The Accidental Cyclist (9 page)

“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.”

“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.”

“So 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.

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.