Page 73 of Crocodile Tears

“That’s good to hear, son.” Noah beamed at him. “This will be a fresh start for us all. Just promise me you’ll give up this crocodile water stuff.”

“Tears – and yes, I promise.” He held up his hand solemnly. “I promise I won’t take croc ever again. I’ll be a good boy from now on.”

At that moment Isobel gave a loud peal of laughter, and they both turned to look at her.

“Charles – is there really any chance of you winning the gold tomorrow?” a reporter asked sceptically, sticking a microphone in front of him. “The entire country is stoked up to fever pitch, but your race record is erratic. What would you say to those who argue that because of your privileged upbringing and laid-back personality, you don’t havethe hunger to win – that, basically, you’re just too nice to bring home the prize?”

Alex exchanged a wry glance with his father. It wasn’t the first time Charles had been asked this. Isobel flew over to stand next to her eldest son.

“You’re right – Charlesisnice,” she said. “But he also has a backbone of steel, and the will and determination to win. You’d better not miss that race tomorrow, people, because you’re going to see history in the making. I promise you that Charles Lytton will bring home the first Olympic gold medal for Great Britain since the Rising.”

“If he does, it’ll be down to her,” Noah said. “Your mother is the most determined woman I’ve ever known. He’s come on in leaps and bounds since she became his coach.”

“Do you think he can do it, Dad?” Alex asked, biting on his nails anxiously. “I mean, he might win a medal, but can he win gold?”

“I don’t know, but if I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s never to bet against your mother. Once she’s set her cap at something, she doesn’t ever give up.”

Alex barely managed a wink of sleep that night, because he was so nervous. Charles, by contrast, looked as happy and self-assured as ever the next morning.

“Good luck, son,” Noah said, enveloping Charles in a bear hug.

Isobel snorted. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s all down to hard work and preparation.”

Charles held up his hands, grinning. “I’ll take all the luck I can get. Now, go and take your seats. I’ll see you later with a medal around my neck.”

“Agoldmedal,” Isobel corrected.

Charles kissed her cheek. “A gold medal,” he promised.

Alex was so consumed by nerves he couldn’t say a word. He patted Charles on the arm and then fled up to the stands to watch the race.

He bit down hard on his nails when the starter pistol blared, and then became aware of the cameras homing in on him and his parents. He didn’t know whether to smile, wave, or ignore them, but then he became so swept up in the excitement of the event that he forgot about them completely.

It was a tight race, and Charles was never in the lead until the final few seconds, when he found a burst of energy to overtake two boats and draw level with the one leading the race, crossing the line neck and neck.

It was too close to call, so they waited for the official result, the tension unbearable. Alex kept his gaze fixed on the tiny figure of Charles in the boat on the water below, bending over his oars, panting, waiting to find out if he’d won.

Then a massive cheer went up from the crowd – Alex heard it before he saw the scoreboard flashing out Charles’s name. The noise was like a tidal wave, engulfing him.

He spent the next few hours in a happy daze. The media pounced, and he forgot his shyness as countless microphones were thrust under his nose.

“Your brother has just won the first gold medal for Great Britain since the Rising,” a reporter squealed. “How does it feel?”

“Fantastic!” he beamed. “People have been saying that he’s too nice to win, but what you see is what you get. He really is that nice – it’s not made up for the cameras. He’s my big brother, my hero – and living proof that nice guysdocome first.”

The media latched on to that quote, and it followed Alex everywhere. People had tee-shirts made up with “Nice GuysDoCome First” emblazoned over pictures of Charles holding his gold medal.

The entire country went into a frenzy of celebrations that lasted for weeks. Team GB won two bronzes, in addition to Charles’s gold, which made him the undisputed hero of the Games as far as Britain was concerned.

Upon his return, he was paraded around New London in an open-topped AV bus with his gold medal around his neck, while the crowds roared their delight.

Charles was a worthy winner, lapping up the attention and flashing that bright smile wherever he went. He was, quite literally, the country’s golden boy – from the burnished hair on his head to the sunny smile on his face and the medal around his neck.

Four weeks later, the nation’s hero lay on a country lane next to the wreckage of a Lytton duck, his spine so badly smashed that it was unlikely he’d ever walk again. The nice guy had been cut down in his prime, and a distraught nation needed someone to blame.

“Enter the bad brother, stage left, twirling his cape,” Alex said, reaching for more croc and inhaling deeply.

“Hey – Alex! Got another quote for us?” someone bellowed up from the street.

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