Mikey is cycling like mad.
Mikey Shit. Shit.
Come on. Come on.
Ten past nine. Late.
Because of some arsehole reversing out their gate.
AH!
Driver Hey!
Mikey Why don’t you watch where you’re going?
Driver Why don’t you get some lights?
Mikey What do you call this!
Mikey is holding up a tiny light.
Driver A piece of piss.
You shouldn’t be on a bike. The countryside is not for cycling.
Mikey That’s my wheel dented.
Driver Well, come on in. I’ve got the kit.
I’ll straighten it.
Mikey Really?
Driver Yes. And here. Have this.
And this.
A massive bike light.
And this.
More high-vis, maybe taped round him with reflective gaffer.
Mikey Really?
Driver Yeah. I bought them for my son. Though he would never wear them either.
Then some driver killed him.
On the 143.
So, just watch it.
Mikey Right.
Light on tarmac. Nine miles, then ten.
Starts to feel like he’s a bubble, floating alone.
The occasional eyes lit, then gone.
Above the sky is this … majesty.
Weird tonight. He feels so … right. Here. Now.
Then … (Looking at the time on his phone.) Holy cow!
He pedals even faster.
Knackered.
There. The Bell.
Mikey Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
Dumps his bike.
And it’s like he’s not really here.
A trance as he goes to the door.
Whoa!
Someone coming out.
Turn about.
No.
No.
He’s done three quick turns. Away and back again.
You can do this.
But as he gets to the door. He sees him.
Sitting at the bar.
And …
Mikey freezes. Thumps himself, hard. Upset.
Mikey Come on! NO!
You pathetic piece of shit.
No.
Imagination. The killer. Because he imagines the next bit. Before it’s happened.
And that’s the thing. What he always does. Like he imagines telling his mum.
And it’s there. Again. The slow thing. Rising up. This horrible slithering. A snake round his throat.
‘You can’t do it. You know you can’t.’
Stood. Still. His hand on the door.
He sees it fall.
Backs to the side.
And looks through the window.
The boy there.
Looking nervous too.
Mikey I want you.
But all he can do is stare.
Notices his breath in the air.
And thinks. That’s me. That breath there.
In. Out.
Clouds.
He’ll be dead forever.
Doesn’t notice the boy, his date, till he’s there.
Come out for some fresh air.
Mikey just stares.
The guy looks at him.
Date Alright?
Mikey nods.
You got a light?
Mikey shakes his head.
Cool.
And then puts his cigarette away.
Mikey wants to say. Wait. Stay!
Please. Hold me.
Something. Something.
But the guy has gone to his car.
The Bell quite far.
To come for a date that doesn’t show.
Should’ve known.
Always the way. Nowadays. No one got any …
He seemed nice too. The chat good. 1984. At his car door.
Think we’re living it.
NOOOOOOOOOOO!
All of it.
Gone.
Mikey’s phone buzzes.
He’s actually got reception.
It’s a message from the guy.
— Came. Would’ve been nice to say hi.
Pedal.
Pedal.
This place.
This place is dead.
This place is gone.
Just needs to get home.
Mikey is pedalling. Distressed. Tears.
Suddenly his bike goes wrong.
He falls.
Still for a second.
Then he’s up and kicking at his bike.
Mikey I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
He picks up the bike and throws it in a bush.
He picks up a piece that has fallen off and throws it away.
Then he runs after it.
Into the darkness.
Into the woods.
That was Mikey upset.
And if we can’t get a real bike then you should know that what happened was the wheel fell off. Literally.
And something snapped inside him too.
A little bit of something that had held him all these years.
And through the tears he’d seen the woods outside Little Bevan and he’d wanted it. The darkness. The oblivion. And he wanted to run through it.
And be torn and dirty and filthy till something else snapped.
So he’d run off like that.
All to say, he wasn’t having a very good day.