The Accidental Cyclist (15 page)

On reaching Vauxhall Bridge he
decided that is was time to turn back towards home. He pulled the
map out of his pocket and looked at it for a few moments, but
before he had even determined his position on it, he folded the
map, put it back in his pocket and plunged into the northwards flow
towards Victoria.

Once Icarus was in the stream of
traffic he allowed the flow to take him, winding this way and that,
rushing at times, then slowing, then regaining momentum. Where the
stream divided, he simply took the direction that felt right. The
rushing torrent took him past Buckingham Palace, a tranquil island
in the midst of the raging tide. He was swept along The Mall, past
Trafalgar Square and through the delta that is Soho, and eventually
to City Road, where he realised that he was once again in familiar
surroundings. Familiar, he thought, but everything before that was
familiar too, even if I had never been there.

All thoughts of getting rid of
the bike and returning to school had vanished from Icarus’s head.
He loved every minute of the ride home, and had no fear of getting
lost again. As he freewheeled down the High Street towards his
flat, he rubbed his cheeks and wondered why they hurt. His smile
was still etched deep into his face, and he could not turn it
off.

Icarus wheeled his bike to the
basement of the flat to put it away. His mother had insisted that
he could no keep it in the flat, so the basement was the only place
for it. He was slightly surprised to find The Leader there,
tinkering with bits of bikes.

“What are you doing?” Icarus
asked.

“Building a bike,” The Leader
replied. “Hope you don’t mind me working here, but me Mum chucked
me out.”

“Chucked you out? Why?”

“I got grease on her white
leather sofa. She had a bit of a rant, said she could never forgive
me, bla, bla, bla, and in the end she said she didn’t know why she
brought me into this world in the first place.”

“So you came here to build your
bike?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. And to
sleep. Hope you don’t mind.”

Icarus had no reason to mind,
except that this was the boy that had threatened him, teased him,
and almost got him sent to prison. Icarus seemed to have forgotten
all that. In fact, Icarus sensed a change in the boy, and almost
felt inclined to like him. Icarus could not grasp how a parent
could throw a child out of their home and condemn them to a life on
the streets. His mother certainly would never do that.

“But I’m not living on the
street,” The Leader explained, “I’m living here, in your basement.
She’s not really a bad mother, she’s just got problems. Lots and
lots of problems, and I’m one of them, I s’pose.”

Icarus looked around. Indeed,
the basement had been tidied up. On one end of the discarded sofa
was a sleeping bag, a pile of books at the other end. Next to the
sofa was a sports bag overflowing with clothes, a pair of trainers
parked neatly alongside. On a box next to the sofa was a small
portable television. Icarus ambled over and picked it up.

The Leader could see what Icarus
was thinking, and pre-empted any accusation. “I got it on Freecycle
– nothing stolen in this room. Of course, reception down here’s
pretty crap, but some time I’ll get round to rigging up a decent
aerial sometime, or tap into one of the aerials on the roof.”

Icarus still could not really
believe that this was all true. “But how do you eat? Wash yourself?
All that? How do you feed yourself?”

“I’ve made a few quid,” said The
Leader. “I’ve sold two bikes already, and got another two one
order, once I’ve finished fixing this one.”

Icarus found it difficult to
discern “this one” that The Leader was referring to, so many and
scattered were the component parts that made up the bicycle in
question. Icarus looked at the parts lying around them, then at The
Leader, to see if in fact it was the same boy that had taunted him
in the park just a few weeks before. The face was the same,
slightly flat, nostrils flared, except for once he did not appear
to be looking for a fight.

“So you’re actually making some
money out of this?” Icarus asked.

“Yes,” said The Leader, “and I
s’pose I gotta thank you for it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you an’ your old mate.
After you an’ him built your bike he said that I could use the
other bits if I wanted. So I used the rest of the stuff to build
another two bikes, an’ I sold ’em. Your mate told me where you got
all the junk, on Freecycle, so I just got some more. It’s like I
got my own business goin’ here.”

Icarus nodded slowly, as if in
approval of a young reprobate’s reform.

“Turns out,” The Leader
continued, “that I’m not a total waste of space after all, like me
Mum says I am. I might’ve been crap at school and learnin’ and
stuff like that, but now I think I’ve found somethin’ that I can
do.”

In spite of himself, and his
previous apathy towards The Leader, Icarus was impressed. “Does
that mean you’ve given up stealing?” The words tumbled out of
Icarus’s mouth before he knew it.

A dark look crossed The Leader’s
face. He froze for a moment, then another, and then a third moment.
“I’m really, really hurt that you should think such a thing.”
Icarus’s face fell, but a big smile spread across The Leader’s
face, and he went on: “I’m just kidding. I s’pose I did all that
stuff ‘cause I was bored, ‘cause I thought I was crap at
everything, and I wanted to impress the other guys.” The smile
slipped and he looked directly at Icarus and said: “I s’pose I
don’t need to go stealin’ no more. You and the old guy actually
paid attention to me, not to stuff that I had. You never judged me,
really. I s’pose maybe that was the lesson he said he was going to
teach me, ’cause it’s the lesson I learnt. And now that I’ve got
you and the old guy as mates, I don’t need to impress no one, do
I?”

The smile came back, and he held
out his hand to Icarus and said: “Mates?”

“Mates,” Icarus responded, and
shook his hand.

On Monday morning Icarus kissed
his moist-eyed mother goodbye and set off for work at the
International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch). The company
office was no more than a tiny shop with one desk, one telephone
and a few uncomfortable chairs dotted about the place. In one
corner was a lopsided kitchen cabinet that had been rescued from a
skip. On it were a kettle, half-empty jars of instant coffee and a
few mugs. Through a door in the corner was a lavatory and cracked
basin.

Apart from Helen the Despatcher,
who had interviewed Icarus for the job, the office was empty. Helen
the Despatcher looked up from her copy of The Sun as Icarus wheeled
his bike in. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here for work,” said
Icarus.

“Sorry, we’re full up.”

Icarus was confused. “But you
said you have a vacancy. The other day, at the interview.”

Helen looked at him more
closely. “Oh, it’s you. Didn’t recognise you with your helmet on.
We’ve got a lot of chaps coming in here looking for work, so I
thought you were just another one. Why are you so early?”

“You said to be here by
eight.”

“Oh, okay. None of the others
ever shows up before nine-thirty or ten. Never known one of them to
be on time. Well, park your bike over up against the wall – not
against the glass – and make me a cup of coffee. There’s nothing to
do just yet. Just make yourself at home.”

Over the next two hours Icarus’s
new colleagues drifted in to the shop, half awake and carrying
disposable cups of coffee from international establishments dotted
along the High Street. They greeted Helen the Despatcher and
ignored Icarus, who sat in a corner, head down, pretending to read
a motoring magazine. He noticed that there was no Grey Man.

After a while Helen the
Despatcher spoke loudly: “Listen up, guys. This is Icarus, and he’s
new. I want you to be nice to him and show him what to do.” There
were a few mumbles, but no one moved. “Look guys, I said be nice.
Introduce yourselves, and talk to him. He’s going to be riding with
you chaps for the first few days.”

Reluctantly the crowd moved
across to Icarus, who stood up to acknowledge them. “Hi, I’m
Justin,” said one. “I’m Jason.” “Tony.” “Marcel.” “Mike.”

“This your bike?” asked
Marcel.

“Yes,” said Icarus.

“Bit retro,” said Jason, or was
it Justin?

“What are these for?” asked
Marcel, pointing to the brake levers.

“They’re the brakes,” said
Icarus, “for stopping.”

“Wow,” said Marcel. “Whatever
will they think of next.”

“And these?” asked Justin, or
was that Jason? pointing to the gear shifters.

“They’re gears.”

“Gears? What are they for?”

“They help you to maintain your
cadence on uphills and downhills,” said Icarus. He glanced across
at the bikes that the others had brought into the shop. They were
all identical – black fixed-wheelers with pared-down handlebars and
no brakes.

For the first few days Icarus
shadowed other young riders as they pedalled laconically from one
job to the next, barely raising a sweat in their eternal quest
always to look cool. Icarus had no concept of style or fashion. He
knew what a good bike looked like. He knew what purpose different
types of bicycles served. But he could not, for the life of him,
fathom why anyone would want to tackle London’s streets on a black
fixed-wheel bike that had tiny handlebars and no brakes. Even less,
why would one want to cycle about wearing a tiny peaked cap back to
front and with one trouser leg rolled halfway up the calf, as if to
signify membership of some secret society.

Icarus was anathema to fashion.
His bike had 16 gears with derailleur changers and levers on the
down tube. It was blue. And he wore a helmet. And bicycle clips to
prevent his trouser leg from becoming entangled in the chain. And a
luminous yellow Sam Browne belt from shoulder to waist so that he
could be seen by day and by night. Mrs Smith had insisted on that.
And on the helmet. And on the bicycle clips. Icarus did not mind.
He did not notice that his fellow couriers looked at him as if he
were some kind of alien, and appeared to be slightly embarrassed as
they glided along with this strange being in tow. What was worse,
Icarus asked so many questions, so they were forced to talk to him,
and could not simply ignore him. Without the questions, they could
have pretended that he was just a bed smell that follows you around
after you step in something nasty. But with all those questions it
was like being forced to look under your shoe to see what you’d
trodden in.

Icarus recognised that there was
a difference between him and the other riders, but he did not
understand the differences, so they did not bother him. As far as
he was concerned, he had never conformed, he had always been an
outsider. All he wanted to do was learn from the others, even
though, in truth, they had very little to teach Icarus.

On his third day at work Icarus
was sent out on his own for the first time. He was given a bright
orange sling bag. On the bag’s flap was a picture of an eagle,
wings spread and clasped in its talons was a parcel. This was the
logo of the International Cycle Courier Company. The bag’s shoulder
strap had a small pocket, and in the pocket was a radio that
crackled and fizzed. Helen the Despatcher briefed Icarus. The job
was simple: cycle to A, which is a solicitor’s office, pick up a
letter and take it to B, another lawyer’s office, where it will be
signed, then return the letter to A, A.S.A.P.

“What’s A.S.A.P?” asked
Icarus.

“Don’t you know anything? It
means As Soon As Possible,” said Helen the Despatcher, adding an
insult that cannot be repeated in these pages.

B.T.W, this was Icarus’s
introduction to the language of Acronym. Over the next weeks and
months he would learn a totally new vocabulary, much of it
abbreviation and abridgement. His mother would never approve, but
Icarus saw it simply as a necessary tool of his new trade.

“And come straight back here as
soon as you’re finished,” Helen the Despatcher called after Icarus
as he flew off, “I don’t want you hanging about the coffee shops
chatting up girls.”

Half an hour later Icarus was
back, standing in front of Helen the Despatcher’s cubby hole, eyes
wild, hair flattened by his helmet, beads of sweat on his brow.

“What’s up,” asked Helen the
Despatcher. “Got lost or something?”

“No. Job’s done. What’s
next?”

Helen looked at Icarus with eyes
of suspicion. “You sure?” she asked. “You were only gone half an
hour. That job normally takes about ninety minutes. You did wait
for the signature, and take it back to the sender?”

“Well, you did say A.S.A.P,”
said Icarus, eager to use his new terminology.

“Everything’s A.S.A.P. here,”
said Helen. “not that this lot take any notice. Keep this up and
you’ll get shifted to the City run in no time.”

The first solo job left Icarus
on a high. He knew he had carried out his task quickly and
efficiently and he took Helen the Despatcher’s words about moving
to the City office as an indication of praise. Over the next days
and weeks he carried out any duties assigned to him with a
similarly alarming alacrity. He felt happy and successful and
appeared to walk taller, more erect among his fellow couriers,
although that might simply have been down to the fact that he was
still a growing adolescent.

In the evenings, after work, he
would pedal, peaceful and contented, back to the flat and relate to
his mother the events of the day. After dinner, on the excuse that
he had to clean and maintain his bicycle, Icarus would slip down to
the basement to see if The Leader was there.