Tragedy

They say I muttered two words when I got back to the estate car park on the Bank Holiday Monday: a name.

I’d arrived without my most prized possession: my bike. You hadn’t returned at all.

And I’d lied, hadn’t I? Told your mum we were going to the local park but sneaked off to Whaley Hill with you. Everyone was worried because they knew I wouldn’t have left my bike or abandoned you.

They say your mum became hysterical, especially when she realised I’d lied. Neighbours drove to Whaley Hill, but friends prevented your mum from going. It’s a good job they did.

I have no recollections of the commotion in the car park. Just of sitting on the sofa at home, wrapped in a blanket, shivering, drinking lukewarm tea, a sick bucket by my side. There were policemen everywhere, some talking into radios. It was like coming to after a general anaesthetic, although I’d been awake the entire time, speaking when pressed for answers.

Two days had passed since the Bank Holiday bike ride, two days wiped clean.