Something In The Air

Chapter 1 - Lonely Work

For any normal person, the sight of the blood-spattered mucus in his right hand, having violently coughed up a bucket-load just moments before, might have been enough to have them screaming all the way to the hospital. But Hugo Maddox wasn't a normal person. By now, after all that he'd been through, even he could admit it. In fact, he hadn't been able to place himself in that particular category since... well, since the moment he was born.

Maddox stood upright and tried to suck some of the chilly air into his lungs, his windpipe rattling like a creaky radiator; as for the matter of his hand, luckily he was well prepared with a large stash of pocket tissues. He paused for a second to inspect the contents of his hand, only partially conscious of how absurd – and, frankly, disgusting - it must look to anyone unfortunate enough to be watching on this busy London street. But it was important; luminous green, almost unnaturally so, like a highlighter pen or a neon light. He quickly wiped the stuff away then discarded the tissue into the nearest bin.

"Well, great," he sighed, but not with as much exasperation as he might've done when this was all much newer to him. "That'll be another chest infection on its way." Pseudomonas most likely, he thought, judging by the appearance.

The biggest disappointment as far as he was concerned was that he hadn't even made it halfway round his running route; the app on his android phone suggested not even two kilometres covered. His usual course was a circuit, starting from his house on Stratford High Street, then traversing through the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, looping round the new Westfield shopping centre and then a straight run back to where he'd begun. It was a simple but rewarding regime with no hills, good scenery and nothing ever more taxing than the busy, boisterous crowds – most of them tourists – that occasionally swamped the main pathways, especially during the holiday weeks. But then his hospital consultant was always telling him not to overdo it. Most of the time Maddox tried to listen, but it wasn't in his nature to sit back and take the easy way out. He'd been through enough hardships to know that the best way to get through them was just to tackle them head on.

The other plus point with it being a circuit was that on the odd occasions where he was forced to grind to a halt and call it a day, he didn't have to retrace his steps the whole way in order to get back; and unfortunately, yet at the same time quite predictably, that scenario was becoming increasingly more common with the passing of time.

Maddox took a sip from his water bottle, his palms clammy from the mixture of sweat and sputum, then set off for home.

It was a picturesque day, the kind that only arrive once in a blue moon during the season of Autumn, with the sky spotless and the sun's rays radiating through the aging leaves and bathing the ground in a warm orange glow. Sunshine glinted off the metal beams of the London Stadium, reflecting the new lease of life that it's recent conversion into a football ground had afforded (he was still awaiting his first visit, with his beloved Arsenal not facing West Ham until the new year).

A couple of birds stretched their wings and arced into the sky, spiralling like synchronised dancers as they began the daily search for food. It was still early morning, the time of day Maddox preferred to go for his runs, when the bustling city was more at one with nature, the ground was supple with dew beneath his trainers and he could work up a decent appetite before his large breakfast around eight o'clock. It also guaranteed that he was up in good time for the start of work.

Running was a hobby, an enjoyment and a chance to relax, but it was also a necessity. Since being diagnosed with cystic fibrosis barely before he was a week old, his life had basically been one whole regime of strict dos and don'ts. It was the only way to keep the disease manageable.