Bad Influence

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘Hi,’ says Olly.

  The boy doesn’t answer. He just looks at Olly and gives a little upwards nod.

  ‘That’s a good bike,’ says Olly.

  The boy shrugs and looks away, into the distance.

  If Olly had any sense, he’d play it cool, but he doesn’t know how. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  The boy slowly turns his head towards Olly, and checks us both out, one by one. I can’t tell if he even recognizes me.

  ‘Carl,’ he says. ‘I’m Carl.’

  ‘Olly,’ says Olly. ‘And he’s Ben.’

  Carl nods again, this time at me. It’s exactly the same nod he gave to Olly, as if I’m a complete stranger.

  ‘Let’s go for a ride,’ he says.

  Then suddenly he’s off. Not just fast, but superfast. It’s a challenge. Normally you wouldn’t just follow someone like that, but he does it so quickly that we know, if we don’t go for it straight away, we’ll be left so far behind we’ll never catch up. We’ve got only a split second to decide.

  Me and Olly look at each other. My instinct is to go, but something tells me not to. Then Olly’s off, and I’m after him.

  Carl’s miles ahead, and he doesn’t even look round to see if we’re following. He goes down the main path, past the bowling green, towards the gates, but just before the park exit he veers left, and we follow, juddering our bikes over the grass. Past the tennis courts we get back on the path, and Carl loops left up to the football pitches, then he skids a U-ey and comes right towards us doing a kamikaze face-off. Neither of us is prepared for it, so we don’t get out of the way, but at the last second he veers off to the right and disappears. There’s a slope there. It’s the steepest slope in the whole park. No one’s ever cycled down it.

  Me and Olly have stopped now. We’ve both got our heads cocked on one side, listening. There’s nothing, then a loud whoop – a jiggled one because of the bumps in the grass – as he does the slope. We can hear when he hits the path because his whoop goes smooth.

  There’s no crash. He’s done it.

  We cycle over to the edge, and he’s at the bottom, looking up at us.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. Then he cycles off.

  We’ve spent whole days up here, deciding whether or not to do it, but we never have. Then suddenly Olly’s up, over the edge, and down, whooping all the way as loud as he can. He doesn’t even stop at the bottom, but goes straight after Carl.

  ‘It’s easy,’ he shouts up to me, over his shoulder.

  ‘I know,’ I shout back.

  My chest has gone tight, and my throat feels as if I’m in the middle of swallowing something, even though I’m not. Olly’s now got as far as the tennis courts. He’s cycling on, but he keeps flicking his head back to look at me. I have to go for it.

  Gripping the handlebars as tight as I can, I launch myself off.

  I can’t get out a good whoop until I’m halfway down. My whole body’s being shaken up like I’m in an air crash, and my tummy’s still somewhere at the top of the hill because I accelerated too fast for it, but it’s a great feeling, and I haven’t even got to the bottom before I start wanting to do the whole thing again, but there’s no time now. I have to catch up.

  I find Olly at the park gates, one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal, his bike resting between his legs at an angle. He’s looking all around, squinting.

  ‘Lost him,’ he says.

  I do a 360 of the park. No sign. He’s not on the main path back to the racetrack, he’s not on the road down to the shops and, even though it’s out of sight, we know he can’t be on the path round the tennis courts or we would have run into him. That leaves only the alley. You wouldn’t normally go up there on a bike, since it just goes to the bridge, which has steps the height of more than a house. It’s for getting over the railway tracks, but only on foot because it’s too small for cars and too high for bikes. There’s nowhere else he can be, though.

  We head down the alley, not speaking. We’re both a bit excited. I don’t know why.

  At the end of the alley, you turn left, and the stairs go straight up ahead of you. When we get to the corner, there he is, miles above us, at the top of the steps, with his bike leaning against the wall next to him. He’s just standing there, looking down.

  ‘What’ve you been doing?’ he says. ‘Knitting?’

  ‘No,’ I say. It’s not a brilliant answer, but I can’t think of anything better.

  ‘I’ve been here hours,’ he says.

  Then he takes something out of his pocket and chucks it down at us. It hits the wall right by my head and bounces off my bike wheel. It’s an acorn. I can’t reach it without getting off my bike. I can’t just leave it there, though. So I get off, shove my racer against the wall, pick up the acorn, and chuck it back at him, but it’s pointless. I can’t even get it halfway up the stairs. Gravity makes it impossible (see fig. 5).

  Then he’s got a whole fistful of them, and they’re coming down at us like bullets. Olly’s trying to chuck them back, too, but they’re not getting anywhere near. The only thing to do is to rush him.

  I pick up my bike and put the crossbar on my shoulder. The front wheel gives me a bit of an acorn shield. ‘Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggge!’ I shout, and run up the stairs as fast as I can.

  Olly does the same, right behind. The acorns are really pelting us now, then suddenly they stop. I look up. Carl’s gone.

  At the top, we remount, and zoom right across the bridge, which only takes about five seconds. You can’t see down to the railway tracks because they built the walls too high to see over, which I think is evil. Normally you’d stop and bounce in the middle because, if two of you jump up and down at once, you can make the bridge jiggle, but there’s no time for that now.

  When we get to the far end, Carl’s on his bike, halfway down the steps, his head turned so he’s looking up at us. If we had some acorns now we could really get him, but we threw them all back instead of keeping some as ammo.

  FIGURE 5. ACORN ATTACK SCENARIO

  ‘Watch this,’ he says.

  Then he lets go of the brake, and he’s cycling down the stairs. Starting from halfway up. This is totally mental! There’s nothing at the bottom except concrete. Olly and me have never even thought of cycling down the bridge stairs. You’d have to be nuts to even have the idea. Now Carl’s doing it right in front of our eyes.

  His bike’s rocking up and down like it’s having a fit and, as he gets nearer the bottom, the bike goes faster and faster, the weight of it going backwards and forwards in a way that looks all wrong, and then, when he’s only a few steps from the bottom, his front wheel goes sideways on the step, and the back wheel flies up, and Carl’s thrown into the air, over the handlebars and splat on his face with the bike clattering down on top of him.

  It ought to be funny, but it isn’t. Carl lies there, not moving, and no one laughs.

  Me and Olly leave our bikes at the top and run down as fast as we can. By the time we get to the bottom, Carl has stood up. He’s staring at his palms, which are grazed and black. You can see little bits of gravel nestling in bloody slits in his hands. Just above his ear, there’s a patch of hair that’s gone red and spongy.

  ‘There was a stone on the step. I hit a stone.’

  Me and Olly just nod.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’ He says it angrily, like I’m being nosey.

  We stare at him while he brushes at his hands and dabs at the mark on his head with a finger. I pick up his bike and check the wheels for him. They both spin OK. The front one gives a slight squeak, but there doesn’t seem to be any real damage. He takes his bike off me and checks the wheels for himself.

  He fiddles with the bike for ages, and we just watch.

  ‘What d’you leave your bikes up there for?’ he says, as if we’re the ones that have done something wrong, not him. The way he says it, you can almost believe him.

  Without answering, me and Olly
go back up the stairs to get them. On the way up, there’s silence except for the sound of our feet on the steps. Even when we’re too high up for Carl to hear if we’re saying anything, we still don’t speak.

  We carry our bikes slowly back down. Carl’s already on his by the time we get to the bottom.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, and cycles off. I don’t think either of us really wants to follow now, but we can’t not. It’s strange that he doesn’t want to go home, but neither of us says anything.

  Carl leads us down Francis Road and round the back of the council houses where I’ve never been before, under the railway bridge, in and out of the dump, slaloming round the huge skips, and through the park a couple more times. He doesn’t do any more stunts, but it’s still a chase, and the whole thing’s a laugh. Even though he’s just moved here, he knows places I’ve never been before. Or maybe it’s just that he goes anywhere he fancies and assumes no one’s going to stop him. It’s good fun. Not as good as before he crashed, but still good.

  At dinner time we end up outside Olly’s. Normally I’d go in with him, but because Carl’s there I don’t. As we’re saying bye, Carl asks us if we’ll be in the same place tomorrow.

  Me and Olly look at each other, then Olly says yes, even though that wasn’t the look I gave him.

  I ride home with Carl, stopping at his first, then I go on to mine. Inside, Mum asks me who I was with, and I just say Olly.

  The Pilgrimage

  It’s not long after breakfast when I go over to Olly’s. His mum answers the door. She’s where Olly gets the ginga genes from. Genes is the name for the bits of you that you get from your parents, which scientists say is almost everything, so when your parents are telling you off you can blame it on your genes and make it their fault.

  On Olly’s mum, the hair looks nice. It’s different with women. When Dad talks to her, he goes red and sweaty like when he’s trying to fit a plug or programme the video.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she says.

  Olly’s mum never says hello or goodbye, but sometimes she does turn up with a plate of biscuits. His dad’s a bit scary and never talks. When he answers the door, which is hardly ever, he always looks annoyed that it’s me, but he looks annoyed most of the time anyway, so it’s probably not my fault.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Don’t know. Went off with a boy I’ve never seen before. Called for him on his bike.’

  Suddenly my heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. It’s like she’s just hit me in the face. I turn round to head for the park, but it’s hard to get Olly’s gate open when you’re on a bike. As I’m struggling to get through, Olly’s mum says, ‘Bye, then.’

  She’s smiling, as if there’s something funny I don’t understand. She’s like that. It’s typical that the only time she’ll say bye is when she doesn’t mean it.

  ‘Bye,’ I say, trying to sound normal, but she’s already shut the door behind her.

  I peg it, fast as a race, ignoring the burn in my legs which comes on before I’m even halfway there, but as soon as I get to the park I find myself jamming on the brakes. I can see them in the distance. They’re at the track, on their bikes, in the corner spot that me and Olly always use, where you can sit with both feet on the pedals, holding yourself upright with the fence posts. To look at them, you’d think they’d known each other for years.

  Part of me just wants to turn round and go straight back home.

  I could do that. Wait for Olly to come after me. Show him that what he’s done is wrong. But I can’t just leave them there. I couldn’t spend the whole day on my own, knowing they’re together, doing stuff without me. I have to go over, even though it makes me feel sick to think of riding up to them, interrupting their conversation and saying hi as if I’m the newcomer.

  I cycle towards them and swerve on to the track without slowing down. I aim for Olly and ride right at him, with my legs pumping as hard as they can. I’m really zooming, completely ignoring the figure eight, just heading straight for him as if I’m going to smash into his legs at top speed, then at the last second I give a dab on the front brake and a huge squeeze on the back one. I lean away, plant a foot and skid right up to him, timing it perfectly so he can’t help flinching because it seems there’s no way I’ll stop in time, but I do, almost on top of him, our tyres brushing together like a tiny kiss at the final second. A pro couldn’t have timed it better.

  After that, I don’t feel I have to say hi. I glance at Carl to see if he’s impressed.

  Doesn’t look like he is.

  ‘Idiot,’ says Olly. ‘Nearly broke my legs.’

  ‘Didn’t, though, did I?’

  Olly just tuts.

  There’s a silence. I don’t have anything to say, and neither does Olly by the look of it. I want to know what they were talking about, but I can’t just ask.

  Eventually, Carl says, ‘We’re going on a trip.’

  ‘When?’ I ask.

  ‘Now,’ he says. ‘To Wembley.’

  ‘Wembley?’

  ‘Yeah. Wembley Stadium.’

  Wembley’s miles away. Literally. In a car it would take ages. On a bike it’s barely even possible. It’s ten times further than Olly and me have ever gone.

  ‘It’s a thingummy,’ says Olly. ‘When you go to see something because it’s famous. There’s a word for it.’

  ‘We can’t get to Wembley,’ I say. ‘It’s miles.’

  ‘Miles isn’t a problem,’ says Carl. ‘We can go miles. Bikes are made to go miles.’

  ‘But … but…’ I want to say that it’s impossible, that it’s too far, that it’s just not allowed, but I can’t think of a way to put it that won’t sound bad. ‘How are we going to find it?’ I say.

  Carl turns and points. Far away, near the horizon, above the tennis courts, are Wembley’s twin towers, like two big meringues.

  ‘Just because we can see them from here doesn’t mean we can find them,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we don’t know the way.’

  ‘Yes, we do. It’s that way.’

  ‘That’s not a way. It’s a direction.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘We don’t know which are the right roads.’

  ‘If it’s the right direction, it’s the right roads.’

  ‘But you can’t always see it. When we can’t see it, we won’t know which direction it is.’

  ‘It isn’t going to move, is it. It doesn’t run away when you’re not looking at it.’

  ‘But you can hardly ever see it. There’s too many houses.’

  ‘That’s part of the fun, isn’t it.’ says Carl. ‘We head in that direction and see if we get there.’

  ‘What if we get lost?’

  Carl shrugs.

  I look at Olly. His face is serious, but I can’t tell if he’s scared.

  ‘It’s too far,’ I say.

  ‘Olly says it’s about half an hour in a car, so if a car goes at thirty, that means it’s fifteen miles. It’s easy.’

  ‘That’ll take all day. What about lunch?’

  Carl pulls something small and crumpled from his pocket and snaps it open in front of me, pulling it taut with two hands. It’s a ten-pound note.

  ‘Where d’you get that?’

  ‘Same place I get everything,’ he says.

  I hate it when people do that. Give you an answer that isn’t an answer, just to make you ask more questions so you sound desperate. I don’t want to play that game, so I just stare at him. That’s when I notice something weird. The spot above his ear where he banged his head is still caked with blood. The hair’s in clumps, like tiny, red icicles. My eyes flick down to his hands. I can see his right palm, which is resting on his thigh, and it’s also just the same as yesterday. The graze is still black and red. It hasn’t been washed, and there’s no plaster.

  Carl sees where I’m looking and flips his hand over.

  Olly’s gazing dreamily at the twin towers.
‘There’s a word for it,’ he says. ‘P something.’

  Sometimes Olly’s too dumb to know when he ought to be scared. When I’ve done risky things with Olly in the past, he only gets scared the day after. He goes to casualty more often than most people go to the dentist.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ says Carl. ‘If you’re too chicken, we’ll do it without you.’

  I want to ask Olly if he really thinks it’s allowed, but I can’t in front of Carl.

  ‘Pilgrimage,’ I say. ‘It’s a pilgrimage.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound right,’ says Olly.

  It’s not just talk. They’re going to do it. And I can’t let them go without me. I can’t just sit at home and let Carl take Olly off like that. I don’t have any choice except to join in. If you think I do – if you think I should have turned round and gone home – it just shows how stupid you are, and how you don’t understand anything about anyone.

  If you go along but act scared, you’re no better off than if you chicken out altogether. Since I’m going to do it, I might as well look confident. I might as well act like it could have been my idea.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  And I set off. Just like that. They have to follow me.

  I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard, but I set up a fast pace. Before we’re even out of the park, Carl overtakes me. I can hear his front wheel squeak as he goes past.

  Kenton Road’s two lanes in each direction, really fast, always full. It’s so obvious I’m not allowed to cycle there that no one’s ever bothered to say it. Carl doesn’t even hesitate. He steers straight into the flow of traffic, as if he was a car. Me and Olly don’t have a moment to think about it. We just follow.

  The buses and lorries go by so close that each one makes you wobble, the air around them shoving you towards the kerb, then sucking you back again after they pass. None of the drains is at the same height as the road, and when you see one coming you have about a second to decide if you’re going to swing out between the cars or just ride over the dip and hope it doesn’t knock you off. It’s scary, but not in a fun way.