by Dennis Rink
“Oh, so you did him a good turn, and now you expect one in return?”
“Well, yes,” said Icarus, pleased that the Grey Man understood him, “that’s just how it is.”
“And how is your friend going to acquire this bike?” The Grey Man allowed his emphasis to fall on the word acquire.
Icarus found himself wishing that he had never broached the subject of acquiring a bicycle. “Er, I don’t know. He … he just has a knack of getting hold of them.”
“And once he has repaid your favour, do you think that the two of you will be even?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure we will.”
“You don’t think that the balance of power will swing just a little in his favour? That you might again be in his debt, especially if he knows where the bike comes from, and you don’t?”
Icarus thought about this for some time. Before he could reply, the Grey Man said: “Listen, Icarus, when you do someone a favour, don’t ever accept one in return – at least, don’t expect one. That way, you can always feel the satisfaction of having done something good just for the sake of it. Of course, an added bonus is that the other party remains forever in your debt. And if someone offers to help you out of the goodness of their heart, accept that for what it is, but never let them do so as repayment for something that you might have done for them.”
Icarus did not look so sure that he understood or agreed with the Grey Man. “I suppose so,” he said.
“Yes, of course you suppose so. But think about it. If your friend did something that was, um, shall we say, not totally legal in repaying your debt, you would become party to his illicit action, wouldn’t you?”
Icarus pondered this, nodding slowly.
“Besides,” the Grey Man continued, “wouldn’t you feel more in control if this friend remained indebted to you?”
Icarus nodded. “Are you some kind of lawyer?” he asked.
“Kind of,” said the Grey Man.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun slowly slipping behind the trees at the far end of the park, the shadows stretching across the rhododendrons – yes, those rhododendrons that so loved little children and tennis balls – at the far reaches of the grass.
“You’re right,” Icarus said after several minutes, “it would be better if he owed me one. Things would be better that way. But then I’m still stuck with the problem of getting hold of a bike.”
“And you have no money,” said the Grey Man.
Icarus was not sure if that was a question or a statement, so he remained silent. The Grey Man paused for a while. “Of course, there is always Freecycle.”
“What’s Freecycle?” asked Icarus. “Some kind of place where they give bicycles away for free?”
“Yes,” said the Grey Man, “in a manner of speaking, bicycles and anything else that you can think of.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Well, ours is a consumer society where most people simply throw away things that are perfectly useable, just because they don’t need them any longer. They throw things away because they’ve become tired of them, or because they’ve bought something new. Freecycle is trying to change that – instead of throwing things away, it encourages people to give them away, so that someone else can use them. It’s really just a way of recycling.”
“And where is this place? Is it far?”
“Right here,” said the Grey Man. “Well, right wherever there is an internet connection. It’s a big website – you know what a website is, don’t you?” – Icarus gave him a slightly disdainful look – “well, it’s a website where people register the things that they no longer want or need. It means that they don’t have to throw them away. People are actually too lazy to sell second-hand goods. All you have to do is log it on the website and someone who wants it will come along and take it away.”
“I get it,” said Icarus, “everything is given away for free, and it recycles things that people don’t want. That’s really quite clever. When can we have a look?”
“We can look right now, if you want to. Do you have a web connection at your flat?”
Icarus shook his head. “We don’t even have a computer. Mother says that they are a corrupting influence – something about an instrument of the devil.”
“Well, she’s right, to a certain degree,” said the Grey Man, “but they do have their uses. We can go to the library tomorrow and use a computer there.”
The pair, man and boy-almost-man, sat silently on the park bench watching day slip into night. The Grey Man was content to sit there and enjoy the peace. Icarus was not. He wanted to know things.
“Have you been a courier for long?” he asked his older companion.
The Grey Man sighed. “For a few years.”
“So, what did you do before that?”
“This and that.”
Icarus was insistent, he wanted to know more about the Grey Man, all about him. And once he had broken the seal, the Grey Man’s story slowly leaked out – a good school, university, where his majors were drinking and chasing women, and with no apparent application or effort, he left with a law degree. There followed a job in a big law firm, wife and two children, large house, fast cars, holidays abroad and all the trappings of a successful career. But somehow the Grey Man felt that it was not his own life that he was living, that somehow he had slipped into someone else’s skin and was living their life, not his own. He began to feel trapped, restricted. As his mood darkened his marriage suffered and his work deteriorated. One day his boss reprimanded him for some sloppy work, and the Grey Man snapped. He told his boss what he thought of him and what he could do with is job. He walked out of his office with nothing more than the clothes that he was wearing and the cash he had in his pockets. For two weeks he drank himself silly, sleeping rough and looking rougher, until his cash ran out. As far as his family and employer were concerned, he had just vanished.
As the Grey Man talked the lights in the park came on. Icarus realised that he had missed his dinner.
“Look at the time,” he said. “Mother will not be happy.” He had not noticed that the curtain behind him had not twitched for some time. “I really ought to get going.”
The Grey Man put his hand on Icarus’s arm. “I don’t think you need to go. I think your mother understands.” Icarus turned and saw his mother walking towards them, carrying a large basket that she set down between them.
“There you go,” she said, “something to keep your strength up. What a perfect night for a picnic.” She began to unpack: “Roast chicken with sage and onion stuffing, potato salad, bread and fruit juice.”
“I love roast chicken,” said the Grey Man, “especially with sage and onion stuffing. I haven’t had the pleasure for years.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Smith, looking at Icarus, “this does mean that we’ll be having fish for lunch on Sunday.” She finished unpacking, and turned to leave.
“Won’t you be joining us?” asked The Grey Man.
“No, but thank you,” said Mrs Smith. “I think that this is a men’s night out. Just please make sure that Icarus brings the basket home with him. He can be quite forgetful sometimes.”
For a while the two ate their picnic in silence. Eventually the Grey Man returned to his story. When he sobered up after running out of money, the Grey Man lived rough, scrounging and cadging what he could to stay alive, sleeping in bus shelters and railway stations until he was thrown out. “It was hard, but I never begged,” he said, almost proudly.
Slowly he left the city and learnt to live on the road. Life in the countryside could, at times, be good, even bountiful. He discovered the places where wayfarers were welcome to stop for a moment, to rest for a while – the refuges, the monasteries, the communities where hospitality was the byword. “Slowly I learnt how good a simple life can be. And I also discovered that those who lead a simple life, those with the least to give, are always the most generous, the most giving.”
“S
o when did you stop travelling?” Icarus asked.
After about five years on the road, The Grey Man said, he spent Christmas at an abbey. “One evening I was talking to an elderly monk. He said that when I had first visited the abbey, years before, I had seemed like a dead man walking. But now, the monk said, it seemed as if I had rid myself of all my demons. And after that – and I remember his exact words – he said: ‘You now seem to be comfortable in your own skin.’ And I realised then that he was right. I knew that I wasn’t living someone else’s life, but my own, however poor and simple it might be. And by then I was tired of life on the road, tired of having to find a new place to sleep every night.”
The Grey Man fell silent. It was midnight. Icarus listened to the bells of the church near by as they slowly tolled a dozen times, their echoes fading into the darkness. Icarus gathered up the remains of the picnic. The Grey Man’s face had a furrowed, faraway expression, as if he were peering deep into his past. Icarus had no more questions, and stood to leave.
“Night,” he said quietly. The Grey Man nodded slightly. Icarus picked up the basket and left.
9. FREE WHEELS AND DEALS
In spite of going to bed so late, Icarus rose with the sun the next morning, eager to set his new life on course. It was too early to go out, but he was restless. For the first time in his life he had dreamt of riding a bicycle. It was not the memory of careering out of control in the park, but images of himself, riding, pedalling, turning, swooping along the city roads between cars and buses, and even braking and coming to an exquisite halt. And once the dream had passed, the restlessness had set in and Icarus had woken. He could not stay in bed, he had to get up and do something.
He walked to the front room and flung open the curtains. He was turning away when he saw him – The Grey Man, sitting on the bench exactly where Icarus had left him, bicycle propped beside him.
It was Saturday, so Icarus knew there would be four rashers of bacon in the refrigerator. He took two and placed them in a frying pan on the cooker. While they sizzled, Icarus dressed. He could hear his mother snoring gently in her bedroom. Icarus took the bacon, folded it between two slices of bread, wrapped the sandwich in a paper napkin and headed downstairs.
He was just pushing through the gate in the park railings when he noticed another figure near to the Grey Man, who seemed to have not moved a muscle. It was The Leader, who was approaching The Grey Man with as much stealth as his squat little frame allowed. Icarus wanted to shout out, to warn The Grey Man, to scare away The Leader, but no sound emerged. He watched, frozen.
The Leader reached the bench and put one hand on the bicycle’s handlebars, the other on the saddle. He was preparing to scoot off, to leap into the saddle and pedal like crazy, but his left arm was caught in an iron grip. The Grey Man had uncoiled like a spring and was standing over The Leader. The Grey Man was not big, but he was taller than The Leader. He was wiry, whippet-like, made of sprung steel. He glowered at The Leader, and suddenly his greyness turned thunder black. In a voice as calm and as cold as could be, he said: “So you must be the young man with an ability to, um, acquire bicycles.”
The Leader gulped.
“So what,” The Grey man continued, “did you intend doing with this one?”
The Leader was unable to speak. Never before had he been caught. But then, never before had he actually stolen a bike from someone else. He had only taken unattended bikes, usually unlocked, unattended bikes. He did not know what had possessed him to attempt to steal this bike, with the owner right beside it – even though the owner had apparently been asleep. He did not need the bike. He did not even desire the bike. He felt as if he had been caught, quite by accident, in a trap.
The Grey Man looked down at The Leader, who appeared to be trying to melt into his oversized trainers. The Grey Man’s voice hardened, if that was at all possible: “Nothing to say? Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to teach you a lesson, a lesson that you will never, ever forget. A lesson that will change your life.”
He released his grip on The Leader’s arm. The boy didn’t move, not a muscle, not a hair, but in his eyes there flickered a flame, a spark somewhere between fear and the embers of residual defiance. The boy stood there, waiting for the lesson.
“I don’t mean today,” said the Grey Man, “I’ll come and find you when you are ready.”
The Leader did not understand. He stood there, a puzzled look on his face. The Grey Man said: “Well, shoo. Scram.” And The Leader turned and left as quickly as he could without running, not looking back, not even seeing Icarus as he passed him at the park gate.
The Grey Man ate the bacon sandwich as if he’d had nothing to eat for a week. Icarus watched him intently. Never had he seen a man eat a bacon sandwich with such relish. Truth be told, he had probably never watched a man eating a bacon sandwich before, with or without relish, but he was struck by the Grey Man’s earnestness in devouring his breakfast. When the Grey Man wiped the last crumbs from his lips, Icarus said: “You spent the whole night here, sitting on this bench?”
The Grey Man said nothing for a few moments, then realised that it was a question, and nodded slowly.
“Why?” Icarus asked.
“Well, after our long conversation last night I realised that I still had some issues to think about. I’ve been avoiding some things that I have to put to rest.”
“What things?”
“Personal things.”
Icarus was about to press on in his questioning, but realised that the Grey Man did not want to be pressed, so he held his tongue.
Almost as if in reply, the Grey Man said: “Maybe I’ll tell you what I was thinking about when I’m good and ready … and when you too are ready.”
At nine o’clock Icarus and the Grey Man, pushing his bicycle, walked down the high street to the public library. From his rider’s satchel the Grey Man hauled a link-chain that looked heavy enough to secure a bulldozer. He chained his bicycle to the railings outside the library with a padlock the size of his fist.
“One can never be too careful,” he said, with a wink.
They climbed the library steps and Icarus pushed open the large wooden doors. Inside, all was dark, but as they walked along, lights flickered and flashed on above them.
“They must be late opening up,” said Icarus.
“Actually, I think that the library is closed,” the Grey Man replied. He turned round and consulted the sign on the door. “Yep, not open on Saturdays. You really do have to be careful with that talent of yours. It could get you into trouble some time.”
“It already has,” said Icarus.
The pair surveyed the rows of books, and in the distance made out a bank of computers. The screens were flickering blankly in the dark.
“Well,” said the Grey Man, “we’re here, so we might as well get on with it.”
The sat down at a terminal at the end of the row. The Grey Man touched the space bar and the terminal came to life. It flashed at them and read:
LOGIN: ADMIN.
The word PASSWORD blinked at them.
And then a blank space.
Icarus looked at the Grey Man, and said: “We don’t have a password.”
“Just type ADMIN,” said the Grey Man.
Icarus typed the word, and they were into the system. “How did you know that?” asked Icarus.
“Just a trick I learnt from a web-savvy friend,” said the Grey Man. He then showed Icarus how to register and log on to Freecycle, search for his local area and then trawl through the postings.
“You can put up a posting saying that you are looking for a bike, but it is probably better just to look through the list for whatever you want.”
Icarus was scrolling through the postings and reading them aloud: “Audi alloys … brass stair rods … funny bones skeleton model … wanted: baby’s cot. Look, there’s a television and remote.” Icarus looked up at the Grey Man. “You mean to say that they are giving all of this away?”
�
��It’s better than throwing it away,” said the Grey Man. “And that is just what most people still do. Not enough people use this website..”
“But there aren’t any bikes.”
“Put ‘bikes’ into the search and see what happens.”
Icarus typed BIKE. The list transformed itself, and Icarus began reading again. “Child’s battery-powered quad bike … cool … Wanted: bike, pump and front light … boy’s BMX bike …wanted: exercise bike … so many of these say wanted. There must be a lot of people out there who want bikes then.”
“Don’t worry,” said the Grey Man, “just keep looking. It will be there somewhere.”
Icarus and the Grey Man had been at the computer for about half an hour when they heard the clatter of a plastic bucket on the floor. It was a cleaning woman, overalled and hair tied up, mopping the lino floors. “Quiet,” said the Grey Man, and the two sat still, fading into the furniture around them. For about twenty minutes they remained still as the woman cleaned around them, occasionally muttering to herself about muddy boots, or something like that. When she had finished, they turned back to the compute and continued with their search. It was the Grey Man who spotted what they needed: “Men’s broken bikes: we have three broken bikes and one frame. Need work, good for parts but could make one decent bike.”
“But that’s all bits,” said Icarus. “I want a proper bike.”
“This is exactly what you want – it’ll help you to make whatever bike you like.”
They responded to the message and minutes later an address flashed up. It was just on the other side of the park from Icarus’s flat.
“Bingo, said the Grey Man, “I think we have a result.”
Icarus and the Grey Man left the library as silently as they had entered. Icarus pulled the door quietly closed behind him, and the pair went out of the portico to the railing where the Grey Man’s bike was padlocked. There, much to their horror, inspecting the bike, were Helmets One and Two. Our friends froze. As long as they did so, they remained unnoticed by the two pillars of the law that stood before them. But Icarus’s mind was flashing with a multitude of thoughts – he was not one to hold back on whatever entered his mind, but on this occasion he managed to keep his thoughts to himself. “Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” he said, inwardly.