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Alice in my head with no warning. Pale thin face. Those eyes, both fearful and empty. The only image of the mother I will never know.
You Know I’m No Good.Was that Alice deciding not to find Ken when she was pregnant?
Flashes of Ken’s story repeating as the bike bombs across the moors.
Sat at the bar looking into an empty drink…
Small and sad, all I wanted was to look after her…
Thin arms covered in bruises…
Like she was trying to forget herself…
Bloke in me couldn’t help it…
All I will ever have of her: a blurry photo and Ken’s guilt-ridden mitherings.
Amy comes through, right on cue, He Can Only Hold Her. What happened to Alice to make her like that? Unbearable that I will never know. Why didn’t I probe Ken more?
What if she hadn’t died when I was little? Why has that might-have-been never occurred to me? Is there owt of her in me? She took Ken home on a whim – I looked after him at the end, right?
The moors spin past – blurred through frigging tears. Riding on automatic.
Amy laying it on now with Wake Up Alone.
Those frightened blank eyes. What the heck was behind them? Did she die alone? How else?
Suddenly the bike’s juddering – I’ve slowed right down to thirty, catching traffic stuck behind a caravan. Managed the brakes instinctively but not the gears. Glance at my foot changing down; see the loose chippings, how close to the side I’ve drifted. Look up and see the silver Toyota just in front of me swinging over to take a left at a junction I didn’t even notice.
I hear my horn, not as loud as it should be, slam on the brakes, feel the skid of the back wheel throw me. Oily gleam of puddle in broken tarmac. Thud of the dropped bike. Smell of rubber and petrol. Visor steaming up. Scrape of the road sliding on my side to the lumpy edge. Damp cool earth as I scrabble on hands and knees to land helmet face down on the bank.
Head pounding breath echoing. Condensation refracting grey-brown grass. Fuck, the bike! Got to rescue the bike. Push up on my hands to roll to the not-hurting side.
‘Are you OK there?’
Lift the visor to peering face of a man with dark hair hanging over his eyes. I nod, feel the weight of the helmet, push onto my knees to get up.
‘Here.’ He offers his shiny-clean hand.
Sharp pain in lower ribs as he hauls me up. Stagger to the bike lying back wheel into the road. Bend to grab the handlebars and wince with another shot of pain. The guy leans over and pulls it up in one easy move.
‘You want to watch what you’re doing, young lady.’ Smug in business-man-on-holiday casuals.
The paintwork’s scratched on the tank and the front mudguard’s dented. Tears well for my precious bike. He looks for the side-stand. I try to take the bike from him, clutching at my side.
‘I can manage,’ he snaps. ‘You were far too close to that car. You didn’t even notice him indicating left.’ He heaves the bike onto the stand.
I look around – just the one car with the hazards on behind us.
‘No, he didn’t stop, but that doesn’t…?’
‘Probably didn’t even notice me come off, right, that’s how much he was looking.’ I hear the shake in my voice, heat of tears. I turn to wipe my face with my gloved hand, still holding my side with the other. It hurts to breathe.
‘Whatever. You’re lucky you’re not badly injured. Nothing broken, I take it?’
‘I’m frigging walking, aren’t I?’
‘I should call the police. Shame I didn’t get the car’s plate.’
