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warpofthewords · 3 years

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Close pass

‘You’ll remember next time, eh?’ Colston said, ‘don’t close pass ‘em if they’re wearing helmet cams.’

‘But I’ve points on my licence now,’ Steve complained.

‘All because some sanctimonious, lycra clad prig felt you didn’t give him enough space. He was hardly likely to be crushed under your wheels was he?’ sympathised Colston. ‘You know what to do, scatter pins in the cycle lane or stretch piano wire across your local cycle path. If the smug, elitist, puritanical killjoy is going fast enough, it’ll break his neck.’

Both men laughed. Colston pressed a button and Steve was gone. He signed off his radio travel talk show.

‘Nice one!’ his producer crowed, ‘ratings have gone up 20% since you started sending up cyclists. I want more tomorrow!’

‘No problem,’ Colston grinned, ‘I’ll get plenty material just from driving home. They’ll be loads of them out on a sunny day like this. Jumping red lights, going on pavement, off pavement, in cycle lane, out of cycle lane; no accountability!’

Outside, Colston noticed black clouds gathering to the west and was glad to get into his Nissan Navara. He eased into the narrow lanes of the city. Ahead of him was a cyclist, no helmet cam, jarring over the potholes. He drove right up to the back wheel and tailgated, revving his engine. Just as the road narrowed he made his move, allowing half a foot of space he crawled past, moving in a little more so there was about an inch between handlebars and wing mirror. He heard the woman shout something and floored it, leaving her in his wake, laughing to himself.

It began to rain, fat droplets landing on his windscreen. Ahead of him the traffic had gridlocked and he stopped. The woman cyclist was going to catch up. Was it getting darker? The rain intensified, pummelling the roof, his windscreen was inundated, he could barely see the car in front of him or the one behind. An eerie mist was descending and yet he could clearly see the cycle lane in his wing mirror. There was a cyclist approaching, but they didn’t look right – they were travelling very fast and were oddly thin. It wasn’t the woman. There were two others behind it – it? They whizzed past every car in the traffic jam, moving outwards towards the edge of the cycle lane, gradually slowing, then they stopped just behind his bumper. Why? The cycle lane was clear, what were they playing at? Colston couldn’t see the faces under the helmets or at least that was the case for two of them, the other he couldn’t see very well at all. It looked as if … no that couldn’t be right.

There was a scratching sound, the first cyclist was passing his Navara so close that the handle bar was scraping the paintwork.

‘Hey!’ shouted Colston, then he was aware that the second one was doing the same the other side. Colston went to open his window to have words, then saw on the passenger side the face beneath the helmet staring into his window; two black eye sockets, a grinning mouth, no flesh on the bone. He screamed in horror and turned to look out the driver’s side; the cyclist there was taking his helmet off revealing rotting flesh hanging off a caved in skull – were those drawing pins digging into the sunken cheeks? Colston moaned, this was surely a joke. The one on the passenger side had raised his lycra jersey to reveal that every white bone in the ribcage was broken.

‘Fuck!’ screamed Colston and rammed his hand on his horn, ‘help!’

The third one was coming now, a vague wraith, Colston couldn’t quite see him, until he stopped his thin, black bike at the front of Colston’s car. Colston realised then what it was, the head wasn’t sitting right on the shoulders, it hung to the side, resting on the shoulder. The rider climbed off the bike and onto Colston’s bonnet, he stared through the windscreen at him, pushing his head from one side to the other with one hand. The other hand reached forward and scratched something down the glass – piano wire.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Colston cried and turned his head wildly from side to side, skeletal fingers were clawing at the top of his windows, gaining purchase, forcing the windows down. Colston screamed and buried his head in his hands. Nothing happened for a while, then he became aware of a constant knocking noise and a voice shouting; ‘What’s your problem mate? The light’s green! Get moving!’

He looked up, the rain was falling gently on his windscreen, visability was otherwise good. There were no cyclists, only an irrate motorist knocking on his window.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve aged 10 years in one night!’ exclaimed Colston’s producer the next day.

‘I thought we’d have a change of subject today …’ began Colston.

‘No way, mate! You’re nailing it with those arsey fussbudgets on bikes! Get out there and give it your best! I’ve got five callers waiting on the line, all of them cyclist haters. Remember, heap on the humour. I’m loving the puritanical, lycra clad, priggish, elitist, snobby line, appeals to everyone. We can’t have people thinking it’s not a joke.’

Colston sat in his studio chair, through the panoramic window he could see the city spread below him; the narrow streets, the traffic jams and those big black clouds piling in from the west.

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