ACCIDENT
A short story of 1700 words
© David Lowe, January 1992
Greg leaned hard into the corner as the bike kicked up a strip of dust behind him. Trees and people with shopping bags flickered by. Back on the footpath now, he pedalled furiously to build up speed, wind whipping his hair. The well-oiled chain spun with a whir. Past the swimming pool and sounds of laughter and splashes. Past the shopping centre and staring faces at bus-stops. Faster. Faster. At the zebra crossing Greg squeezed his brakes and looked. An elderly couple were crossing slowly from the other side. The cars were banked up, waiting for them. Perfect, thought Greg, and pushed hard into his toe-clips.
The collision happened in slow-motion, almost dream-like. The car couldn't have been doing more than 10 km/h, but it crushed the bike like aluminium foil. Greg was knocked out of his pedals and rolled up the bonnet to hit the windscreen. The car stopped with a squeal of brakes. Greg rolled back down the bonnet and hit the road. Feeling stupid, he lay there and looked at his pride and joy lying crumpled under the front wheels of the station wagon. The driver raced around to the front of the car as he sat up, groaning. There was no real pain to speak of.
'Oh my God! Are you all right?' The woman was thirtyish. She had dark hair, a business suit.
'Yeah. Sure. No worries. Couldn't be better.' Greg noticed his wrap-around sunglasses had been snapped as he started to get up. A crowd was gathering.
Just then a short, serious-looking woman ran up. 'I'm a nurse,' she declared. 'Sit down.'
'I'm OK. Really.' Greg protested.
'Sit down! On your backside!' He heard the crowd muttering something about him being in shock as the nurse pushed him back on the road.
The woman who'd hit him cut back in. 'It's my fault. I didn't look. I'm terribly sorry. I was in such a hurry, and now, and now...' She burst into tears. The nurse comforted her. Greg felt embarrassed.
Finally the police arrived. For the tenth time Greg explained he was OK. They seemed to believe him. One of them backed the car off the bike. Greg winced as the steel screamed in protest. The crowd looked disappointed and began to wander off. A young cop bundled the wreckage into the back of the woman's station wagon. Greg and the driver, Marjorie, thanked the nurse for her help and drove together to the station to make a statement.
The woman drove erratically. 'Sure you wouldn't like me to drive, Miss er...' ventured Greg.
'It's Marjorie, Mrs Marjorie Calwell. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine in a minute.' A truck honked at them. 'You know I really am most dreadfully sorry. You are quite sure I haven't broken anything...important?'
'I'm fine. Anyway it was my fault as much as yours. I should have got off and walked.'
'Nonsense. The law says 'do not proceed until the crossing is clear'. I should know that by now.'
'Has this happened...before, then?' asked Greg.
'Oh no. Well once or twice.'
At the station Greg answered questions as a bored sergeant typed.
'Name?'
'Greg Victor Bolton.'
'Age?'
'Twenty.'
Once again he explained what had happened. The old people crossing the road. The woman moving off as soon as they were past her bumper. The collision. Then Mrs Calwell explained her side of it.
He was cautioned for failing to get off the bike. She was cautioned for dangerous driving. They were free to go.
Outside the station, Greg raised the matter of the bike.
'Of course I'll pay for whatever needs to be done,' she said.
'It could cost a bit...'
'Oh don't worry about that. I'm just so glad that you weren't hurt.'
She gave him a lift to the bike shop. There were no customers inside, and the manager practically rubbed his hands with glee when he saw the wreckage. Greg asked for a quote.
'New wheels, new handlebars, re-lugged crossbar, new brakes... I s'pose the derailleur might be OK. Sure you don't want a new bike mate?'
'Look, here's my number. Just find out what needs to be done and give me the price. All right?'
The bike was special to Greg. He'd hand-built it over two years, scratching and saving for the best components he could afford. The worst thing that had ever happened to it before was getting a bit of paint scratched off.
The bike shop man half-wheeled, half-carried the bike out the back to the workshop.
'Can I give you a lift somewhere?' asked Marjorie.
'Well I was going into uni. Not much point now I guess. Maybe you could take me home?'
When he got back to the group house the door was locked. Greg remembered he'd left his key in his bike bag. 'I'll have to wait until someone gets home,' he explained.
'You wouldn't like to come and have some lunch, would you? On me, I mean.'
'Sure.'
Greg ordered a hamburger and chips. Marjorie ordered foccacia and cappucino.
'So what happened to being in a hurry?' asked Greg. 'Didn't you have to be somewhere?'
'It's not important.'
Silence.
'Did you notice whether I dented your car by the way?' asked Greg as the food arrived.
'It's a Volvo. Indestructible. Or so my husband tells me.' Greg looked up. 'It's his car. Was.'
'Oh.'
It turned out she worked in the finance department of a computer company. She had no children, although she'd been married for ten years. She didn't like her job. As she talked, Greg noticed how pretty she was when she smiled, the way she brushed her hair back from her eyes. It turned out that she shared Greg's passion for museums. He talked about his anthropology course, and his family down in Melbourne.
After lunch it was still only 3pm. Two hours until someone would let him in. Marjorie dropped him home, and gave him a piece of paper with her phone number and address scribbled on it. He promised to ring her as soon as the quote came from the bike shop. After she drove away, Greg waited on the back step until the sun started going down and someone came home to let him in.
Three days later the man from the bike shop rang.
'$800,' he said, 'Honestly mate, I could do you a deal on something new for a bit over a thousand.'
'$800 is fine,' said Greg firmly. 'How long?'
The man from the shop ummed and ahhed. 'Weekend after next?'
'Right,' said Greg, and rang off.
He dialled the work number Marjorie had given him and explained the situation. She agreed on the price, and asked him if he wanted to go to the museum that weekend. Surprised, Greg agreed.
They met on the steps of the old building. He wore his jeans with the least holes. She was wearing a flowery sundress.
'Sorry I'm late,' he explained, 'Buses you know.' Marjorie smiled and they went inside.
Down the cases of bones and fossils they walked. Greg's hands waved and his eyes lit up as he explained the stories behind the pieces. In a dark corner, lit by a spotlight, stood an ancient fish in a glass case. Its vacant eyes stared out at the pair.
'Do you know how old this is?' exclaimed Greg. Suddenly he felt Marjorie's arms round his chest, her lips on his cheek. Startled, he tensed, then yielded to her embrace. She smiled, uncertainly. Greg returned her kiss. Marjorie looked on at herself in amazement. He felt confused and elated. Their hands ventured lower. A security guard cleared his throat and they parted, grinning like naughty schoolchildren.
Later, in bed, she told him why she hadn't been at work on the afternoon of the accident.
'I had the afternoon off. I was going to see my solicitor.' Greg stopped tickling her.
'Why?'
'To arrange a divorce.'
'But you said you were separated.'
'Yes, but not legally.'
Marjorie explained how her husband, Jason, continued to pursue her, how he would ring her up at work and threaten her. The restraining orders. The bruises. She told Greg about how he was a fitness freak. Heavily into gyms, running. 'Cycling too,' she added with a wry smile.
Just then the front door bell rang. Someone pounded on Marjorie's front door.
She raced to lock the windows. 'It's him!' she said.
'Mr Calwell, you mean?'
'Yes.'
Just my luck, thought Greg, trying not to panic.
A slurred voice from below. 'Marjorie! Lemeein. Thassa good girl...'
She held up a finger to her lips and whispered, 'Just keep quiet. He usually goes away after a while.'
Sure enough, after a few minutes the knocking subsided. Outside, the milk bottles were knocked over. Sounds of retreating footsteps.
'You have to go,' Marjorie thrust Greg's clothes at him. 'It's not safe.'
'What do you mean?'
'If he comes back and finds you here I don't know what he might do. At least if I'm alone I know how to handle him.'
'But-'
'Here's the keys to the car. I'll ring you later.'
She bundled Greg out the back door, kissing him long and hard before pointing him in the direction of the carport.
'Go!'
Greg fumbled with the unfamiliar gearstick. As he backed out he tried to find the switch for the headlights. Nothing worked. Carefully he accelerated down the quiet street, using the street lights to see where to go. A zebra crossing on the road ahead.
Ah! There they were. Greg reached down to turn on the lights triumphantly.
Suddenly a bicycle weaved into view in front of him. Greg slammed the brakes. There was a thump, and a body rolled up the bonnet as the car came to a stop. Greg leapt out of the car and ran round the front. A bicycle lay mangled under the front wheel. The body lay unconscious, hanging over the edge of the car. Greg checked the man's pulse. OK. A wallet poked out of his top pocket. Greg flipped it open. Video membership, lots of change, keys. A driver's licence. Greg angled it into the streetlight to read it.
The picture displayed a thick-set man with a crewcut and a singlet. 'Jason Calwell' said the card.
Greg threw up on the road.© David Lowe, January 1992