains hidden from all friends and family, and that we never speak about it. Oh, and that he never wants to meet Rob as long as he lives.”

“Which hopefully won’t be too long,” Rob mutters, as he ties his shoelaces.

Michael tuts and shoots him a reprimanding look.

“So what did you say?” I ask.

“I told him,” says Michael with a smile that suggests he can barely believe his own audacity, “that unfortunately that was a situation that I could not tolerate, and that if he ever wants to review his terms and conditions, then he knows where to find me.”

“Whoa,” I say, amazed. “Go you. I mean, I don’t know where that suddenly came from, but still—”

“I’m thirty-two,” shrugs Michael, as if it suddenly all seems so obvious. “There’s only so long you can let fear rule your life, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” I nod, although I don’t feel particularly convinced. I’m pretty sure I could easily let fear rule my life forever. “Well, good for you. I know that can’t have been easy.”

I pat him on the shoulder and he smiles appreciatively, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. He looks tired, and I’m guessing he hasn’t slept since meeting with his father yesterday. He’s shown guts, but he’s also potentially lost the one person he’s spent his whole life trying to please. I can see that he knows this, that he realises the road ahead isn’t going to be easy. Still, I’m quietly thrilled he’s made a stand for himself after all these years.

“So,” says Rob, clapping his hands and turning to me. “Are you ready?”

I look down at my new running shoes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Take it easy on him,” Michael warns Rob. “He hasn’t run in, like, over fifteen years.”

“Don’t worry, we’re going to build up slowly,” he replies, giving me a secret wink that makes me worry about what he has planned. “Go sleep,” he tells Michael, kissing him on the cheek.

“If he starts barking orders at you, just shove him in the canal,” Michael tells me as we head out the door.

“Gotcha,” I call, feeling trepidation creep in.

Interval training is the way it’s done now. Not like when I was at school when they just made you run as far and as fast as you could. But perhaps that was just St John’s. Results – no matter the cost. That would have been a far more fitting motto for the school than the pretentious Latin crap they hid behind.

We run, jog, walk, run, jog, walk, run – and suddenly I just don’t want to stop running.

“Okay, so slow it down now,” Rob tells me, dropping behind.

But I’m feeling it again, just like I did when I was a boy, before I lost the love of it, before I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore. The repetitive thud of my trainers against the path, the rhythm of my breathing, the cool air filling my lungs, pushing them wide open.

“Slow down!” Rob calls behind me, but I don’t want to.

I feel strong and energised in a way I haven’t in years. I squint against the light, passing by the narrowboats, the dappled water steadily moving past on one side, thick shrub on the other.

I can hear Rob’s breathing just behind me. He’s caught up, but he’s no longer telling me what to do. He knows I’m working something out and his quiet presence reassures me.

I feel the breeze against my skin, the sweat cooling against my chest and back.

I love this. I could do