Page 1 of Common People

PART ONE

A run club to save your life

Max Lawson bent over and tied the laces of his trainers before he stood up, looking at himself in the full-length mirror he had leaned against his bedroom wall – a moving-in present from Emma. He was in a long-sleeved grey running top, just above the knee black running shorts, white crew socks and the Nike trainers he had bought two years before and hardly used. Two years before when everything in his life had felt perfect. Beforeithad happened. They were trainers from a different lifetime. He took a deep breath, and then left his bedroom, walking into the living area where his flatmate Robbie was in the kitchen making bread.

‘What do you think?’ said Max, standing in the middle of the lounge.

Robbie took a long look at Max, studying him closely, before he said in his Edinburgh burr. ‘Running wanker, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ replied Max with a nervous laugh. ‘But as running wankers go, how do I look?’

‘Aye, youse like mighty fine, pal.’

‘Thanks. How’s the bread coming on?’

‘Aye, no bad. It just needs a wee bit longer in the oven, then I’ll take her out.’

‘Maybe I can try it when I get back.’

‘I’m no working tonight, so I’m creating a new sandwich explosion!’

Robbie was a passionate Scotsman, and dived headlong into every venture, every new experience with the same level ofenthusiasm, but he kept his most vigorous fervour exclusively for sandwiches.

‘Right, I’m off. See you later.’

‘If youse still walking.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Max, who started to walk out but Robbie stopped him.

‘Youse know I’m proud of you, pal. It’s been a shit fucking year and a half, and I know we joke, but I’m genuinely, no taking the piss, happy youse giving this run club thing a go.’

Max stopped and looked across the flat at Robbie, and for a moment he didn’t quite know what to say. He knew that Robbie was being genuine, and he appreciated it, but Max was uncomfortable in situations like that. Despite everything that had happened, he still didn’t know how to deal with genuine emotion. It made him uncomfortable, even when he loved the person giving it to him. So, instead of replying with something equally sincere and heartfelt, he replied with a simple, ‘cheers mate’.

The two flatmates stood in a slightly awkward silence, until it was broken by Robbie, who knew the best way of dealing with Max. ‘Now get the fuck outta here, youse running wanker!’

Max chuckled before he walked out of their flat towards Clapham Common to meet the rest of the run club. He hadn’t done any sort of exercise for a long time, and he had no idea how far they would be running. The flyer hadn’t given much detail, just a meeting place and a time. What if they were planning on a swift 5k, Max was blowing after a mile, feeling his hamstrings after two, and then on the floor in a heap after three? As he walked outside, slipping in his AirPods to listen to a podcast on his walk to Clapham Common, Max wondered what the hell he had got himself into, but then again, when he thought about it, could it be any worse than his current existence? The obviouswas a firm no. This wasn’t just a run club. This might just save his life.

Eighteen months earlier

It was one of those lazy Sunday mornings when Max couldn’t seem to get going. He had a plan of attack for the day ahead, which included, amongst other things, having lunch with Emma at a trendy cafe in East London she had been raving about for months, having a mooch around Brick Lane Market, and then he really needed to go shopping and do some food prep for the week ahead. At twenty-five, he thought it was time he got himself together. Not that his life was terrible, and in fact, in many ways he was living out his teenage dreams. A junior job at the BBC, a flat share in Clapham, and a girlfriend he had been dating for six months that seemed to be “heading in the right direction”, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do better. According to his Instagram algorithm, he should be eating healthier, and the answer, according to all the wise food influencers he followed, was food prep.

Working in London, it was too easy to just grab something for lunch from one of the many eateries within walking distance of Broadcasting House, which were usually not that healthy or too expensive, or to just eat on the go grabbing packets of crisps and chocolate bars galore, and often after-work drinks turned into an after-work McDonald’son the train back to Clapham. The result was that gradually over the past few years, the graduate body he had left university with, had morphed into the mid-twenties London body he had now. Even Emma had recently poked fun at his ‘squidgy little belly’, which she claimed she liked, but he also knew she attended a gym full of men with flat, toned stomachs, which was surely better. Not that Max wasgoing to get a six-pack from food prepping his lunches, but it was a start. Every journey started with a single step, or in his case, roasted chicken breast with broccoli, sweet potato and quinoa, portioned out into five separate containers.

Eventually he managed to drag himself out of bed and into the shower. It was just before eleven o’clock, and he was supposed to be meeting Emma at Liverpool Street Station at twelve. He was pushing it. His flatmate Robbie had worked late at the pub, then gone out after, and so was still in the cave he called a bedroom. He had left Max a series of texts, each one in ever increasing levels of drunkenness from midnight until about 3 a.m., telling Max that he had to come out, was missing the night of his life, and that if he didn’t join him, he would never speak to him again. Max had his phone on silent, and so he hadn’t seen most of them until the morning. He had also noticed a voicemail from his mum, but would check on that later, when he was properly awake. It was probably nothing important.

The shower helped wipe away the cobwebs, and Max got himself dressed, looking at his outfit in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. It was February and cold. There wasn’t rain in the forecast though, and so he had on a pair of black jeans, a T-shirt with a thick grey jumper over the top, and he would slip on a pair of New Balance trainers, and his new Barbour coat. The coat which had cost far too much, but as he justified it to himself, it was a coat he would wear for many years to come, so worth the investment. It wasn’t just a coat; it was a lifestyle choice. He had recently listened to a podcast about the horrors of fast fashion, and his Barbour coat was the beginning of the fight back. It was quality over quantity from there on out.

Max grabbed his keys, desperate for a flat white from a coffee shop on the way to the tube, opened the door of his flat, and standing outside were two police officers.

‘Oh, can I help you?’ asked a curious Max.

They looked uneasy, which instantly made him uneasy. Had he committed a crime he wasn’t aware of? He’d heard stories of people driving cars in their sleep, or tweeting hateful comments while in the land of nod. Had he slept-walked into the local newsagents and robbed the place while dead to the world? More likely they were there to ask questions about their neighbours, who were definitely drug dealers. They had more night-time visitors than the local A&E.

‘Max Lawson?’ the male officer asked in a calm, steady voice.

‘Yes,’ replied Max, as a gradual anxiety began creeping up his spine, and settled at the base of his skull. What were they doing there? The male officer looked to be in his early thirties, tall with dark hair and dark eyes, a neutral accent. The female officer was a little younger, perhaps late twenties, with piercing blue green eyes.

‘Do you mind if we come in, Mr Lawson?’