Free The Accidental Cyclist by Dennis Rink

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