Next:The long way home
A car door slammed. The slap-slap-slap of footsteps hurried along pavement, heading his way.
“Leave me alone, for Christ’s sake! I just want to dream until the nightmare’s ended!” Buddy mumbled.
“You okay, Mister?”
A brilliance welled inside him, as if his eyes had become light bulbs and some misanthropic fucker had switched them on.
No more light. “No more fucking light,” Buddy groaned.
“T’sokay. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No! Please!” Alarmed, Buddy hoisted himself upright, disentangling his legs from the yellow bike, and managing to get into a sitting posture, head resting on knees, arms hugging shins. The beam of light had become a translucent patch on the pavement. Buddy was afraid of it—what it might do if his sadistic saviour pointed the remorseless wand toward him again, the effect it might have on his already bleary mind.
“I’m okay,” he panted. “Just needed to catch my breath, is all.”
“You sure?”
Doggedly, Buddy nodded, then lapsed into silence.
“Can you get up?”
Buddy slid backwards on his ass, then levered himself up onto the concrete barrier. “Ah,” he said, as things came into focus: the squad car parked behind the yellow bike, its rack of emergency lights blinking frantically, headlights illuminating the scene garishly. The wand’s beam spotlighted a patch of pavement, reminding Buddy of a full moon reflected on the surface of Victoria Harbour on a New Year’s Eve.
“Mind telling me where you were going?”
“Home.”
“Home, where?”
“Chemainus.”
The cop’s eyes widened, a slight smile turning up his lips. “That’s a long ride, bud,” he said. “Even on a good touring bike. In daylight. Wearing proper gear.” He glanced back at the skeletal remains of the yellow bike. “On that thing, in the dead of night, along the Trans-Canada? Wow! Seems almost suicidal to me.”
Buddy couldn’t think what else to do, so he nodded.
“Where’d you get the bike?”
“Someone left it leaning up against a pole.”
“Along Yellow Point Road, right?”
Buddy nodded. The cop sighed. “Have you got any money on you?” he asked.
“Credit cards is all.”
“Can you afford a cab ride?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Buddy said sullenly. “How much will it cost?”
The cop shrugged.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll call a cab. We’ll leave the bike here, behind this barrier…” as he talked, he lifted the bike over the barrier and leaned it against the other side. “You promise to come back tomorrow and put it where it belongs. Can you agree to that?”
“Yeah,” Buddy promised.
“Good,” the cop said. “Here’s my card. I’m banking on you being a good guy who’s got himself into a weird situation. I want you to call and confirm when you’ve put the bike back, okay? I’ll be checking to be sure it’s where it belongs.”
“Okay,” Buddy agreed glancing at the card.
“That bike of yours isn’t built for comfort,” the cop said as they waited for the cab. “Not for speed, either,” he joked.
Buddy liked the guy. Chatty, he thought. But with purpose.
Next: The long way home