Beneath your perfect world

The closer Alan got to Kilnsey, the more it occurred to him that he should have stayed in London after landing at Heathrow. He hated long-haul flights and could have done without the four hour drag up the motorway. It wasn’t as if there was any urgency to get back to the humdrum of country life, but something lured him back to the remote village he’d been told was his home.

Winding through the country lanes, his neck stiffened as he turned the wheel to go round yet another bend. Daring to take one hand off the steering wheel, he pinched his nose and made his ears pop. They’d rung since taking off from Vancouver and now the buzz from the engine filled his head. It was hard to imagine that within the last twenty-four hours, he’d triumphed over the finish line of the Trans Rockies Mountain Bike Challenge. He and his teammate Chris had been the fastest British males in the over twenty-fives category. It had been a mind-blowing experience, yet now the whole six weeks sat with distant memories that didn’t gel into any sequence. Sixteen hours of travelling had obliterated all the glory. There wouldn’t be any champagne celebration when he got home. Most likely, he’d get an ear-bending from his mother for not being around all summer to work on the farm.

Seeing that the road was straight and clear, he risked screwing up his eyes and rubbed them to stem the itchiness. Even the late afternoon light made him squint. With only five miles to go, there didn’t seem any sense in stopping for a kip.

A hairpin bend came into view and he felt a twinge in his leg. He braced himself to use the clutch. Pain hadn’t bothered him whilst he was riding his bike. There was no adrenaline rush now to null the throb that plagued his lower body. As soon as he put his foot out, shooting pains went down his leg. Gritting his teeth, he grappled with the gearstick. The car juddered as his foot slipped off the pedal, jarring his back even more. He held his breath until the sensation went from his leg, then he noticed the headache again. Fumbling for the button on the door panel, the window whirred open, and a nip of air sharpened him like a shot of caffeine.

With sharper eyes, he watched the rapid approach of a cyclist. Despite the distance between them, he could see the rider was female, from the train of hair flapping out behind her. Overcome by nostalgia, he yearned for the exhilaration of hammering the terrain, pumping the front wheel over boulders. It was better than bloody driving. Sciatic pain shot down his leg. Maybe not.

Coming closer to the Roebuck Inn, he noticed a red Vauxhall Corsa waiting to turn right at the junction. The bloody typical Sunday driver wouldn’t pull out yet there was loads of room. As he got closer, he made out the pseudo country gentleman behind the wheel, wearing a trilby hat. The stupid twit was talking on his mobile phone. A few seconds later, the cyclist began to pass him. Wheels screeching and engine revving hard, the waiting car pulled out. Shit! The driver hadn’t even looked. Alan slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel, bringing his Audi Q5 to a halt in the middle of the junction. A scream hacked the air. He turned his head and watched in horror as the cyclist tumbled off the bike.

Grabbing his phone from the dashboard caddy, he leapt out of his vehicle. His jaw dropped as he watched the Sunday driver speed off into the distance. He held his phone up and framed a camera shot of the car then scanned the road for the cyclist. Unable to see her, his heart started racing and his breath quickened. Spotting the mangled bike on a grass verge above a shallow ditch, he walked towards it. She was there, sprawled out in the ditch. Her face looked ashen and her lips swelled. Brown hair straggled into the dirt from beneath her helmet. Fearing the worst, he started to shake. A voice cried out inside his head, “Phone an ambulance, phone an ambulance.” His thumb gravitated to 999 and the phone went to his ear like a magnet.

“I need police and an ambulance.” The line crackled and his hair flapped in the wind, so he pushed his hand tighter against the phone. “A cyclist’s been hit on the Grassington Road, about one hundred meters past the Roebuck Inn in the direction of Kilnsey.” The red Vauxhall appeared in his head. “The police need to be on the lookout for a red Corsa, recent model.”

“Is the casualty breathing?” the operator asked.

He hung over the woman who lay like a manikin and started to shake. “I don’t know.” His voice collapsed and he fell to his knees. .

“The ambulance is on its way.” The operator’s voice sounded like an echo then the line went dead.

Left confused, all he could do was gape at the woman. Through her torn clothing, he could see where the gravel had grazed the left side of her body. Rubbing his fingers over his moist palms, he wondered what the hell to do. Why couldn’t he deal with this? He was a first-aider. But his head was in a vacuum, and he dared not to hold her wrist in case he found no pulse. His hands were too clammy anyway.

Reaching towards her left side, he brushed her grazed skin. She winced, although her eyes stayed shut. Consumed by relief, he watched her chest rise and fall. “Thank God,” he whispered. She was so lucky to be alive. He rolled her into the recovery position then peeled off his fleece and wrapped it round her. Sirens wailed in the distance. All he had to do was keep an eye on her vital signs until the ambulance arrived. Sliding his hand beneath her wrist, he raised her arm. Her hand flopped but he could feel her pulse strumming his fingertips. He moved his head towards her mouth and felt her breath on his cheek. Edging back, he gazed at her face. The colour was returning but he got an eerie feeling. Her long lashes and high cheek bones looked like those belonging to a face he’d seen before. He dismissed the thought. It couldn’t be her.

The approaching sirens made him look up then a police car and ambulance pulled onto the grass verge. A knee jerk sense of unease came over him as a police sergeant and constable stepped onto the road. He’d had too many nights in police cells as a teenager to feel comfortable around the law. Hoping he could avoid speaking to the officers, he stayed put. Two paramedics came towards him.

“Casualty's breathing but she's not fully alert,” he said.

“We appreciate what you’ve done,” the paramedic said. He glanced at the woman. “We’ll take over from here. I think the Sergeant wants to speak to you.”

Pausing for a second, Alan swallowed a lump in his throat. As he hauled himself to his feet, a sciatic twinge made him joltjolted him. He limped over to the panda car, where the sergeant stood. Glancing back, he noticed the constable crouched beside the mangled bike.

“What’s your name, sir?” the Sergeant asked, poising his pen over a pad of paper.

He placed his hand on the roof of the car so he could take the weight off his left leg. Feeling his leg go into spasm, he clenched his teeth and spoke. “I’m Alan Bell. I was literally passing the vehicle when the accident happened.”

The sergeant looked him up and down making him feel more like he was under suspicion. “It looks like you’ve been in the wars as well.”

Rubbing his leg, he said, “Sciatica.”

“Painful! Hit and run was it?”

Alan narrowed his eyes. “The accident? Yeah, yeah, hit and run. The driver of the other car was on his mobile.”

The Sergeant’s face soured. He could tell what he was thinking, and for the first time in his life, he felt on side with the law. Retrieving the phone from his pocket, he brought up the image of the car and handed the phone to the sergeant. “I’m sorry; it’s a bit far away. ”The sergeant surveyed the picture.

“Good lad. We can track the vehicle down from this. You’d be surprised what we can do with imaging technology.” He took the phone to the panda car.

Not paying much attention to what the sergeant was doing, Alan stared into space with no sense of time passing. Everything that had happened replayed in his mind, the woman tumbling off the bike, the car driving off down the road and that pompous arsehole in a trilby hat. The adrenaline steadily drained from him. He felt as though a crown of thistles had grown inside his head and his blood had pooled in his feet. Through the spots in front of his eyes, he watched the woman being carried on a stretcher towards the ambulance.

Hearing the crackle coming over a radio, he blinked and glanced across at the constable making his way towards the panda car.

The Sergeant stepped out onto the tarmac. “HQ has located the Vauxhall. They're sending someone to an address on Broughton Road.”

Raising his chin with a sense of accomplishment, the constable looked back at the sergeant. “I’ve just heard it over the radio. We'll need to take the bike so we can match the paint work. Thankfully the car hit the bike and not her.”

The sergeant handed the phone back to Alan. It jostled in his hand as he tried to keep it in his grip. As it rested in his palms, he noticed his sweat had smeared the screen.

“Thank you very much the sergeant said. I wish there were more people like you around.” He got back in the car with the Constable.

Alan hobbled away from the police car then watched it set off and follow the ambulance down the road. He looked to the sky, which was still a pale greyish blue. Drawing in a deep breath, he returned to his vehicle with the image of the young woman’s face emblazoned on his mind. There was something familiar about her.