The Accidental Cyclist

by Dennis Rink

  Icarus decided that he did not, so said nothing. The flap snapped shut.

  “Wait,” cried Icarus.

  The eyes appeared again. “Wait? Well, what?”

  “I’m thirsty,” said Icarus, almost in a whimper.

  “In the corner,” said the voice, the curtness punctuated by the snap of the flap.

  Slowly Icarus rolled over. In the corner was a basin with a single tap, and a low-level stainless-steel lavatory.

  Icarus sat up slowly. His spine seemed to be trying to hammer its way into the back of his skull. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and stood up. His legs were unsteady, but he managed to make his way to the basin. He looked at the single tap for a moment, wondering whether it was hot or cold, then drank anyway, deeply. For a few moments longer he stood over the basin, before he cupped his hands and filled them with water, and washed his face. The coolness eased the throbbing. Carefully he felt his face. The right side was swollen and very tender to the touch. He could not remember why.

  He returned to the bed and sat down, staring at his feet. He noticed that the laces from his shoes were missing. He wondered, absent-mindedly, what he might have done with them, and what his mother might say about that.

  Icarus sat there for a while in a vague trance, staring vacantly at his feet. Time, and the quantity of water that he had consumed, worked their course and Icarus became aware of the pressure on his bladder.

  He looked at the lavatory in the corner – it was dirty and cold, like those he had seen in public places, and which his mother had told him never to use. “They’re full of germs and diseases,” she would tell him. “If you need to go, go home, where you know it is always clean.”

  There must be a clean one somewhere, he thought, so he stood up and walked across the room to the metal door. At first touch it seemed shut tight, but Icarus realised how thick and heavy it was, a bit like a policeman, so he leant his shoulder against it and pushed. Slowly the heavy door opened, moving silently on well-oiled hinges, and Icarus went out into a dark corridor lined with similar iron doors. At one end was a wall with a small barred window like the one in his room, and at the other there was a barred gate.

  He walked up to it, pushed it open quite easily, and went through, to find himself in a reception area. Behind a counter to one side was the biggest man that Icarus had ever seen. He had a round smooth head placed firmly onto a round, wobbly body, with no neck in between. Somehow his blue tie and the ends of his off-white collar found their way out into the light. He looked up and saw Icarus.

  “What the hell,” said Mr Wobbly.

  “I was just looking for the lavatory,” said Icarus.

  “Jenkins,” yelled Mr Wobbly, in the loudest voice that Icarus had ever heard, so loud, in fact that even the solid walls of the establishment appeared to shake.

  Helmet Two appeared. “Yes, sarge?” he asked, almost nervously.

  “Didn’t you lock up after you?” Sergeant Wobbly demanded to know. “Or have you lost your keys again, along with your marbles?”

  Helmet Two looked across and saw Icarus. A look of total puzzlement took over his face, replacing his appearance of stupidity. “I’m sure I did. I mean, I’m sure I locked up. I’ve never not locked up before, I don’t see how I could not have done …”

  “Excuse me,” said Icarus, now hopping from one leg to the other, “but I really do need the lavatory. I’m desperate.”

  “Shut up,” Sergeant Wobbly said to Icarus, then to Helmet Two: “I don’t know what’s happening to this service. It’s falling apart, can’t get the right people …”

  Icarus was squirming in the corner. He had the feeling that Sergeant Wobbly and Helmet Two were not really concerned about his problem, so he decided the only thing to do was to return and use the dirty lavatory.

  The two men did not notice that Icarus was gone until they heard the barred gate clink closed behind him. Helmet Two turned to go after him: “Just where do you think you’re going, young man?” He followed Icarus to haul him back, not slowing to go through the barred gate. But the gate appeared to be locked, so he came to an abrupt halt, his top lip splitting as it struck one of the metal bars. The blow knocked him onto his backside. He looked up, coughed, and his two front teeth fell out into his hand. He looked down at his teeth, then at the bars, and then beyond, to where Icarus had just disappeared into his cell.

  Icarus was zipping up his flies when he became aware of a movement behind him. When he entered the room he had shut the door behind him, and he thought that no one else was there, but now he had that disconcerting feeling that he was not alone. He turned around and looked carefully into the gloom – it took him a few moments before he saw his cellmate.

  “Where did you come from?” asked Icarus.

  The man had a weather-worn but kindly face, long grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a grey beard, which seemed to be plaited. He had steel-grey eyes, and even his skin appeared to be grey, as if all colour had leeched out of him. All of this helped him to fade into the shadows. He looked Icarus up and down before answering. His voice was low and slow, and had a slight drawl. “That depends on when you’re talking about.”

  “I mean now, right now. You weren’t there a minute ago.”

  “I’ve been here since you arrived. I watched them carry you in, and lay you down, and take your belt and shoelaces …”

  “But I didn’t see you before.”

  The Grey Man thought about that last statement for a while, then realised that it was actually a question of sorts.

  “Well,” he said to Icarus, more slowly, carefully, “I suppose you could call it my talent.”

  “You call that a talent,” said Icarus, almost laughing, “you pop up out of the blue, and you call that a talent. You wouldn’t get far on X-Factor with a talent like that.”

  “Just a minute,” said the Grey Man, “I’m not going to sit here and talk to you if you’re just going to insult me. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “How did I get it all wrong?”

  “For a start, everyone has a talent, even if they don’t know it. And second, my talent isn’t popping up out of the blue, as you so quaintly put it. Rather, it’s disappearing into the background, a kind of vanishing act.”

  Icarus thought about this for a while.

  “So, can you vanish now? Can you just disappear?”

  “It’s not magic,” said the Grey Man, sighing. “it’s simply a talent. It’s something I can use to my advantage in certain circumstances. It won’t work now that I have brought myself to your attention, but I used it earlier so that you wouldn’t take any notice of me.”

  “Why? Didn’t you want to talk to me?”

  “No, not really. I am quite at peace with my own company, and I don’t generally enjoy the type of conversation that you usually get in prison. But I was very taken by your own extraordinary talent.”

  “But I don’t have a talent,” Icarus protested. “My mum keeps telling me I don’t really do anything well. I can’t sing or play the violin. What talent could I possibly have?”

  “I already told you, everyone has a talent. A talent is a special gift from God – it is his special gift to you. And even if you don’t believe in God, or anything like that, if you respect this world you live in, you should use your talents as a gift to the world. If you don’t use your talent to help others, then your life is wasted.”

  “But I don’t have any talent. I can’t think of a single thing that I can do that you could call a talent.”

  The Grey Man stroked his grizzled beard thoughtfully, then said: “Ah, so you’re one of those.”

  Icarus looked at him quizzically. “One of what?”

  “Well, you’re an innocent, and if I told you what it is that you have, you may well lose it. You see, you have a special gift, more special than the talent that I have, and you seem to be unaware of it. But if you understood what that gift was, you stand every chance of losing it.”

  Icarus sat dow
n on his bunk. “I just don’t get you. Are you teasing me?”

  “No, it’s just that I don’t want to spoil what you have.”

  Icarus shook his head. “Now I’m just going to sit here and worry about what you’ve told me.”

  “Look,” the Grey Man interrupted the long silence, “do you know where you are?”

  “Well, I thought it was a hospital,” said Icarus, “but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Ok, you’re not in a hospital. You’re actually in a police cell.”

  “You mean like a prison,” said Icarus. “What will Mother say?”

  “Never mind about that right now. Why don’t you go out and tell the policemen that you shouldn’t really be here. That it’s all a mistake. Just go out and call them.”

  “But how can I?” asked Icarus. “Look at that huge steel door. It will be locked.”

  “Why is that suddenly a problem?” asked the Grey Man. “You opened it and went out before.”

  Icarus looked across the cell, confusion in his eyes. Slowly he stood up, crossed the cell and pushed at the door. It did not move. He set his shoulder to the door and pushed with all of his strength, but the door remained shut tight. “They probably left it unlocked before,” Icarus said. “The policeman lost the keys, or something.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said the Grey Man. “You see, your talent is your innocence, it allowed you to do whatever you wanted to do. Most people would simply have expected that door to be locked. I did. And that stops us from even trying to open the door. But really, freedom is simply a state of mind. If your mind doesn’t know that you are in prison, then you are free. St Paul had the same talent, although some people think of it as a miracle, and claim that he was helped by angels. You have that talent. It may be missing right now, but it will return. If you can set your mind free, you will be capable of everything.”

  4. A BRIEF ENCOUNTER

  Icarus was not able to set his mind free. His conversation with the Grey Man had locked his mind, his emotions, his very spirit, in chains. He had no visions of soaring, liberated from this prison on waxen wings constructed to carry him to freedom. Darkness shrouded Icarus. The Grey Man disappeared back into the gloom and Icarus sat there alone, weighed down by the heavy silence, a palpable depression that he had never experienced before. Just like his fabled namesake, Icarus was beginning to believe that he would never see the sun again, let alone fly close enough to feel the warmth of its rays.

  He began to withdraw into his cocoon, seeking comfort from the isolation that his mother had spun around him all his life. When the desk sergeant came to fetch him a few hours later, Icarus followed him to the interview room as if in a trance.

  Inside the room, sitting at a table, was a chubby, red-faced man in a rumpled pin-stripe suit that was a size too small for him. He was sweating slightly, even though the room was quite chilly. The man was looking through a sheaf of papers. Without even looking at Icarus, he said: “Smith, sit down. I’ve been appointed as your brief. I’m Pro Bono, so let’s get on with it.”

  Icarus sat down at the table opposite Mr Bono. The big sergeant stationed himself behind Icarus. Mr Bono coughed, and looked up at the sergeant. “A bit of privacy, please sergeant, just for form’s sake.”

  Slowly, like a whale trying to reverse, the sergeant turned around and left the room.

  “So,” said Mr Bono, looking at Icarus for the first time, “so.”

  Icarus looked back at him, and said nothing.

  “Ah,” said Mr Bono, “is that how it’s going to be. Non-cooperation doesn’t help, you know. If you plead guilty and show contrition, I can probably get you three months maximum. You’ll be out in six weeks, if you behave. What say you?”

  Icarus stared across the table at Mr Bono. He had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about.

  “The only problem,” Mr Bono went on, “is your record. They seem to have mislaid it. If you’ve done this kind of thing before, you could go away for a year or more. This was a high-end article, you realise, not just some cheap lump of metal that most kids around here seem to have a preference for …” – Icarus stared dumbly at Mr Bono – “… but I suppose you know that. Did you think you could sell it on, or what?” Mr Bono waited for an answer, but there was none. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” he continued, the anything erupting from his mouth in an explosion of exasperation.

  Icarus seemed to stir, and said in a very small voice: “Can I see my mother?”

  “So, you think that your mother can get you out of this? You kids are all the same – a brave face until you get caught. Such a big boy, crying for his mummy. How old are you anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen? It doesn’t say here …”

  “I’ll be sixteen next month,” said Icarus.

  Mr Bono shot to his feet as if his chair was about to explode. Apart from the shuffling of pages, it was the first movement that Icarus had seen him make. At almost the instant that Mr Bono opened his mouth to shout to the sergeant, the door sprang open and the sergeant filled the entire doorframe.

  “Stop,” said the sergeant, his several chins jiggling to underscore the exclamation. “Stop, I say.”

  “I have stopped, as well you can see,” Mr Bono addressed the rippling chins. “Do you know how old this boy is?”

  “Yes,” wobbled the sergeant, “and I was about to inform you that …”

  “He’s a minor,” shouted Mr Bono.

  “… I was about to tell you that,” said the sergeant.

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me that before? Didn’t the fact emerge when you interviewed him?”

  “Er, well, we didn’t exactly interview him. He wasn’t in, um, in a fit state.”

  Icarus watched this interchange, wondering how on earth he had come to be in the company of two such disagreeable characters. The verbal ping-pong continued, with Mr Bono serving what he thought was his ace: “You should have let me know he was a minor. I could lose my licence again.”

  The sergeant rallied: “I told you the minute we found out.”

  “Well, you’re all imbeciles here. You don’t know how to run a …a….”

  The sergeant began to quiver frighteningly, and then suddenly erupted: “I don’t like being called an imbecile by a jumped-up attorney who survives on handing out his services to those who can’t afford their own brief.”

  Mr Bono seemed to shrink inside his suit, making it appear more rumpled than it already was. “I didn’t mean to call you that,” he backed off slightly, “but I was shocked to realise that my entire career might have been compromised by instructing a minor without the presence of his parents.”

  This statement reminded them that they were not alone, that they were supposed to be in the process of interviewing a young felon. They looked around the room. The sergeant was still blocking the only door, so that Icarus couldn’t have gone anywhere. But they did not see him.

  “What the …” said Mr Bono.

  “Where the …” said the sergeant.

  The two men stood there, scratching their heads. Mr Bono asked: “So, how did you find out his age?”

  “His mother is outside,” said the sergeant. “She came to report him missing. We put two and two together and made ….”

  “Five,” said Mr Bono, finishing the sergeant’s sentence for him.

  “My mother’s outside?” said Icarus, perking up. He was still sitting right there at the table, plumb between the two men. He was looking rather pleased with himself, although they couldn’t fathom why.

  “Where did you go?” asked the sergeant.

  “How did you do that?” asked Mr Bono.

  Icarus just smiled to himself. A new talent, he thought, then said: “No more questions, gentlemen, until I see my mother.” He was learning fast.

  Mrs Smith was standing tearfully in the waiting room, miserable and weather-worn. Outside was a wonderful sunshine day, but Mrs Smith seemed to travel beneath a constant cloud of gloom. The grey mists lifted marginal
ly the moment she saw her son, and she tripped across the room to embrace him.

  Icarus braced himself for the onslaught, standing stiffly to weather the wave of motherly affection. As gently as his big hands allowed him to, the sergeant prised them apart.

  He cleared his throat. Mrs Smith, despite all the hardships that life had thrown at her, still had her attractions for men like the big sergeant. Her primary attraction was her apparent vulnerability – she always looked as if she was about to trip over her own shadow. She was well aware of this secret weapon, and occasionally she knew just how to use it.

  “We have a few questions, ma’am,” said the sergeant, clearing his throat again.

  “Of course,” the tearful woman responded. Then to her son: “Oh Icky,” (the boy winced) “Icky, I’m just so relieved that you’re alright. I came home and you weren‘t there. I was so worried – you were gone hours.”

  “Hours, madam?” asked the sergeant. “I thought you said he was missing for days.”

  “Hours, days, I don’t know sergeant,” Mrs Smith fluttered tearful eyelashes at the big man. “He was missing for so long that I was all confused and upset. I truly don’t know how long it was, or what I said.”

  The sergeant led Icarus and Mrs Smith back to the interview room, where Mr Bono was still sitting, sprawled in front of his papers. The moment he saw Mrs Smith he leapt to his feet and doffed the hat that he wasn’t wearing. He then tussled with the big sergeant as the two of them tried to help Mrs Smith into a chair. The sergeant won, being larger by far than the squat lawyer. After a few general questions, all addressed to and answered by the simpering Mrs Smith, the sergeant raised the delicate question about the name of the boy’s father, and his whereabouts.

  Icarus, who was starting to feel a bit left out of the proceedings, interjected: “My father is Ded …”

  At which moment Mrs Smith shot the boy an unusually steely glance that seemed to silence him, and interjected: “The boy’s father … (sniff) he’s, well, he’s no longer with us, he’s gone, departed.” Mrs Smith was an avid crossword puzzler, and every time she wished to emphasise a point, she would find an approximate word for the one she wanted, then add a sprinkling of synonyms as if homing in on the right one.