A great man once said, ‘Never judge a person by how they treat their friends – being nice to friends is easy – judge them by how they treat strangers.’ Good advice. Sometimes one must make the ultimate decision: have courage, and step out of the shadows.
Or cycle out of the shadows on a lightweight, sprayed-black-as-night bicycle if that is the preferred mode of transport for the evening. Which, on this night, it is. All thoughts of the man behind the mask are gone; the only thing that matters is the mission. And this is good. The mask removes all complications.
The registration plate on the huge artic lorry is Polish, with the letters PL set beneath the circle of yellow stars on a blue background that denotes the European Union. The lorry driver, obese, moustachioed, lost, is standing outside his truck, his faithful steed, consulting a road map in the light of the orange street lamp. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips.
Little does he know that a phantom of justice watches from the shadows, eagle-eyed. Time to roll out. Setting his right foot on the pedal, the mountain bike wheels from the darkness and towards the stricken traveller. St Christopher would be proud.
The lorry driver glances up casually, sees the dark entity cycling towards him, then looks back at his map. Then he looks up again quickly and the cigarette falls out of his mouth on to the map. Orange sparks go everywhere, like fireflies, and the cigarette rolls on to his ample belly, making him panic, as he swipes it off into the bushes at the side of the road.
‘Friend!’ says the Phantasm, braking. He puts a hand on his chest and says, gently, ‘Friend.’
The driver stares at him for a moment and then says something in a foreign language. Hmm.
‘English?’ he says.
The driver shakes his head.
The Phantasm smiles kindly and holds out his hands, nodding at the map. ‘Lost? Are. You. Lost?’
He steps slowly towards the driver, as a veterinarian might approach a frightened dog. The man has bags under his eyes and is clearly exhausted. He seems confused by the costume.
‘I. Help. You,’ says the avenging force, very slowly, holding his hands out further again towards the map. Poor old-timer’s probably never heard of sat nav.
This time, the man of the road comprehends and starts nodding. The Phantasm nods back, enthusiastically, making the Polish man nod even more enthusiastically again. This is a superb coup for international relations!
The driver goes into his pocket and, with genuine glee on his face, pulls out a scrap of paper. On it is an address. The masked hero takes the scrap in his glove and reads it, and nods once more. The glow of a newly formed friendship warms the air.
‘You,’ he says, pointing. ‘Follow. Me.’ And he jabs his thumb back at himself, miming the motion of cycling to demonstrate his intention of leading the gentleman to his destination, which just so happens to be a factory less than a mile away.
The Pole holds out his hand and they shake on it. He is smiling, his face an expression of joy and relief.
The hero turns the bicycle around so that it is facing downhill, and he looks over his shoulder as the lorry driver climbs aboard his mighty vehicle.
The Phantasm holds an arm aloft, readying himself. The engine roars to life behind him, he is lit up by a set of powerful headlights, he drops his arm and, together, they speed off into the night. Carried away in the moment the wind sings against his face as he descends the hill.
The black bike zips under the old railway bridge and round the corner. He should have the driver to the factory in less than ten minutes. He pictures the scene: a tiny bicycle leading a huge articulated eight-wheeler to safety, just as a little tugboat might steer a colossal cargo tanker through a treacherous harbour.
He can hear the tyres of his bike grip the blacktop. Strange. Where’s the rumble of the engine?
He glances over his shoulder. The truck is not there. Tracking back on himself, the Phantasm investigates. Then he realises something. Isn’t the old railway bridge a low bridge? Consulting his memory, he is sure there are black-and-yellow hazard markings on it . . .
Yes, it is a low bridge. The Phantasm tries to imagine the scene in his mind. The driver, alone in his cab late at night. A friendly face come to help. He follows. A low bridge. But what happened next? He must have panicked and made a disastrous error of judgement because, as the Phantasm comes back around the bend, he sees the main body of the truck is well and truly wedged under the bridge. Cars are building up in the area, from both directions. The road is blocked: the truck’s cab has veered into the opposite lane, making both ways impassable. Many, many car horns are tooting. And there he is, the traveller from a far-off land, his head popping out the window, his arms waving.
‘Hey!’ the driver calls.
The hero’s eyes meet those of the traveller. He is very, very angry. The scene is chaos. There are too many people around. Sometimes you must lose the battle to win the war. With this thought in mind, the masked vigilante turns the bicycle around, hoping the driver won’t mind too much. He imagines the view from the cab, of the hero who almost saved him but who is now undertaking a U-turn in the open road and heading in the opposite direction, around the corner, out of sight.
He retrieves his phone from his utility belt. The least he can do is call 999.