The Accidental Cyclist (19 page)

“Wow,” said The Leader, dropping
his book and flinging the pizza into a greasy box. “Real food.
Wow.” He began eating with an appetite and relish that the Grey Man
had rarely seen. Icarus and the Grey Man watched as The Leader
devoured every scrap, eventually picking up the lamb bone and
gnawing it like a dog.

“Wow,” he said again when
finally he was done. “That was really, really good. It’s the first
time I’ve ever had food like that.”

“What? Roast lamb?” asked
Icarus.

“Whatever that was,” The Leader
replied.

“What did your mother used to
cook for you then?” asked the Grey Man.

“She never cooked for me. It was
always burgers and pizza and fish and chips. The only thing she
ever cooked for me was beans on toast, and even that she’d cock up.
I don’t think I’ve ever had meat like this before. What’s it
called?”

“Lamb,” repeated Icarus. “Roast
lamb.”

“You’ve probably had lamb in a
kebab,” said the Grey Man.

“You don’t get meat like that in
a kebab. I’m not even sure that you get real meat in a kebab.
Anyhow, where do you get this meat? It’s really, really good.”

“At home,” said Icarus. “My
mother cooked it.”

“What – you can cook stuff like
this at home? Can I come and live with you?”

Icarus laughed, a little
nervously. In his mind he pictured The Leader living with him and
his mother. Somehow, the image appeared quite vividly in his mind’s
eye, as if it were a distinct possibility. He looked at The Leader,
hoping he wouldn’t see his uncomfortable look, but The Leader had
turned his attention to the Grey Man. “So,” he asked him, “where’ve
you been lately.”

“Away,” said the Grey Man, a
little warily. “I’ve been away.”

“What? Back inside?”

The Grey Man smiled with his
eyes. His mouth did not move.

“What for this time?” The Leader
asked. “Same as the last time?”

The Grey Man laughed quietly and
nodded. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Want to talk about it?” The
Leader asked, as if he was now the Grey Man’s confessor. “Sometimes
it helps, you know.”

“No,” said the Grey Man, “I
don’t want to talk about it. At least, not now, and not to
you.”

“Suit yourself,” said The
Leader. “I was only trying to help.” He picked up the lamb bone and
inspected it, making sure that there was no trace of meat hidden
anywhere.

The three lapsed into silence.
The Leader picked up a wheel that was propped up against the wall,
and began plonking the lamb bone on the spokes. Icarus inspected
his fingernails. The Grey Man leant back against the sofa, sinking
into its softness, a blessed relief after the hard bunk in his
cell, and Mrs Smith’s uncomfortable high-backed dining chairs. His
hand slid down between the cushions. When he pulled it back, it was
holding a book: Cycling is my Life, by Tommy Simpson. The Leader
plonked away at the spokes. Icarus had forgotten his fingernails
and stared into the distance. Jo had crept into his thoughts, and
he was trying, mentally, to shoo her away. She would not go, but
sat there, in the corner of his mind, gently strumming his
heartstrings. Or perhaps it was just The Leader, with that bloody
lamb bone, and that wonky wheel. Whatever it was, Icarus knew he
needed to send her away, and only conversation would do that. But
he couldn’t think of anything to say. He cast his mind over lunch,
over what was said. Finally, remembrance. He broke the silence.

“Is George your real name?”

“No,” said the Grey Man.

“Why did you say it was?”

“It was just the first name that
popped into my head.”

“So, should I call you George
then?”

“Oh, no,” said the Grey Man,
horrified. “I could never be a George.”

“What’s wrong with George?”
asked The Leader. “I’ve got an Uncle George. He’s a little bit
pervy, but really there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“No offence,” said the Grey Man,
“but George works in a boring office, has a wife and two kids and
lives in Bromley, and he mows the lawn every Saturday afternoon. I
just can’t be George.”

“Hey, how do you know my
uncle?”

“I don’t. It’s just that George
is a bland, inoffensive name. And it’s just not me.”

“Now that you mention it,” said
The Leader, “when I think about my uncle George, I reckon that he’s
actually quite offensive.”

“Well,” said the Grey Man, “he
may be offensive, but he can’t really help that. Whether you find
him offensive or inoffensive, it’s his name that makes him like
that.”

“So, what is your real name
then?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, what if I said I can’t
remember?”

“I’d say you’re talking a load
of bull,” said The Leader.

“Well, what if I said I’d rather
not remember it. I want to forget my name, and who I was. I want to
forget my past?”

“I can understand that,” said
The Leader.

“But why would anyone want to
forget their past?” asked Icarus.

“Let’s just say that it wasn’t
always a good life. I did things … that I’m not proud of.” The Grey
Man was still holding a book that he had found hidden in the sofa.
He needed to change the subject. “You reading this?” he asked
Icarus.

“I am,” said The Leader. “And
it’s really good. It’s about this chap who goes off to race
bicycles in France and all over Europe. He’s good, he even becomes
world champion, but he never seems to be quite able to crack the
big time. It sort of ends halfway through his career, so you never
really find out what happened to him.”

“He died,” said the Grey Man.
“He died on his bicycle while riding the Tour de France.”

“No,” said The Leader. “He
couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he wrote this book,
didn’t he? So he couldn’t have died.”

“He wrote this book before he
died. There’s another book about him called Put Me Back On My Bike.
You really should read that next.” The Grey Man looked at his
wrist, as if he were reading a watch. “What’s the time?” he asked
no one in particular. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” asked Icarus.

“It’s almost time for changing
their shifts at the police station. I’ve got to get back before the
changeover.”

“You’re going back inside?” The
Leader asked. “Why would you do that?”

“I have to. If I didn’t go back,
how would they be able to release me tomorrow? See you then.”

And the Grey Man was gone.

On Monday morning Icarus
arrived at the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch)
expecting hostility and disdain from his fellow couriers. But he
found that the incident at Herne Hill already seemed to have been
forgotten. Instead, the word was going around that Con was
returning.

Icarus found himself being
ignored, a situation that he was accustomed to and one that suited
him very well right now. From the conversation he gathered that the
enigmatic Con had disappeared mysteriously for several weeks
without warning – not for the first time – and now he had
reappeared. Con, it appeared, was the International Cycle Courier
Company (Hackney Branch) top rider. He was the quickest, most
efficient and most daring cyclist in the area, with stamina and
resourcefulness that left even Justin and Jason gasping in
wonder.

Icarus watched Justin, Jason and
the others huddle in conversation, and he looked around for Jo. But
there was no Jo. Icarus was pricked by a pang of
disappointment.

“Who’s this Con that everyone’s
talking about?” he asked Helen the Despatcher.

“Haven’t you heard of him? He’s
our star man,” said Helen. “Without him this branch wouldn’t be
able to stay open and we wouldn’t be able to keep this lot …” with
a sweep of the arm she indicated Justin and Jason’s little clique
“… in so-called employment.”

“He must really be quite
special,” said Icarus.

“Oh, he is, believe me. That is
why the company tolerates his occasional disappearances.”

“So he’s done this before
then?”

“Every so often. But you can
never predict when he’ll go off, or for how long. That is why we
get Jo in from the City office.”

Icarus felt his chest tighten at
the sound of that name, as if some playground bully had got him in
a bear-hug and was squeezing the breath out of him.

“Jo has gone back to the City
office?” Icarus could barely get the words out. He couldn’t
understand what had come over him.

“Yes, it’s where she usually
works – unless our top man goes missing.”

Icarus was starting to hope that
the top man would disappear again. For good. He wanted Jo back at
the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch). If she
did return, then working with Justin and Jason and all the others
might just become tolerable. The tightness in his chest made Icarus
crave for air. He wanted to get out of that shop, get on his
bicycle and ride and ride and ride, until he was lost, or until he
lost his mind.

Helen the Despatcher seemed to
read his mind. “So you liked the girl?” she asked. “Most of the
chaps around here rather fancied her. But she just knocked them all
back. Although I must say, she seemed to take a bit of a shine to
you.”

If that was meant to cheer
Icarus, it did quite the opposite. He felt the band around his
chest tighten a notch. He let out a strangled, gargling sound.
Helen the Despatcher thought he had simply said “Oh.”

“You’re quite a cool one,” she
said. “Most of the others would just go ga-ga if she’d paid them
any attention.”

Icarus tried to open his mouth,
but no reply would emerge. He tried again, but was saved by the
bell – the phone rang and Helen the Despatcher answered. “Yes,” she
said, then “yes” again, then “… uh-huh … okay.” Then she put the
phone down.

“Got a job for me,” Icarus
managed to ask.

“This one’s really for Con,” she
said.

“But he hasn’t arrived for work
yet, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t, and I suppose we
don’t know when he’ll arrive. But this is a bit of a tough
one.”

“I’ll do it,” Icarus said,
suddenly full of confidence. “I really want to get out for a
while.” He didn’t add that he thought the small office was about to
suffocate him.

“Oh, okay then. I suppose so.”
Helen the Despatcher explained the job to him. It didn’t seem
complicated but would take Icarus all over the borough and into the
City. Icarus slung his bag over his shoulder, wheeled his bike out
of the shop and set off up the High Street. He had studied his
brief and the map, and the route was fixed in his mind. He rode
hard into the strong breeze, the activity forcing oxygen into his
starved lungs and the adrenaline driving thoughts of Jo out of his
mind. He cruised around Hackney and Islington like a seasoned
professional, legs pumping in a regular rhythm, eyes fixed on the
traffic around him, and stopping only when it would be dangerous to
proceed.

I am doing Con’s job, he
thought, and I must do it well. If I do it well enough, perhaps I
will be the top man at the International Cycle Courier Company
(Hackney Branch), and perhaps Con will be redundant.

The ride passed by smoothly,
quickly, until Icarus reached the outskirts of the City. The City.
Jo’s patch. Maybe he would see her, bump into her. It slipped his
mind completely that he had taken this task in order to get Jo off
his brain. Now she was all that he could think of, and his mind was
no longer on the job. Icarus turned along London Wall towards
Bishopsgate to drop off the last set of documents when he saw her.
At least, he thought it was Jo under that helmet and behind the
dark glasses. He turned to check, and it was then that he felt the
blow to his left thigh. The next thing he knew he was lying on the
ground, looking up. A ring of indifferent faces stared down at him.
He stared back.

“You gotta watch where you
going, mate,” one face above him intoned unsympathetically.

“Didn’t you see the light was
red?” said another.

No one inquired after his health
or well-being. Eventually one onlooker had the sense to call an
ambulance, in spite of Icarus’s objections. He tried to get up, but
the onlookers pushed him down.

“Don’t move.”

“Wait till the ambulance gets
here.”

“Probably broke yer leg, mate,”
another added helpfully.

“You’re a very lucky young man,
you know. He was only going slowly.”

“Where’s my bike,” Icarus asked.
“Is it okay?”

“It’s a bit buckled, mate. Don’t
you worry yourself about it – you just look out for yourself
first.”

Icarus allowed the wave of
indifferent kindness to sweep over him.. He looked at the faces
above him once again, then closed his eyes and tried to imagine Jo
among them, but she wasn’t there.

Nothing was broken, apart from
Icarus’s front wheel. And his pride.

And perhaps his heart.

As he feared and expected, his
mother made more than a fuss about him that evening when he was
taken home from A&E (it means Accidents and Emergency, he
explained to her). Once again he had to listen to the lectures on
how dangerous it was to ride a bicycle. “It was my own fault,
Mother,” he tried to reason with her. “I wasn’t paying enough
attention. I’ve learnt my lesson and it won’t happen again, I
promise.”

He did not tell her why he had
been inattentive, but he was constantly reminded of the reason by
the pain in his chest. He had expected that pain to be eclipsed by
the throbbing of his left leg, but somehow it was not. And so he
sat there, in the armchair in the front room, overlooking the park
where his life seemed to have begun, and allowed his mother to fuss
over him. He sat there, looking down at the oriental rug, trying to
pick out his favourite birds from among the undergrowth, but they
were not there. They seemed to be hiding, afraid to show
themselves, to get entangled in his pain.