A Confrontation Immediately Followed by a Collision

28/12/07

After breakfast, I finally changed the Picador's front wheel and went for a spin. By co-incidence, my route took me past Billy's house. I thought back to the numerous occasions on which he cycled alongside me, a poignant reflection suddenly disrupted by the sensation that something was wrong. Had Billy been with me, I'd have made him stop and study the house. "What's wrong with that picture?" I'd have asked him. Naturally, Billy would have struggled to isolate the single feature that caused me disquiet. After frowning and squinting for a while he might have suggested something ridiculous like, "The front door is green" or, "There's a football in the tree." He wouldn't, however, have stuck upon the salient point that the curtains were closed. Even having pointed it out to him, I'd have had to continue, "At Christmas... At eleven a.m..... This might not be unusual for a single person, but in a house with children...."

This presented a dilemma: how best to ensure Billy's safety without being accused of harassment. As I pondered my options, Karen Balsillie's people carrier pulled up and, to my relief, all four Balsillie-Ures emerged. "What do you want?" demanded Karen as Billy hovered apprehensively, dancing lightly from foot to foot in the manner of someone (once again) in urgent need of a toilet. Naturally, I reminded her that there are no laws against looking at someone's house. "Actually, Hamilton, there are," she said. "They're called the rules of normal behaviour. They might not be written anywhere but I have to tell you, that by endlessly cycling up and down our road on your stupid trike, you're violating them." I hadn't intended to go into the anomaly of the closed curtains: having established Billy's well-being it seemed tactless to even mention my fear that he might have committed suicide. Karen's rudeness, however, goaded me into saying more than I'd intended. "And why would Billy commit suicide?" she demanded. "Why wouldn't he?" I replied, prompting such a diatribe in response that I decided to make a dignified exit. In my haste, unfortunately, I forgot about the icy patch at the top of the hill. "Serves you right!" shouted Karen, as I careered helplessly toward exactly the same spot against which I buckled my wheel last Tuesday.

 

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