The Accidental Cyclist (8 page)

“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.

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 lived 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 ...”

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 threats, 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.”