I make a dash for the loo, then grab a snack for Jojo. When I get back, the draw’s begun. A host of random numbers flash on a grid beside Elvis, changing too fast to read, and once he stops the screen, the highlighted number is matched against a register of all the entrants.
“Nobody we know!” Theo says, just as I’m about to ask.
Only one hundred names will be drawn. The odds of knowing a contender personally are tiny, but there was Jack Taylor two years ago. I try not to think about what happened to him.
The Campbells’ Butler comes in with drinks. The robot’s red “eyes” take in my presence, and he greets me with a nod. I relax as I sip my drink and get swept up in the draw.
Elvis calls out name after name, impersonating the original twentieth-
century artist when he can. Before we know it, we’re almost done. He checks his latest number against the register, and we see the name just before he announces. “Entrant number ninety-four, Camilla Maxwell!”
The room erupts. “We know her!” we all shout at once.
We cheer the place down and message Camilla to congratulate her as Elvis draws the remaining names until finally, all one hundred contestants have been selected. The presenter breaks into song and dance, swiveling his hips. We turn to each other in celebration, drinking and analyzing the results.
I try not to let the disappointment get the better of me. It was always a small shot anyway.
“Can’t believe Camilla will be taking part!” Theo says.
Tabby waggles her eyebrows. “Amazing how the chief historian’s daughter’s name is drawn the first year she ever enters, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, grinning. “Anyway, the media’s going to go absolutely barmy! Camilla will be the marathon’s perfect, shining star this year, just you watch. She’ll hate the attention, poor thing. Argh, so exciting! Only two days—”
“Well, y’all are the luckiest folk around because everyone’s back in the game!” Elvis’s voice suddenly booms over our own, though with less verve than it normally carries.
We pause and turn to the screen.
“That’s right, folks, the final draw will be repeated!” His expression then turns uncharacteristically somber. “Fellow Britons, in the true spirit of the Marathon Committee’s pledge for full transparency, I can explain the disregard for the previous draw for hundredth place. It transpires the entrant has, in the time since applying for this most prestigious of Great Britain’s sporting events, been identified as an Anthropoid—and dealt with accordingly. There is no cause for alarm, and today is a day for national celebration, y’all!”
My stomach churns, heavy, and from the looks on the twins’ faces they feel the same way. If an Anthropoid managed to dupe the registration process, then we’re not as safe as we think. . . . We’re still vastly underestimating their cunning.
Anticipating viewers’ concerns and a dip in excitement, Elvis cuts to a live statement from the committee’s director, Mariam Khan, who reassures everyone this situation will never be repeated. The broadcast then replays several of the marathon’s promotional clips. The presenter returns and with much flourish is soon preparing to once more select the final lucky entrant.
Tabby folds her arms. “How dare those beasts try it, though.”
“Bloody hell.” Theo shakes his head. “But at least they caught its identity in time! And Elvis is spot on—let’s not give them the satisfaction of ruining the draw for us.”
“True,” Tabby says. “And, Leyla, you absolutely have to watch the marathon here with us!”
“Promise I will. Least we’ll all be rooting for the same person this year!” I say, checking the time. Jojo’s looking a little tired; it’s late and her Bliss-Pod’s at home, too large to fit into the sub. “Tabs, I’ll need to start thinking about heading back soon.”
“Aw, stay longer, Leyla. And at least let Jojo stay over if you’re not going to. You’ll be back around here tomorrow anyway. There’s a—”
“Leyla Fairoza McQueen!” Elvis says.
We all look at one another. Silence. I shake my head, frowning.
Theo’s mouth falls open. He turns to the screen. “Rewind. Stop. Play.”
Elvis grins as he plays out the now much-hyped redraw for the last, coveted place. “And last of all, folks—it’s now or never—entrant number one hundred is . . . Leyla Fairoza McQueen!”
The silence in the room continues for another three seconds.
And then we scream. It can’t be! We jump up and down. And shout. I feel hot. The twins’ pale faces are flushed with color. I can’t believe it. I can’t think clearly.
It was my first ever entry as I only turned sixteen a few months ago. Nobody ever really expects to win a place!
Elvis is reading out instructions to the chosen contenders, but I’ll have to rewatch it later. My Bracelet flashes: congrats from an ecstatic Camilla, and then a message from the Marathon Committee. I must register with them at Westminster in the morning. They’ll need to carry out further health and vehicle checks, in order to complete the full registration.
Contenders always talk about this moment, and it’s true—it’s so utterly surreal. The mere two days between the draw and the race itself is meant to add to the thrill, but I can’t even think straight! With the odds against getting picked, many entrants hardly practice once they’ve entered. Others have a whole timetable for training, though—even enlisting professional help. Thank goodness for my weekly sprints. But still, we’re talking a whole obstacle course. . . .
Oh my God, I’ll finally be able to pay some bills and come up to date with my installments toward the Explorers Fund!
“Tabs,” I whisper. “Erm, your car. Is it all right to—”
Tabby rolls her eyes. “Don’t be daft! I’d be honored if you drove it in the marathon! Good job you’ve had some practice in it, you need something you’re really familiar with.”
“Thank you so much. Oh my God . . .”
We all scream and jump up and down again. My Bracelet won’t stop flashing now—congratulatory messages from acquaintances and distant family members in Tokyo, Pretoria, Berlin, Kabul, and New York.
Grandpa’s left a very worried message, his voice small. I move to a quieter corner and message him back. “Please try and not worry, Gramps. I know it will be hard, and that it’s a challenging and difficult course. But there’ll be tons of safety measures in place, and I’ll be all right. Speak to you soon. Please stop worrying!”
Tabby beckons me over, her eyes and mouth wide. “Don’t forget, the prizes are mega! I know it’s a tough one—the toughest, but if you could somehow rank in the top five, you’d nab yourself a brilliant prize, Leyla! They’re always—” She stops as the screen catches her eye, and she lights up. Theo and I both turn to see and groan.
It’s Finlay Scott, the last London Marathon champion, drinking champagne, surrounded by adoring fans. He congratulates the contenders and wishes them well.
“Remember,” he says, tipping his glass. “Whatever your heart desires . . .”
I catch my breath. Suddenly every sound around me is drowned out and heat spreads from my chest to my face. Just like that, there’s a shifting of the tides.