racing blue that tapered longer at the back. When Paddy bent forward on the bike he wouldn’t be exposed in the kidneys. Clever little jacket. There was also a pocket back there, a pouch.
Later the bike shop riding analyst showed Paddy video footage on his computer of a middle-aged man trying to ride abicycle. It was a side-on view from a fixed camera, with a fixed bike. Oddly, it was in black and white, or grey—the man was grey, his skin was a lighter grey than his clothes. There was a flickering quality to the image. He looked as though he was biking in the 1920s. ‘See his head position?’ said the analyst. Paddy did. ‘Wrong. He should relax his neck.’
‘I see.’
‘See his shoulders? Wrong. He should be looser there.’
‘Yes,’ said Paddy.
‘Look at his elbows now.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘He should tuck them in, is he a duck?’
‘A duck?’
‘Waddle waddle.’
‘No,’ said Paddy.
‘What does he have wings for?’
‘Tuck them in,’ said Paddy. ‘He should.’ For a moment he forgot who the duck was. He was the fucking duck.
‘What about his foot position?’ said the analyst.
‘Wrong,’ said Paddy.
It was exciting to be inducted like this, in duck-ted, to feel a new world appear on the horizon and to be told of its harshness, its standards, its strange customs, the language they spoke there. The provisions carried their own allure. There was much to buy. They were going on a big journey. Who was worthy? The challenge was invigorating, draining. The bullying was called for, totally. Lant was beside Paddy, observing, shaking his head, making sounds of disapproval at the video, which the riding analyst had now paused.
‘At the top of his pedal motion, he should be here.’ The analyst clicked his mouse and a horizontal line appeared superimposed on the video. The biker’s foot was hopelessly raised above this line. ‘In this angle,’ said the analyst, ‘he’s losing about twenty percent of his power.’
‘That much?’ said Paddy.
‘People are always surprised.’ The analyst peered oncemore at the frozen screen. ‘So, the head, the shoulders, the elbows, the feet. Apart from that,’ he said, ‘the bike is perfect for you.’
‘And what about the shorts?’ said Lant, unable to resist. ‘Are we happy with the shorts?’
4
When Teresa woke it was dark, early morning, and it wasn’t Friday any more. In fact, it wasn’t even Saturday, which she expected now Friday was gone. Her radio, set on the timer, hadn’t come on because it was too early. Usually she woke to the time pips of the 7am news. But she was wearing her clothes, she realised. This was what had woken her, the feeling of her shirt’s thick sleeves, the touch of cuffs at her wrist, the weight of her trousers on her legs. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been shopping in, when she’d bought the pocket French dictionary and then the sausages and the bread. It felt a bit like someone was lying on top of her. She lifted her head a little—it was all she could manage—and looked the length of her body, a strange view. Just beyond her feet, which were in socks, stood her empty shoes. They were in an upright position. It looked as if they were being worn but not by her.
She let her head fall back again. Her shoulders were flat against the mattress, pinned in place, and she was cold and stiff. She moved a leg and the shoes fell off the bed, striking the wooden floor with a thud. This made her think of Paddy and Helena, next door. Would they have heard? She hadn’t yet gauged which sounds carried and which were mute.
In the toilet her urine was an oaky colour, an extreme concentrate of black tea, as if she’d poured it from a pot. She found herself looking into the bowl, divining. This was clearly a long way from the golden straw her mother used to describe as optimum. Of course Teresa had missed meals and drinks. Shedrank a glass of water, put on the jug and then she went to the computer. It was
Later the bike shop riding analyst showed Paddy video footage on his computer of a middle-aged man trying to ride abicycle. It was a side-on view from a fixed camera, with a fixed bike. Oddly, it was in black and white, or grey—the man was grey, his skin was a lighter grey than his clothes. There was a flickering quality to the image. He looked as though he was biking in the 1920s. ‘See his head position?’ said the analyst. Paddy did. ‘Wrong. He should relax his neck.’
‘I see.’
‘See his shoulders? Wrong. He should be looser there.’
‘Yes,’ said Paddy.
‘Look at his elbows now.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘He should tuck them in, is he a duck?’
‘A duck?’
‘Waddle waddle.’
‘No,’ said Paddy.
‘What does he have wings for?’
‘Tuck them in,’ said Paddy. ‘He should.’ For a moment he forgot who the duck was. He was the fucking duck.
‘What about his foot position?’ said the analyst.
‘Wrong,’ said Paddy.
It was exciting to be inducted like this, in duck-ted, to feel a new world appear on the horizon and to be told of its harshness, its standards, its strange customs, the language they spoke there. The provisions carried their own allure. There was much to buy. They were going on a big journey. Who was worthy? The challenge was invigorating, draining. The bullying was called for, totally. Lant was beside Paddy, observing, shaking his head, making sounds of disapproval at the video, which the riding analyst had now paused.
‘At the top of his pedal motion, he should be here.’ The analyst clicked his mouse and a horizontal line appeared superimposed on the video. The biker’s foot was hopelessly raised above this line. ‘In this angle,’ said the analyst, ‘he’s losing about twenty percent of his power.’
‘That much?’ said Paddy.
‘People are always surprised.’ The analyst peered oncemore at the frozen screen. ‘So, the head, the shoulders, the elbows, the feet. Apart from that,’ he said, ‘the bike is perfect for you.’
‘And what about the shorts?’ said Lant, unable to resist. ‘Are we happy with the shorts?’
4
When Teresa woke it was dark, early morning, and it wasn’t Friday any more. In fact, it wasn’t even Saturday, which she expected now Friday was gone. Her radio, set on the timer, hadn’t come on because it was too early. Usually she woke to the time pips of the 7am news. But she was wearing her clothes, she realised. This was what had woken her, the feeling of her shirt’s thick sleeves, the touch of cuffs at her wrist, the weight of her trousers on her legs. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been shopping in, when she’d bought the pocket French dictionary and then the sausages and the bread. It felt a bit like someone was lying on top of her. She lifted her head a little—it was all she could manage—and looked the length of her body, a strange view. Just beyond her feet, which were in socks, stood her empty shoes. They were in an upright position. It looked as if they were being worn but not by her.
She let her head fall back again. Her shoulders were flat against the mattress, pinned in place, and she was cold and stiff. She moved a leg and the shoes fell off the bed, striking the wooden floor with a thud. This made her think of Paddy and Helena, next door. Would they have heard? She hadn’t yet gauged which sounds carried and which were mute.
In the toilet her urine was an oaky colour, an extreme concentrate of black tea, as if she’d poured it from a pot. She found herself looking into the bowl, divining. This was clearly a long way from the golden straw her mother used to describe as optimum. Of course Teresa had missed meals and drinks. Shedrank a glass of water, put on the jug and then she went to the computer. It was
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