I put the legs together, placed my good hand on the bank and kicked with my feet to try to pull myself out of the water. I got half out but plopped back in. I tried again but couldn’t even get as far as my first attempt. I slipped back into the water and took a mouthful of water. I suddenly panicked. Shit, I was stuck in the freezing canal. I searched the bank, looking for some steps. How the hell had I made such a stupid mistake? I was going to freeze to death and drown or get found and then arrested.
I frantically thrashed back towards the bridge, desperate to find some sort of way out of the canal. I was convinced the canal would be a watery end for me. There was nothing. I searched all the way to the bridge. I slapped the water in anger. The dogs in the enclosure noticed me and looked at me like I was totally mad. ‘I know!’ I shouted at them before I scrambled back to where I’d first started. ‘Fuck!’
I went round in a desperate circle searching for some way out of the canal. I was continuously spitting water out of my mouth, looking up and down the path, hoping someone might come along, hoping I could find a way out. Then, about twenty feet away, almost level with the edge of the dogs on the other side of the canal, not far from my bike, I made out a hole in the brick wall on the bank of the canal. I swam and pulled myself along until I was level. With any luck there’d be another hole on my side of the canal as well. There was. I put one foot in the hole and pulled myself up, letting go of the bank to make a grab at the root of an old tree. It unravelled slightly but took my weight, allowing me to put some pressure on my other leg and pull myself up onto the edge.
Once up I wasted no time, I went straight to the legs, took them out of the plastic bags and tossed them one after the other straight into the enclosure. The dogs were frozen to the spot, watching me rather than the legs. I grabbed the plastic bags and ran back to the bridge. I reluctantly jumped back into the canal and swam back to the other side of the bridge through the darkness. I searched the bank for an escape route but once again couldn’t see one. I took out the plastic bags and filled them with air, making a pair of inflatable air pillows. I pushed off from the wall and kicked against the current, which seemed to get stronger in the middle of the canal. I kicked my legs with all my strength but couldn’t stop myself going back, further away from the bridge and the bike. I battled my way to the other side but had to pull myself along the bank under the bridge and along the canal until I reached the hole. I was pleased to see the dogs still charging around with chunks of meat. There wouldn’t be much left behind in the morning, for sure.
I reached the hole, threw the empty plastic bags on the bank and finally pulled myself clear of the water. My hands were bright red but pruned. My feet and ankles were covered in small scratches. My head was banging, my nose was streaming and I had a sore throat, a dull, constant ache in my arm and itchy eyes.
I got dressed again and back on my bike. ‘Bye bye, doggies,’ I croaked.
67 – NCP – 9pm
I put the portfolio over my shoulder and pulled the straps as tight as possible; it couldn’t hug me any tighter without me being sick. I’d shoved the empty plastic bags into the satchels on the front wheels of the bike and zipped the compartments shut. I said goodbye for the last time to the hunting dogs and hog and made my way to the steps that led up to the bridge and the path back to Regent’s Park. Even though the bike was small and no longer weighed down with body parts I was knackered, and carrying it up the steps with one arm and a massive portfolio on my back proved simply impossible. I held the handlebars at arm’s length and gradually bumped the bike each step of the way; unfortunately every step sent wild reverberations through my body, causing pulses of nausea to whirl through my gut. My nose was now running freely, but because I only had one hand and that was pushing the bike I had no choice but to sniff constantly in a losing battle, trying to ebb the relentless flow of snot. I lost the battle and war by the time I got to the top of the stairs. Attractively, I had a trail of slime all the way past my mouth and chin and onto my jacket. I placed the bike up against the wall and wiped my mouth and nose on my sleeve. I must have been ten years old since I’d done that last. I felt physically sick and needed to warm up as quickly as possible. I tried to clear my throat but it burnt to buggery. I needed a pack of Strepsils and a pack of Beechams and to at least soak my arm in salty water and apply some new bandages. I wanted a hot bath, or better still to be a Roman solider pampered by beautiful maids doused in exotic flagrancies. God only knew what I looked like.
I put my leg over the frame of the bike and, using my good arm, placed my duff hand on the handlebars. I couldn’t move my fingers and definitely couldn’t use the brake but my thumb felt a tiny bit more responsive and although it burnt the whole way up my arm I could just about hold on to the grip. I turned both the front and back lights on and made my way alongside the Regent’s Park outer ring towards Marylebone Road. It was getting darker.
Even if I wanted to go any faster the portfolio acted like an umbrella. The blustery wind couldn’t make up its mind whether it was going to help or hinder me. One minute it pushed me back, then it pushed me on and I didn’t need to pedal, and then it tried to push me off. I took it slowly; I certainly wouldn’t be racing any couriers on single-geared racers today.
I got to Marylebone Road and panicked when I saw the traffic. It was insane. Regent’s Park had virtually been deserted save a few dog walkers, runners, weirdos and stranger tourists, but there had been no traffic. Even the squirrels on guard had let me pass. Marylebone Road was different, though; it seemed mental. It was alive, a heaving mass of vehicles and moving metal all angry and wanting to be somewhere else. Everything and everyone was late already. Everyone was on a mission. Everything was dazzling: the noise, the lights, the indicators, the car horns, the loud motorbikes. It was like Silverstone and I was a hedgehog or carthorse, slug or sloth. I was going to die.
I didn’t want the lights to change. I wanted them to stay red forever. I really didn’t fancy joining the traffic. It felt like you do when you’re about to jump in the sea or the pool when you’re on a really hot holiday. I felt sick and gagged again. The lights changed and a car I hadn’t noticed bibbed me. I looked round to wave them on but they were already passing me. I muttered under my breath and pushed off, wobbling into a left-hand turn that led straight into another set of traffic lights. The car that had just overtaken me was a silver Mercedes with tinted windows. It had a strange personalised number plate that read UCI 8U. I stood behind it with one foot on the curb, trying to work out what on earth it meant. Did it mean ‘hate’ or ‘ate’? I wasn’t sure which was worse, and I stopped contemplating when a stream of traffic joined us shortly before the lights changed again and I carefully made my way past Great Portland Street on my right and a big old church on my left.
I had a stream of cars go past me and each felt too close, like they were invading my space, and as I made my way into the bus lane and away from the constant moving blockade a poxy bendy bus cruised up right behind me. The driver didn’t have enough time to overtake me before the next stop and there was already another bendy bus sitting at the stop anyway. The driver couldn’t have got any closer to the back of me if he tried. If I fell off the bike now he would undoubtedly drive straight over me or drag me along, pinned by the portfolio, grated into the road. I concentrated on keeping the bike steady whilst continually checking the road ahead. I would have loved to have stuck two fingers up at him but couldn’t take a hand off the handlebars. If I tried to look behind the bike wobbled wildly. I had no choice but to keep focused on what was in front of me. Forget all the traffic whizzing around me. I had to stop behind the bus already pulled over as there was no way I could overtake with the big portfolio on my back.
I pulled up behind the bus to bide my time and turned round to look at the inconsiderate bus driver. He looked like Robert Mugabe but I couldn’t get him to look at me. It wasn’t like I could or would do anything anyway, I just wanted to give him a dirty look and possibly call hi
m a prick. I was quite sure he got called that and worse every single day. Whilst I waited for the bus to pull away I decided bus drivers hated the taxi drivers who hated the motorists who hated the cyclists who hated the pedestrians. Then I decided everyone hated everyone, and right then everyone hated me.
The bus pulled away and I followed at a decent distance, all the while keeping in the bus lane and away from the faster traffic. Even the Boris bikes raced past me. Down Marylebone Road I went, past Euston and the British Library, concentrating on keeping steady. I pulled up level with King’s Cross. I had no choice: I’d have to get out of the bus lane soon as a constant stream of buses pulling in would end up cutting me up. The only way out was to gain some momentum.
I dropped a couple of cogs and immediately it felt like my legs were no longer moving. Shifting all my weight from leg to leg, I gradually picked up some speed. I couldn’t indicate and simply had to trust whoever was in the lane next to me wasn’t too busy on the phone or smoking a fag or changing the radio or applying make-up or looking at bogies up their nostrils. As the next car drew level and began to pass me I edged out as closely as possible to their rear tail lights. I was riding along the thick red line that marked the border of the bus lane.
The stationary bus then decided to pull away just as I pulled out to overtake. He hadn’t indicated or even looked in his mirrors. I panicked as the portfolio on my left-hand side felt like it was on a direct collision course with the bus, but I couldn’t pull out any more because the car beside me was now slowing down and the two vehicles were squeezing me tighter and tighter into a vanishing gap. I squeezed my brakes as hard as I could and braced myself for the searing pain that would inevitably scream up my arm like it had every time I’d tried to use the brakes so far. My right arm struggled to compensate for my left. I felt the weight of the pictures and portfolio pushing me forward. I couldn’t slow down fast enough. No matter how hard I squeezed the brakes, I couldn’t stop.
The bus hissed to a halt and the car slowed to a crawl. I aimed the front wheel of the bike into the little space between the car and the bus whilst my eyes flicked between them and my white knuckles. The car pulled away as my portfolio clattered on the side of the bus. My bike swung in as well and the handlebars jolted my hands free and disappeared to the floor. I raised one hand to stop my face hitting the bus although the portfolio’s momentum checked me and my feet lost the pedals and wrestled with the floor to stay flat. My legs lost the fight and the pedals swung round and bit my right shin in a final act of stubborn nastiness. ‘FUCK!’ My leg hurt like someone had hit it with an axe. I held my head on the bus for a second before bending down to pick up the bike.
I watched as the bus driver nonchalantly adjusted his mirror to see what was going on near the rear of his vehicle. I waved a hand as if to say it was okay and he tapped his head as if to say I wasn’t so I went into a dickhead hand gesture and he pulled away again, leaving me standing in the middle of the street. This somehow seemed to give me some more space and I was able to ride on although I was desperate to stop and look at my shin. I could imagine the blue bruise and dots of blood and torn skin.
The traffic was being held at the lights behind me so I left King’s Cross and the Big Issue seller mumbling ‘Pig tissue’ and made my way up the steep hill of Pentonville Road. The cycle path there was tiny with so many buses and it was such a steep hill I felt my weaving and dodgy riding would be better and safer on the pavement; as long as I didn’t see any overzealous policeman or traffic wardens, I should be alright. I weaved around drains, signposts and bus stops and bumped up and down curbs. I was in the highest gear possible and although my legs were moving ten to the dozen I wasn’t getting anywhere fast. I was sweating but didn’t feel hot. I was puffing through my arse.
When I got to the top of the hill I cut up Baron Street. At the end of the road I went right at Chapel Market. Manzes Pie and Mash shop called out to me far more than The Alma pub. I didn’t think I’d look out of place in either establishment, but as much as I could do with food and beer I wanted to get the hell out of London and didn’t feel like stopping. I rode through the Sainsbury’s car park, past The Angelic pub on Liverpool Road and then into the NCP car park next to the Islington Design Centre on Upper Street. I plunged down one level and found the old BMW where I had left it on Friday morning. I took the portfolio off my shoulder and stuck it in the boot. I folded up the bike and put that on the back seat. I got into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine and put the heating on full power.
68 – Not Desmond Tutu – 9pm–9am
I woke up to hear the tapping against the window. I blinked sleepily at my reflection to see a big round African face looking in at me with bright white teeth, scowling ferociously.
‘What are you doing?’ the Nigerian face demanded.
‘I fell asleep,’ I said wearily as I opened the window a crack.
‘You cannot sleep here,’ he barked. ‘This isn’t a drive through hotel, you know.’
‘I know, I know, I just fell asleep. I’m going now,’ I said, leaning forward to check the dashboard for the parking ticket.
‘You cannot pay with cash,’ he added.
I must have turned the engine off before falling asleep. Why couldn’t I pay with cash?
‘You what?’ I replied.
‘It’s card only, okay, card only. The machine is not accepting cash at the moment, I think the bloody Europeans... you know... have been tampering again with the bloody machine, okay.’ He sucked his teeth and looked at me a little more closely. ‘What is wrong with your arm and your face?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
I was beyond sick of the nosy car park attendant. Perhaps I should zap him, stick him in the boot and set the car on fire? I did up the window to end the conversation and waved away the strangely orange face. I pulled down the sun visor and the parking ticket fell out. It fluttered past my flapping hand too quickly for me to react and catch it and yet still in slow motion enough for me to appreciate its ebb and flow. I cursed as it settled between my feet and I had to pull my seat back to be able to get my head under the steering wheel and reach between my legs to get the ticket. As the air was forced from my lungs I panicked for a second, thinking I was stuck like that, head between legs under the steering wheel. I’d heard stories of couples caught in compromising positions whilst in the midst of making love and didn’t like the idea of becoming another story for the fireman to be discussing in the future.
I nudged the ticket annoyingly further away so I had to abandon my attempt and get out of the car to reach it. The cold blast of damp underground air went right through me and I felt like I’d been slapped round the face and suddenly brought to my senses; because I remembered I still hadn’t paid for the car park. I walked towards the machine, one hand hanging useless by my side. My head was spinning again. I felt like I was walking on an uneven floor. Was my arm dragging me off kilter? I looked back at the car to make sure it wasn’t at a funny angle and then back at the ticket machine. I noticed the nosy car park attendant in his little office put down a clipboard and stop what he was doing to watch me more closely. I was the monkey in the zoo. I tried to ignore him and patted my pocket as if I was just thinking I’d left the ticket in the car and reassuring myself. I knew it was in my hand; he didn’t.
I got to the machine and slid the ticket in. It reluctantly stuttered and grabbed it from me and then calculated I owed it forty-seven pounds twenty, so I paid from our joint account and waited for it to spit back my ticket and card. The NCP guy came out of his little office to check my payment was successful; he looked almost gutted when the transaction was complete. I figured he’d already planned how he’d take me down and bust me up whilst waiting for the authorities. I laughed at him and said, ‘See you later.’ I wouldn’t be returning. This guy was on me like a hawk.
I walked back to the car, put the ticket on the dashboard within easy reach and concentrated for a second, trying to work out how I was going t
o drive a manual car one-handed. I had no choice, but the only way it would be possible was going to be changing gear as little as possible. Turning the big old BMW was going to be hard enough one-handed, but changing gear would mean using my knees on the steering wheels and leaning across myself to reach the gear stick. I tried to swallow but my mouth was bone dry. I had to think hard to remember how to drive at all. I started to doubt myself and remembered the nosy attendant who would be gawping at me from his little office. I put the key in the ignition and turned but nothing happened. The car sounded like a heavy smoker rattling in the morning. It coughed and spluttered but just wouldn’t bite. ‘Fuck it,’ I shouted and punched the steering wheel with my good hand. I should never have come to the car. I looked out of the window half-expecting to see the attendant laughing or striding over with knuckle dusters gleaming in the Jaffa-orange light. I couldn’t see him anywhere; perhaps he was on the phone to the cops.
I leant across the passenger seat and opened the glove box. Inside there was a can of Quick Start. If this didn’t work I’d have to leave the car and continue on my bike, maybe just go straight back to the boat. ‘Shit.’ I didn’t know what to do. I went round the front of the car and opened the bonnet. I had to do it like a one-handed weight lifter. Why was everything proving so difficult? I couldn’t work out if it was because I was invalided or because I was unlucky. Would things be conspiring against me and taking so long if I could use two hands, or was this because of karma? I didn’t know. What I did know was that the sick feeling was returning and my head was pounding and the fumes from the spray had burnt my already sore throat as I sprayed the hose that ran towards the engine. I dropped the bonnet down, and threw the can on the passenger seat. Got back in the car, counted to ten, had a dab, dropped a pill, necked a bomb and partied on… Counted to ten, had a dab, necked a pill, dropped a bomb and partied on.