The Accidental Cyclist

by Dennis Rink

  “But I’ve never even seen you drink alcohol.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I don’t usually drink. It’s just that sometimes there’s a trigger, something inside me that clicks,” the Grey Man’s voice had been growing quieter, and now it was less than a whisper, so that Icarus could hardly hear what he was saying, “something deep inside me, something that I’m so afraid of, that I have to obliterate it. And the only way to obliterate it is through alcohol.”

  Icarus nodded. In his sheltered life there had been no awareness of fears or phobias. Only his mother’s fear of losing him, but that had not been his fear, just something that happened to exist somewhere in the background of their lives. So far his life had been free of pain, of hurt – all that had been borne, quietly, secretly, by his mother. Now, as he looked at the Grey Man, for the first time he saw a man who had been broken, who had suffered all that life could throw at him. He wanted to put an arm around him, to share his pain, but somehow he felt that it wasn’t the right thing to do. Instead, he hoped, as men do, that in his silence the Grey Man would know that he wanted to share his load.

  And so they sat in stillness.

  They did not realise that The Leader was now awake, and it was he who finally broke the silence. In a quiet voice, in tones that surprised both Icarus and the Grey Man, he asked: “What is it that you’re so afraid of?”

  The Grey Man looked at him wearily, his eyes dull, the earlier sparkle gone. “Commitment,” he said.

  After a few moments of thinking The Leader said: “That’s just like my mum. She never wanted a kid. She never wanted me. I grew up with her always saying that I was just a bloody accident. The sooner that I grew up and left home, the better. Well, now I’ve left, and she can party all she wants.”

  Icarus felt the need to add something to the conversation, and racked his brain to think of something. The first thing that popped into his head was: “I think that my mother’s only fear is of losing me. But of course, that will never happen. But now she has a new fear – that we’re going to be kicked out of our flat and have to live on the street.”

  “What?” exclaimed the Grey Man and The Leader almost in unison.

  Icarus told them about the letter, and what his mother believed would happen to them. “Well,” said the Grey Man, “this should prove to be an exciting and uplifting lunch.”

  Sunday lunch with Mrs Smith was always pretty much the same. The roast potatoes this week were no worse than the previous crop, and the roast chicken was replaced by a leg from the smallest lamb that was ever sent to slaughter. The other big difference from the previous lunch – apart from the weather – was the fact that Mrs Smith offered the Grey Man a glass of dry sherry as they sat down to eat. The Grey Man refused politely, and Mrs Smith hoped that he wouldn’t mind if she partook. From a very slight slur in Mrs Smith’s speech, and her unusually relaxed manner, the Grey Man suspected that a small quantity of dry sherry had already been used in the process of preparing dinner that day. Icarus, on the other hand, did not, as usual, notice anything out of the ordinary.

  As Mrs Smith served, she addressed the Grey Man. “I have a confession. I don’t actually know your name. What should I call you?”

  “You can call me, um, George,” the Grey Man responded.

  “Well, um, George, we haven’t seen you at all for a few weeks. Where have you been? Do you want some cabbage?”

  “Yes please. Oh, I’ve just been – well away for a bit.”

  “On business? Holiday? Gravy on you potatoes?”

  “Yes please. I suppose I have had a kind of holiday. You could call it R&R”

  “Are and are? What’s that?” Mrs Smith asked.

  “Rest and recuperation,” Icarus interjected, proudly showing off his new-found knowledge of the world of acronyms.

  “Haven’t you been well then? Can I pass you the salt?” asked Mrs Smith, pursuing her dual lines of interrogation.

  “Yes, please. I was a little bit under the weather,” the Grey Man replied, “and I was sent away for a while.”

  “Did you go far?”

  “Oh no, just a small, quiet place near by.”

  “Well, I do hope you are better now, dear.”

  “Much better, thank you,” said the Grey Man, stuffing his mouth full of boiled cabbage in the hope that such an action might prevent further interrogation.

  As Mrs Smith was serving the dessert – a sherry trifle with glace cherries and whipped cream, the Grey Man decided to broach the subject of the possible eviction. “Icarus has told me about the letter you received from your landlord,” he said. “Is there no way that you can buy the flat yourselves? Because you have lived here so long, you should have the first option to buy.”

  Maybe it was just the sherry talking, or maybe it was because Mrs Smith had become resigned to losing the flat, and she now felt that she could do nothing about it. So she had just stopped worrying about it and was awaiting the inevitable. “It would be too expensive,” she said. “We couldn’t afford it, so we’ll just have to go and live on the streets.”

  “But there might be a way,” said the Grey Man. “Don’t you have anything of value that you could sell?”

  “Anything of value? Don’t be daft. We haven’t got anything that would raise more than a few bob. We’ve never had anything but this flat. And each other.”

  “You have your Persian carpet,” the Grey Man said, “the one in the front room.”

  “Persian carpet?” exclaimed Mrs Smith. “That’s no Persian carpet. It’s just some Greek tat that Icarus’s father left here before he ran off and left me in the lurch, abandoned, alone. It can’t be worth much. And he was too much of a cheapskate to have anything of worth.”

  “Well, I saw one very much like that one go on sale at one of the big auction houses not long ago. And it sold for as much as this flat is probably worth. It could be the answer to all your problems.”

  “That can’t be so. Solutions don’t just fall out of the sky like that. Besides, I don’t think Dedalus ever had anything worth much. And if he did, he would have never left it behind, surely.”

  “I’m pretty sure that I’m right about this, Mrs Smith,” said the Grey Man. “If you like, I can ask an auctioneer to come and look at it. What can you lose?”

  “But I love that carpet,” Icarus intervened. “I think that it’s a magical carpet. Every time you look at it there are different birds, all sorts of birds, and they come and go with the seasons. And if you really listen carefully, you can sometimes hear them singing.”

  “Yes,” said the Grey Man, “it is quite a special carpet.”

  “I just think that it’s creepy,” said Mrs Smith. “I’ve never liked it, to tell the truth. Ever since Dedalus left us I’ve been thinking of getting rid of it, but I never had anything to replace it with. But if you think it’s worth something, George, then I’m happy to get rid of it.”

  “Well, I’m not happy about it,” said Icarus. “But I suppose if it’s a choice between losing the carpet and losing our home, I suppose I’m going to have to say goodbye to the carpet.”

  After lunch the Grey Man insisted that Mrs Smith sit down quietly in the front room while he and Icarus did the washing up. The two men squeezed into the tiny kitchen. The Grey Man got on with the dishes while Icarus made his mother a cup of tea. He gathered up the leftovers and put them to one side. As the Grey Man washed, Icarus dried the pots and pans and plates, and put them in their appointed place.

  When finally they were done they looked into the front room. Mrs Smith was dozing quietly, her cup of tea untouched on the occasional table beside her, her sherry glass empty.

  Icarus went back to the kitchen and collected the plate of leftovers. The two went down to the basement where they found The Leader reading a thick volume and eating a piece of cold pizza left over from the night before. Every time that Icarus went down to the basement the piles of books seemed to have grown.

  “We brought you some lunch,” said Icarus,
offering him the plate.

  “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.

  17. ICARUS’S INEVITABLE FALL

  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.”
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  “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.