Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

  “Of all my many good ideas at the time,” she muttered to herself, “this takes the biscuit.”

  Just then her phone cheeped. She pulled it out of one of her overloaded pockets. She’d wanted to bring a bike panier containing all the necessary just-in-case items: puncture repair kit, spare inner tube, adjustable spanner, set of Allen keys, WD40, bar of chocolate, sun cream and packet of paracetamols. Jared had refused to let her, saying it would slow her down as well as make her look naffly amateurish.

  “But I am naffly amateurish,” she pointed out.

  “Have some pride, Mother,” he replied firmly. “Now, if you have any technical problems, there’s a van with a mechanic who’ll bring up the rear and sort out any problems, and failing that the broom wagon will pick you up and bring you home.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know there were either of those,” admitted Martha.

  “Didn’t you read that stuff you printed out about the race?” demanded Jared.

  “Not all of it, no,” she conceded. “It was very small print and very hard to read,” she added, by way of lame explanation.

  “So you’ll just need food and water.”

  “And my phone. In case of emergencies,” she felt the need to explain.

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d be stopping to take selfies with it every five hundred metres,” sighed Jared.

  So Martha had surrendered gracefully and stuffed her mobile and various energy-boosting food items into the pockets of her cycling shirt. She snuck the Allen keys in too, just in case. The pockets were now bulging, so much so that as she extracted the phone to read the text that had just come in, the banana sharing that pocket thunked to the ground. It was already slightly on the squishy side. Now it was mushy. Martha picked it up and dropped it into a nearby litter bin. She probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. She preferred chocolate as a cycling snack, even though it wasn’t practical on hot days like today. Her bar would be liquid soon.

  She glanced at the screen to see who the message was from. Philippe. There’d been a tired, stark message from him waiting for her when she’d woken up. He’d sent it at just after 3 a.m. It simply said: ‘Finally finished up here. He’s not our guy. Stay vigilant.’

  Martha hoped this one might be more optimistic. It was: ‘Good luck, must be nearly off time. Hope to catch you at the finish line. We nearly home.’ And there was more: ‘xx’. A smile lit Martha’s face. Maybe it was only a non-committal two kisses but that was quite a big step in their relationship, if that’s what it even was.

  ‘Thanks,’ she typed back. ‘Will do my best! xx.’ She hesitated, then rashly added another ‘x’ before hitting send.

  Before she could start to worry if that had been over the top, an announcement came over the loud speakers. “All cyclists with orange and green bands to the start area please. Departure for the over-fifties women in five minutes.”

  Five minutes? Was that all? And yes, rub it in about their ages too. Martha suddenly felt sick with nerves. She took some deep breaths to pull herself together. For goodness sake, this was just a fun bike ride to raise money for charity. Nothing to get in a tizz about.

  Gripping her handlebars tightly with shaking hands, she began to wheel her bike through the mass of competitors to the start line. To distract herself she focussed on the various outfits her competitors were wearing. Most were in generic cycling clothes from discount online sports stores, as she was. However, there was a good proportion wearing the team colours of some of the international pro teams. Those would have set the wearers back by several hundred euros at least. A quick glance confirmed that they had equally expensive-looking bikes. The bright red of a Codifis outfit caught her eye. It was worn by a tallish, lean man who currently had his back to her. He had everything from the helmet to the socks, but the ensemble was marred by the Quickstep bottle on his bike. Could this be the chap who’d dropped what was now Jared’s bike bottle by Lecerf’s farm, presumably whilst ghoulishly checking out the murder scene like she herself had done? It seemed highly probable since the wrong team bottle really did stick out like a sore thumb.

  A large, flabby man in a Movistar team strip barged between Martha and the guy she was watching. He clipped Martha’s bike with his own, totally his fault, but rather than apologise he merely tutted loudly and shot her a haughty look. Martha returned her English version, which was far inferior. She contented herself with bitchily thinking that the Lycra in his outfit must be super strong as it was having to contain an awful lot of flesh. She felt twig-like next to him, her stubborn tummy fat miniscule. She smiled smugly.

  It turned out there were half a dozen orange-band wearers: Martha, Whippet Woman and four fairly fit-looking older women who gave the impression of being semi-serious cyclists. Martha forlornly predicted sixth out of six for herself.

  “Go Mum!” Jared’s voice reached her above the general hubbub. “Leave ‘em standing!”

  That was extremely unlikely, but Jared’s loyal enthusiasm was infectious. She felt her determination re-inflate. She was a semi-serious cyclist too. She was a match for the others, apart from Whippet Woman. But even she might be all show.

  “You go girl,” Martha muttered to herself.

  The six women lined up to huge applause and a deafening announcement from the loudspeaker which was located right at the start and finish line, and only centimetres from Martha’s right ear. She’d somehow been shunted into the position without realising. But that wasn’t so bad since there was a right-hand bend coming up which would give her a tiny and temporary advantage. She intended to seize the opportunity it offered.

  The announcer and crowd began counting down. Martha suddenly felt really excited, caught up in the whole supportive atmosphere. She was right here, right now, doing something she’d never done before. This was a challenge she’d set herself and she’d do her darnedest to rise to the occasion. She looked round again, soaking up the experience, savouring it. This was fun.

  For whatever reason her eye fell on the Cofidis guy again. He was scratching his left shoulder, his right arm half obscuring his face. With a jolt, Martha suddenly recognised him as the cyclist she’d tried to help out of the ditch. At that time the hideous neck tube had concealed the lower part of his face. There was no mistaking him. And he was wearing that same plaited friendship bracelet. She could see the scab on that cut she’d noticed and suggested he clean up. And there were the same weirdly shiny tyres on his bike.

  The pair of them locked eyes briefly through their sunglasses. The man appeared to frown and Martha felt the slightest tug of annoyance as she remembered how surly he’d been then and was being now, but it was swept away by adrenaline as she returned her focus to the race.

  “Trois… deux… un… ALLEZ!” screamed everyone.

  Martha realised too late she hadn’t adjusted her gear since getting back from her ride with Philippe. They’d glided down the drive in a low, downhill gear and here she was on the flat. It took a monumental effort to turn the pedals and she was mortified to see the others zipping off ahead of her in sensibly high gears. What a moron! However, a few more heroic, thigh-busting turns of the pedals and she was catching up. She twiddled the gear levers and settled into a far more appropriate combination of large and small rings and joined the pack, settling in at the rear to pace herself.

  As she’d guessed, Whippet Woman was soon a dot on the horizon but she was keeping up well with the other ladies. In fact, she was starting to feel slowed down by them. It was all very well conserving energy by not blasting off too fast, but Martha felt she could and should be going a fair bit faster. She wasn’t the greatest hill climber so she’d lose time when the climbs began. She needed to get some distance between herself and her rivals while she could. She bided her time a couple more minutes until they got to the top of what had been a pain-free, gentle incline then slipped into a massive downhill gear, pumped the pedals and swooped past the ladies. She could have cackled with glee but thought that not very sporting. Glancing over
her shoulder half a kilometre down the road, she saw that no one had pursued her and she was indeed pulling away nicely.

  Her bubble was burst ten minutes or so later when the first of the over-fifties men cruised past her with a polite “Bonjour.” Had they caught up so soon? She looked round but could only see one more making ground on her. These two must be the Whippet Woman equivalents of their group. The first man was going too fast for her to keep up with, but with a bit of effort she managed to stay on the wheel of the second man who overtook her. She stuck to him like glue up the three hills she knew were coming, although it was tiring. Worried she’d overdone it, she slowed a little before the fourth hill. She had to save her energy for the second half of the race. It was less challenging gradient-wise but she needed something in reserve for a sprint finish.

  Halfway up the fifth hill the fastest middle-aged men and women zoomed past, and by the time Martha reached the furthest point from Bousseix, and the closest to her home, all the youngsters had overtaken her.

  She found herself cycling alone. Occasionally she would catch glimpses of cyclists ahead, but she soon stopped looking over her shoulder. No one else had caught up to her for twenty minutes so she reckoned they probably wouldn’t now. If she could hold this pace she’d find herself arriving in the middle of the field, which was more than respectable.

  She allowed herself to relax, just a little. Her mind began to wander as she caught a glimpse of Cofidis red ahead of her. She’d noticed him powering past her in a large group of younger riders quite a while ago now. He was clearly falling behind his peers. Maybe, she thought wryly, he’d fallen into another ditch.

  That nettle-filled ditch five minutes from the Frobarts’ farm supplies shop. Five minutes by car at Martha’s steady 70 kph, which would be between fifteen and twenty minutes by bike if you were a fit and strong young man going in the region of 20 kph. That plaited friendship bracelet and Bruno’s plaited noose. That dropped Cofidis bottle by Lecerf’s farm. Bike tracks with an unusual wavy tread in the green lane by the Saunier brothers’ house and farm…

  Ice flooded Martha’s veins. Could these wild thoughts of hers be accurate? Had she just solved this string of crimes? What the heck should she do now? Stop and phone Philippe? Plough on to the finish line and tell him there? Would he or anyone else believe her anyway?

  She was gaining on the man in red – or rather the murderer in red. Or was he dropping back, knowing she was coming up behind him? It seemed he’d recognised her at the start line, but he couldn’t possibly know what she thought she now knew, could he? Maybe that hate bale containing a chunk of Martial Lecerf wasn’t a random delivery at all. Maybe he knew it was her farm, and he knew who she was. He’d known since she’d stopped to help him out of that ditch. Perhaps he was worried that she might eventually put all the bits of the crimes going on around her together. Perhaps she was destined to be his next victim…

  She slowed her pace so as not to catch up to him. Blast it though, she was going so well! If she slowed down too much, or stopped altogether, those other orange-banders might overtake her and she’d be last in her category. But better that than dead. She needed to wait for company before she got any closer to the psycho cyclist. Safety in numbers. She looked over her shoulder again but the road was still deserted. How were these people managing to go so slowly?

  She made up her mind. She’d stop and phone Philippe, then wait for more cyclists to come by and tag along with them. But just as she applied the brakes, she noticed that the man in red had sped up considerably. He was zooming along now, and about to disappear from sight. She relaxed. He must have temporarily run out of puff, or got a stitch or something. She’d carry on cycling until she came to the next race warden. There’d been a few dotted along the way so far, waving cheerfully as she’d gone by. She couldn’t be far from that five-way junction and there was bound to be one there, surely, given that someone usually mucked around with the race signs at that point of the course. She’d stop and call Philippe then, and wait with the warden until other cyclists caught up.

  If they ever did. Could all those straggling behind her have dropped out? She told herself not to be ridiculous. And anyway, in that case she’d just wait with the warden until Philippe came to find her.

  Now a woman with a plan, resolve powered her legs and she pedalled along swiftly. Over a rise, round a lazy bend and there was the junction ahead of her. And no signs. The local joker had done his thing again. But Martha had her secret stone in place to ensure she went the right way. There was also no warden, but now that the man in red was no longer in sight she felt safer. She felt silly too for ever having imagined that he might think she was onto him. She was just scaring herself.

  Freewheeling down the slope, she decided to fuel up for the last leg of the race. Her hand went into her middle back pocket, groping for that warm chocolate bar. She quickly located its softness and tugged, but it didn’t budge. It did, however, squelch through a split she’d made in the silver paper and squoosh over her fingers. She sucked them clean then had another go. She jerked at the bar swiftly and pulled it free, at the same time dislodging the other contents of that same pocket, which included her phone. It smacked onto the tarmac behind her with a doom-laden crunch.

  Martha swore and braked hard. She circled round and pedalled back to the several pieces of her phone. The back had come off, sending the battery and other internal components scattering. The front had cracked in two.

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” she complained to a startled blackbird, that flapped off with a squawk of alarm. “You’d think they’d make them a bit tougher.”

  She dismounted and gathered up the bits of hardware she could find. It hardly mattered if she had them all since the thing wasn’t going to be usable ever again. She spotted the SIM lurking in grass at the road’s edge and swooped on that. Even she, not one of the connected generation, knew that was worth retrieving.

  She got going again, decidedly rattled, and was on semi-autopilot when she reached the signless junction and took the second right, as per Philippe’s instructions. She glanced for confirmation at where her marker stones should be, and saw they weren’t there. Once again she slammed on the brakes. She wheeled round and rode back to the junction. She was sure beyond sure that she’d taken the right road… but she can’t have. Unless someone had removed her stones, of course, thinking them a race hazard perhaps, or had just needed a couple of small lumps of rock to plug a hole in a barn wall. She therefore quickly cycled along the first road on the right, but when she saw no marker rock and then noticed that this road was starting to swing back in the direction she’d just come from, she returned once again to the junction. It was frustrating: she was losing so much time. She didn’t want the world, well Bousseix, to think she was a hopelessly slow cyclist. Especially not after Philippe’s training run, and being bored rigid on the exercise bike.

  Despite her own misgivings, she ventured along the third road to the right. She was certain that this was the wrong road and that she was merely wasting more time. But at exactly the point where she was expecting them not to be, there they were. Her stones. She was astonished at her own forgetfulness. She’d have staked her life on this not being the right road. She thought back to yesterday’s ride but couldn’t dredge up any helpful landmarks along this stretch. It had to be the right way to go. The stones confirmed that.

  She now felt even more rattled, given her current confusion. Was this an early sign of the ghastly dementia that had turned her mother into a stranger? It was something that bothered her from time to time, when she did silly things like forget to bring the shopping bags when she went to the supermarket, or fail to remember if she’d locked the car. But she’d always dismissed those as being due to tiredness or distraction. This, though, was something else. On this occasion she’d been absolutely sure she had remembered the route correctly but the facts spoke to the contrary. Was this the tip of the slippery downwards slope?

  Well, never mind that now
. She had to get to Philippe with her suspicions as quickly as possible. She picked up the pace, concentrating on the tarmac stretching in front of her. She chose to ignore the scenery because it definitely seemed unfamiliar, although it couldn’t have been as she’d passed it only the day before. That magnificent cherry tree about a hundred metres after the junction. How could she not have spotted that yesterday? She must have been too weak with hunger to pay attention to her surroundings, she concluded.

  She powered on but her legs were faltering a little. The road was becoming extremely narrow, yet another feature she hadn’t taken note of the previous day. She allowed herself a glance around. There were dilapidated, somehow menacing buildings to either side, crowding her. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Despite her self-doubt concerning the soundness of her memory, she knew now and for absolute certain that this wasn’t the right road. She sighed loudly as she realised what must have happened. The sign-moving moron must have spotted her two stones and worked out what they were. They did stick out like a sore thumb, if you thought about it. So he’d moved those too.

  “Bother, blast and bollocks!” vented Martha, doing yet another U-turn.

  If it wasn’t for her support team downing coffee and beer whilst excitedly awaiting her return, she’d have cycled back home from here. She’d now added an extra couple of kilometres, and about a quarter of an hour, to her ride. She’d be last out of everyone. Humiliating or what.

  She stamped on the pedals to accelerate, but the next instant there was a flash of red from her right and she and her bike were knocked to the ground. Her helmeted head bounced hard off the road surface, stunning her, and her entire left side registered significant pain. She’d gone down like a ton of bricks. Had a deer jumped out and collided with her? She blinked, trying to focus. She didn’t see any sign of a deer, but she did see the sneering face of the man in red as he stood over her, a hunting knife in his right hand.