Page 13 of Tipping Point

“Time penalty or position?”

There’s a pause.

“Position!” Erik says excitedly.

Rheese is being forced by the stewards to give me his spot. I pass him easily on the next straight when he gets out of the way for me.

“P eleven.” Erik is struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Four laps later I pass Lucien Rousseau’s car where he spun out into the tyre barrier. He jumps out easily and I give a sigh of relief. My hands shake again, furiously.

“P ten,” I say, before Erik can.

I can’t bear to hear the excitement in his voice.

My body is aching. I can’t relent, I need to constantly push back against the G-force pushing and pulling me around like I’m in the midst of a tornado, furiously whipping me around through every corner, every straight. The unbearable heat will leave me dehydrated and with a headache when the race is done, and I’m battling an odd sense of elation as I keep pushing myself, the car, to our limits.

I cross the finish line in tenth place, and everything fades. I’m just a tired guy in a fast car, relieved that it’s over.

I feel satisfied.

I do my cool-down lap and when I stop in the pits, the crew rushes out to pull me from the car. Jack wraps me in a bear hug and lifts me clean off my feet. My ears are still ringing from the noise of the car, and the shouts of the crew are drowned out by the void of the ringing in my ears.

I pull off my helmet and my balaclava, my hair wet with sweat.

Erik elbows his way to me, pauses, extends his hand instead.

I shake it.

3

Chapter 3

FINN

It’s the first week of April and we’re back in Bahrain for the second race of the season. I’m staying at the Oasis Palace at the edge of the desert and the suite is exquisite. I love staying in Middle Eastern countries. Their luxury style always holds an air of mystique for me. A far shot from Dunboyne, where I grew up. Dunboyne is in County Meath, a stone’s throw from Dublin, a rural town filled with weekend homes for the wealthy Dublin folk who brought their money and turned it into a mix between the old and the new, the town growing each year.

My da used to take me to Dublin on weekends to race go-carts. He was an amateur rally driver, and he had big dreams for me from the start.

My ma had other dreams for me. That time my father had an accident, it was worse than the usual scrapes and bruises. We had visited him in hospital, and she sat me down in the corridor so she could see him first. To gauge how he looked, if it would scare me.

They had spoken in hushed voices. Angry.

“Are you done now, Owen? Can we be done with this?”

He had murmured something angrily. I heard only her voice, because it was higher pitched and raised in anger.

“Please don’t be an eejit,” she begged. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

Da’s voice was dangerously low when he answered her, but she interrupted him.

Fear had made her fearless. “Owen, please. I can’t live with this constant fear of losing you. This is no way to raise a family. You have to make a choice. It’s either having a family, or racing.”

Da was angry enough to raise his voice. He chose to race. It broke her.

She left shortly after. The only thing I have to remember her by is her claddach ring. The one Da gave her. Nothing but an empty promise now.

It’s either having a family, or racing.