The Accidental Cyclist

by Dennis Rink

  “Where’s my bike?” The Leader demanded of Icarus.

  Icarus ignored the question, and tried to step around the boy. The Leader jumped off the bike and quickly moved it backwards to block Icarus’s progress. “Where’ve you been?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you for days.”

  Again Icarus ignored him and moved the other way. The Leader was quick, and moved the bike forwards again. Icarus stopped still, and looked down at the bullock of a boy standing in front of him, nostrils flared, angry at being ignored, and that anger feeding on itself.

  “Where’s my bike?” The Leader asked again. Icarus wondered to himself why he thought of the boy as The Leader, because here he was, on his own, without any followers. Icarus certainly was not following him. No one was.

  Again: “Where’s you been? Where’s my bike?”

  Icarus said: “Isn’t this your bike?” pointing to the pint-sized BMX.

  “Don’t be funny. I mean my two-grand bike that I left with you in the park.”

  “Oh, that one,” said Icarus. “I imagine that the police still have it. Unless they’ve returned it to its original owner.”

  “The police?” The bullock froze as if struck by a sedative dart – the fire faded from his eyes and the steam from his nostrils was doused by that information. Icarus, ever the innocent, realised he had the tactical advantage in this power play, and he wanted to keep it. “Yes, the police,” he said. “Where do you think I’ve been? I was in jail, all because you stole a bike.”

  Icarus noticed now that the bullock was no more than a mere calf, doe-eyed and a bit snuffly. “You … you didn’t mention about … me, or the rest of the group, did you?” he asked Icarus.

  “What do you think I am? Some kind of …” Icarus grasped for the right word, but snitch wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  “Grass…” The Calf offered. “…no, I didn’t mean to say you were.” Just then he seemed to become aware that Icarus was actually a lot taller than him, a growing lad who seemed to be almost bursting out of his jacket. “I just want to say, um, we’re all grateful that you took the fall. We owe you one.”

  Icarus detected a note of respect in The Leader’s voice. He had no idea what it meant, but he repeated: “Yes, I took the fall for you, and you owe me one.”

  Icarus left The Leader playing tricks on the BMX. As he reached the High Street he turned back to take a last look at The Leader, and as he did so he glimpsed a strange-looking individual, a wisp of figure dressed in a long beige Macintosh and big yellow floppy hat, as it skipped behind a newsstand. Strange way to dress on such a warm day, thought Icarus. But then, people are strange.

  At the job centre there were fewer people than he had expected. Instead of being able to disappear into the crowd, as he had always done at school, here Icarus felt quite conspicuous. He wished he was able to emulate the Gray Man’s disappearing trick, but because he felt that he was too stressed, too self-conscious, he was unable to pull it off. One quick glimpse around the room told Icarus that, in his Sunday best, he was totally overdressed for the occasion. Everyone here was, to say the least, casually attired. And apart from one rather sturdy young woman with severely cropped black and pink hair sitting at a desk in one corner, he was the only person wearing a tie.

  “Can I help you, dearie?” a big voice boomed. Icarus turned to face a large black woman wearing a grey uniform and the biggest, whitest smile he had ever seen. “You come to sign on?”

  “Pardon,” said Icarus.

  “I said, have you come to sign on?” the big white smile repeated.

  “Sign on what?” said Icarus.

  The white smile sighed. “Sign on, you know, for your benefits,” she said.

  “No,” said Icarus. “I don’t want to sign for anything. I just want to find a job.”

  “As a bank manager?” said a skinny youth in T-shirt and jogging pants, who appeared to be propping up a notice board in the centre of the room.

  “Well, dearie,” the big white smile widened considerably, “that makes a change. And you’ve certainly come to the right place. If you want a job, I’m sure that we can help you to find it. And for a change it’s nice to see someone here who really wants a job.” Her voice rose in volume and pitch as she spoke that last sentence. Icarus realised that it was aimed not at him, but at the skinny youth and the other shadows that darkened the corners of the room. “Now, just pop over to desk number six and I’m sure that we’ll find you a job in no time at all.”

  Icarus walked across to the far side of the large office. Sitting behind desk number six was a woman of about thirty, thin-faced, brown haired, bored, noisily chewing gum and filing her fingernails.

  “Siddown,” she told Icarus. Then: “Wadduyawant?”

  “I’m looking for a job,” Icarus proffered.

  “Aren’tcha-all. Filloutaform overthere, then bringitbackhere.” The words cascaded out of her mouth so quickly, punctuated only by chewing, that Icarus could barely catch their import.

  Followed closely by a chomping noise, Icarus took the form to an empty desk to fill it in. Every now and then he looked up as he stopped to think. Through the plate-glass window, across the road, was a red pillar box that appeared to be wearing a floppy yellow hat that kept jiggling. Somehow it didn’t surprise him. He finished filling the form and took it back to the chewing lady at desk six. Without looking up the woman took the form, glanced at it, then pulled out a tray filled with index cards.

  “So, whatcha wannado?” she chomped.

  Before Icarus could reply, she began flicking through the cards, alphabetically eliminating the jobs on his behalf.

  “Barman – too young.

  “Bookkeeper – too unqualified.

  “Cashier – too boring. Believeme, I’vedunnit.

  “Caterer – too much food. It’ll makeyoufat.

  “Cycle courier – too dangerous.”

  Before she could go any further Icarus was almost out of his seat. “That’s the one for me,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

  For a moment the chewing stopped, because the woman’s jaw had fallen open, aghast. “You gotta benuts,” she said, and began chewing again, but slowly, almost deliberately. “You don’twanna killyourself.”

  Icarus had snatched the card out of her hand. This was it, he thought, this was just the job that he wanted. He looked at the card: the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch). It sounded glamorous, exciting – it even had international in its title – that must surely mean something. The woman took the card back from him. “You sure?” she was chewing and speaking more slowly now. Icarus nodded. “Lemme phone andsee ifit’s still open.”

  She turned away from Icarus so that he could not hear her as she spoke on the phone. Every now and then she would turn to Icarus and fire a question at him: “Can you read?” (Icarus nodded.)

  “You fitan’healthy?” (Another nod.)

  “Canyou startonthefirst?” (That was three weeks away. He could wait.)

  All appeared to be going well, the conversation on the telephone about to end, when she turned to ask him one last question: “Yougotcha ownbike?” Icarus hesitated, looked down at his shoes, then nodded vigorously and thought: I have three weeks to acquire a bike and learn to ride it. He could worry about that later.

  Icarus left the job centre in record time, a satisfied customer, the first in many, many months. The big black lady with the big white-toothed smile smiled at him as he left, and said: “You see, I told you we would fix you up, dearie, didn’t I. And so quickly too.” Then the pitch of her voice rose half an octave, for the benefit of the other “customers” who were lolling about: “Now, if any of you other ladies and gentlemen here would like to FIND A JOB, please step forward.”

  No one moved.

  7. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  Icarus saw the floppy hat disappear behind the pillar box as he walked out of the job centre. It seemed a familiar floppy hat, one that he had seen before. And then he remembered where – it liv
ed in a hat box on top of his mother’s wardrobe, and she had worn it one summer when they had picnicked in the park.

  I’ll have to lose the hat now, he thought to himself, and he tried to remember how the spies in movies managed to lose the baddies that were following them. Icarus had to take his application papers from the job centre to the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch), which was only just a short way up the High Street, and he did not want his mother to follow him there. There were no crowds to mingle in, no busy oriental market to disappear into, no dark alleyways to swallow him up or rooftops to scamper across. So instead Icarus headed off in the opposite direction from the courier company and turned right at the first corner. Around the corner he peeked back to check that hat and mac were following, then he ran quickly to the next corner, turned right, then right again, so that he was back on the High Street and heading in the right direction. He jogged down the high street all the way to his new employer. Outside the courier company he stopped again to check that his tail was nowhere in sight, and he went in.

  It did not take Icarus twenty minutes to go through the flimsy formalities, lying about his age and his ownership of a bicycle without even thinking. The first time that he did think was as he was leaving – suddenly he felt like a thief. He felt as if, by lying, he had stolen the job. And then it struck him – to take up the job he would need to steal a bike, because he had no money to buy one. Stealing magazines from a myopic shopkeeper was easy, but how do you go about stealing a bicycle? He had no idea, and the thought of it appalled him, but it had to be done. And then remembered The Leader. That’s what it means when he owes me one, Icarus said to himself, smiling, and he stepped off the kerb to cross the road to where had seen his mother waiting, her cheeks all aglow, the mackintosh now limp over her arm, the yellow hat flopping in her hand. The heat had got the better of her.

  “Stop.” Mrs Smith’s shriek struck Icarus like a blow to the head, although not nearly as hard as the policeman’s, and he froze, his foot halfway to the tarmac. At that moment a cyclist skidded to a standstill right in front of him.

  “Sorry,” said Icarus, “I just didn’t see you.”

  “That wouldn’t be the first time,” said the cyclist. “Good thing that I saw you.”

  Icarus stood back to allow the rider to continue on his way. The cyclist did not move. Icarus looked up. Under the cycle cap he recognised the pale grey eyes. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.” It was the Grey Man from the police cell.

  “Yes,” said the Grey Man, “it’s me. And oh, it’s you, and it’s not the first time that you didn’t see me, isn’t it?”

  Icarus looked at the fluorescent yellow jacket that the Grey Man was wearing, and the bright orange sling bag. How could he have not seen him?

  The Grey Man laughed. “Yes, I know, I’m just so easy to miss in this getup.”

  “What are you doing here?” asked Icarus.

  “I work here,” the Grey Man said, nodding towards the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch), “and what are you doing here?”

  “I work here too. Well, I will. I start in three week’s time.”

  Mrs Smith had found a gap in the traffic and crossed the road to Icarus. “Oh, Icky, are you all right?” She grasped his arm, as if he needed her support.

  “Icky?” the Grey Man asked.

  “Icarus,” said Icarus.

  “Ah,” said the Grey Man, “a man of the classics, a man of legend ….”

  “Icky,” said Mrs Smith again, “I was so worried about you. I just had to see that you were all right.”

  “I’m fine, Mother. There’s nothing wrong. And I’ve found a job. I’m going to be working here as a, er, as a messenger.”

  “A messenger,” Mrs Smith gasped. “A messenger. I’m sure you can do much better than that.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said the Grey Man. “I started out as a messenger,” (he gave Icarus a sly wink) “and I’ve gone a long way since then. A long, long way, believe me.”

  “And just who are you?” Mrs Smith asked. Then, to Icarus: “Do you know this gentleman?”

  “We met, er, we met at the police station,” said Icarus.

  “Oh,” said Mrs Smith, to the Grey Man, “oh. That was all just one horrible misunderstanding, a mistake, a … a …” she was not able to find another apt synonym. “It was all a mistake. That is what we told the judge.”

  “Magistrate,” Icarus corrected.

  “…just a terrible mistake, and such an awful ordeal for my poor Icky. An awful, dreadful, horrible ordeal.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said the Grey Man to Mrs Smith, then to Icarus: “I must be getting along now. If you’d like me to put you in the picture about work some time, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Icarus felt obliged to be happy and, with his mother’s approval, he arranged to meet the Grey Man in the park opposite their flat later that evening.

  “Lovely to meet you, Mrs Smith,” said the Grey Man as he scooted off into the midday traffic, “and nice to see you again, Icky.”

  “Strange man,” said Mrs Smith once he had gone. “Nice, but strange. Don’t you think maybe he’s a bit old to be riding around on a bicycle. Probably was never taught better. Something to do with the way he was brought up, raised, bred ...”

  8. SAGE ADVICE AND ONION STUFFING

  It was a pleasant summer’s evening as Icarus Smith sat in the park waiting for the Grey Man to arrive. He knew that across the road, behind the twitching lace curtain, Mrs Smith was watching, ready to swoop like a mother bird should her fledgling appear to be in harm’s way. But this fledgling was no longer in need of her protective wing, he was ready to fly. Well, not fly, but ready to walk on his own, to run, to … to ride a bicycle.

  Icarus realised that he had to make a plan. Thus far his life had been all mapped out for him. Everything had simply unfolded before him as it should, and he had unquestioningly accepted the path that opened up ahead of him. Always he had been guided along the straight and narrow road, by his mother, by his teachers, and discouraged from taking detours or exploring new paths. Now, as he looked ahead, he had no guide, and he could discern no clear path. Instead, there were several paths, and for the first time he had to make a choice: he could relent on the job, go back to school, and take the safe choice that would lead to the life that he knew: dull, sure, unchanging. Or he could choose to go down that unknown path, follow a vague dream, even take a risk.

  Take a risk. It struck Icarus then that never in his life had he taken a risk. He thought about The Leader, the other boys that he had seen in the park, their lives appeared to be encapsulated by risk, by chance, by accident. They must lead such varied and interesting lives. And it occurred to Icarus that he had taken one risk, the single action that had brought him to this juncture – sitting on that Condor Paris Galibier. It had not seemed like a risk at the time, but it was, if not a risk, at least it was chance that he had done so, because he had taken the action without considering the consequences. And in taking that action – swinging his leg over the crossbar of the Condor Paris Galibier – he had for the very first time grasped at the coat-tails of liberty. He was decided.

  And so then, to the great plan. Icarus half-hoped to see The Leader among the visitors in the park. As he sat on the park bench he considered the possibilities and probabilities of acquiring a bicycle. The only prospect of getting a bicycle before he began work as a courier, he thought, was to ask The Leader to steal one for him. After all, The Leader did owe him one. Yes, that’s what he owed him, a bicycle. Once Icarus had the bike, the Grey Man could teach him all he needed to know about being a bicycle courier. Step two of his plan was formulated. Now there was just the final part of his plan – to tell, nay, to convince his mother that he was doing the right thing. That part of the plan would be the hardest. He would leave that until the last.

  Icarus watched the summer strollers come and go in the evening light, his mind wrestling with the arguments, the thr
eats, the pleadings that he would need to disarm his mother. She had, he knew, a startlingly diverse emotional arsenal. He knew which weapons she would brandish in a war of wills. He knew how easily a mere frown could make him wish he had never thought of opposing her. Or how a falling tear could explode like a grenade, shattering his resolve in an instant. He was wrapped in these thoughts when he became aware that he was not alone on the park bench.

  “Sorry,” said the Gray Man, for indeed it was Icarus’s new-found friend that sat beside him on the bench, his bicycle propped up alongside him. “I didn’t mean to startle you, because I could see you were in deep thought.”

  “I was just wondering,” said Icarus, “how to tell Mother what my job is really about.” Behind them the lace curtain twitched.

  “Is that your biggest problem?” asked the Grey Man. “Don’t you have any more immediate concerns?”

  “Well, yes, I need a bike. But I think I know how to sort that out.”

  “You do? Pray, tell.”

  Icarus noted that the Grey Man, in spite of his long grey ponytail and slick cycling gear, was extremely well-spoken in an old-fashioned way.

  “Well,” said Icarus, “I met this chap here in the park, and he knows how to, er,” – he realised that in front of the Grey Man he did not want to use the word steal – “he knows how to get hold of bicycles. He seems very good at it, in fact, and he said that he owed me one.”

  “Owes you a bicycle? That’s a rather strange currency to deal in.”

  “No, he owes me one – you know, he owes me a favour.”