The closer Alan got to Clayton, the more it
occurred to him he should have stayed in London after landing at Heathrow. He
hated long-haul flights and could have done without the four hour drag up the
motorway. It wasn’t as if there was any urgency to get back to the humdrum of
country life, but something lured him back to the remote village he was
supposed to call home.
It didn’t seem like
only yesterday he’d finished the Trans Rockies Mountain Bike Challenge with his
teammate, Chris. Sixteen hours of travelling had obliterated the glory of being
the fastest British males aged over twenty-five. It had been a mind-blowing
experience, yet now the whole six weeks sat with distant memories that didn’t
flow into any sequence. There wouldn’t be any champagne celebration when he got
home. Most likely, he’d get an ear-bending from his mother for not being around
all summer to work on the family farm.
Winding through the
country lanes, his neck stiffened as he turned the wheel to go round yet
another bend. Daring to take one hand off the steering wheel, he pinched his
nose and made his ears pop. They’d rung since taking off from Vancouver and now
the buzz from the engine filled his head. Another hairpin bend came into view
and he felt a twinge in his leg. He braced himself to use the clutch.
Pain hadn’t
bothered him whilst he was riding his bike. There was no adrenaline rush now to
null the throb that plagued his lower body. As soon as he put his foot out,
shooting pains went down his leg. Gritting his teeth, he grappled with the
gearstick. The car juddered as his foot slipped off the clutch, jarring his
back even more. He held his breath until the sensation went from his leg, then he
noticed the headache again.
Relieved to get
onto a straight stretch of road, he risked screwing up his eyes and rubbed them
to stem the itchiness. Even the late afternoon light made him squint. With only
five miles to go, there didn’t seem any sense in stopping for a kip. He fumbled
for the button on the door panel, the window whirred, and a nip of air
sharpened him like a shot of caffeine.
With sharper eyes,
he watched the rapid approach of a cyclist. Despite the distance between them,
he could see the rider was female from the train of hair flapping out behind
her. Overcome by nostalgia, he yearned for the exhilaration of hammering the
terrain, pumping the front wheel over boulders. It was better than bloody
driving. Sciatic pain shot down his
leg. Maybe not.
Coming closer to the Roebuck Inn, he noticed a
red Vauxhall Corsa waiting to turn right at the T-junction. Bloody typical
Sunday driver! Why wouldn’t he set off? The road was clear. As he got closer,
he made out the pseudo country gentleman behind the wheel, wearing a trilby
hat. The stupid twit was talking on
his mobile phone. A few seconds
later, the cyclist began to pass him.
Wheels screeching and engine
revving hard, the waiting car pulled out. Shit!
Trilby hat hadn’t even looked. Alan slammed on the brakes and yanked the
steering wheel, bringing his Audi Q5 to a halt in the middle of the junction. A
scream hacked the air. He turned his head
and watched in horror as the cyclist tumbled off the bike.
Grabbing his phone from the dashboard caddy,
he leapt out of his vehicle. In disbelief, he watched the Sunday driver speed
off into the distance. He held his
phone up and framed a camera shot of the car then scanned the road for the
cyclist. She was nowhere to be seen. His heart started racing and his breath
quickened. Spotting the mangled bike on a grass verge above a shallow ditch, he
ran towards it. Then he saw the woman, sprawled out in the ditch. Her face
looked ashen and her lips swelled. Brown hair straggled into the dirt from
beneath her helmet.
Alan feared the worst. A
prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck whilst he gawped at the woman
who lay like a discarded manikin. He dialled 999.
“I need police and
an ambulance.”
The line crackled and his
hair flapped in the wind, so he pushed his hand tighter against the phone.
“A cyclist’s been hit on the
Grassington Road, about one hundred metres past the Roebuck Inn in the
direction of Clayton.”
The red Vauxhall appeared in
his mind.
“The police need to be on the
lookout for a red Corsa, recent model.”
“Is the casualty
breathing?” the operator asked.
He started to shake. “I don’t know.”
His voice gave out
and he fell to his knees.
“The ambulance is
on its way.”
The operator’s voice sounded
like an echo then the line went dead.
Left confused, all
he could do was gape at the injured woman. Through her torn clothing, he could
see where the gravel had grazed the left side of her body. Rubbing his fingers
over his moist palms, he wondered what the hell to do. Why couldn’t he deal
with this? He was a first-aider. But his head was in a vacuum, and he dared not
hold her wrist in
case he found no pulse.
Reaching towards
her left side, he brushed her grazed skin. She winced, although her eyes stayed
shut. Consumed by relief, he watched her chest rise and fall.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
She was so lucky to be
alive. He rolled her into the recovery position then peeled off his fleece and
wrapped it round her. Sirens wailed in the distance. All he had to do was keep
an eye on her vital signs until the ambulance arrived. Sliding his hand beneath
her wrist, he raised her arm. Her hand flopped but he could feel her pulse
strumming his fingertips. He moved his head towards her mouth and felt her
breath on his cheek.
Edging back, he gazed at her
face. The colour was returning but he got an eerie feeling. Her long lashes and
high cheek bones looked like those belonging to a face he’d seen before. He
dismissed the thought. Too long ago. It couldn’t be her.
The approaching
sirens made him look up, then a police car and ambulance pulled onto the grass
verge. A kneejerk sense of unease came over him as a police sergeant and
constable stepped onto the road. He’d spent too many nights in police cells as
a teenager to be comfortable around the law. Hoping he could avoid speaking to
the officers, he stayed put. Two paramedics hurried towards him.
“Casualty's
breathing but she's not fully alert,” he said when they were within hearing
distance.
“We appreciate what
you’ve done,” said the elder of the two paramedics. He glanced at the woman.
“We’ll take over from here. I think the sergeant wants to speak to you.”
Pausing for a
second, Alan swallowed. As he hauled himself to his feet, a sciatic twinge jolted him. He limped over to the
panda car, where the sergeant stood. Glancing back, he noticed the constable
crouched beside the mangled bike.
“What’s your name,
sir?” the sergeant asked, poising his pen over a pad of paper.
He placed his hand
on the roof of the car so he could take the weight off his left leg. As it went into spasm, he clenched his
teeth and spoke.
“I’m Alan Bell.”
The sergeant looked
him up and down, making him feel like he was under suspicion.
“It looks like you’ve been in
the wars as well.”
Rubbing his leg,
Alan said, “Sciatica.”
“Painful! Hit and
run was it?”
Alan narrowed his
eyes.
“The accident? Yeah, yeah,
hit and run. The driver of the other car was on his mobile.”
The sergeant’s face
soured. Alan could tell what he
was thinking, and for the first time in his life, he felt on side with the law.
Retrieving the phone from his pocket, he brought up the image of the car and
handed the phone to the sergeant.
“I’m sorry; it’s a bit far
away.”
The sergeant surveyed the
picture.
“Good lad. We can
track the vehicle down from this. You’d be surprised what we can do with
imaging technology.”
He took the phone
to the panda car.
Not paying much
attention, Alan stared into space
with no sense of time passing. Everything that had happened replayed in his
mind: the woman tumbling
off the bike, the car driving off down the road and that pompous arsehole in a
trilby hat. The adrenaline steadily drained from him as if his blood had pooled in his
feet. Through the spots in front of his eyes, he watched the woman being
carried on a stretcher towards the ambulance.
Hearing the crackle
coming over a radio, he blinked and glanced across at the constable making his
way towards the panda car.
The sergeant
stepped out onto the tarmac.
“HQ has located the
Vauxhall. They're sending someone to an address on Broughton Road.”
The constable nodded.
“I’ve just heard it over the
radio. We'll need to take the bike so we can match the paint work. Thankfully
the car hit the bike and not her.”
Alan took the phone
back, trying to keep it in his
grip. His sweat had smeared
the screen.
“Thank you very
much,” the sergeant said. “I wish there were more people like you around.”
The two police
officers got back in the car. As Alan hobbled away, they set off down the road after the ambulance. Over Alan the sky was still a pale grey-blue.
Drawing in a deep breath, he returned to his vehicle with the image of the
young woman’s face imprinted on his mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment