The bone road, p.2
The Bone Road, page 2
As Heather watched, the police were upon the riders themselves, as well as the support teams, roughly pulling them apart and arresting them, yelling. The riders, masseurs, coaches, drivers were all being lined up and handcuffed and shouted at to sit on the ground with their hands in front of them. One or two of the younger riders looked like they might cry.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ asked Heather.
‘I have no idea,’ said Ryan. ‘Come on. We need to get to the press pack.’
As they hurried back to the press area, police cars raced down the empty road and stopped at the finish line. Heather glanced over her shoulder, staring as team managers remonstrated with the police in a multitude of European languages, gesticulating in fury. It achieved nothing, as the managers and support staff were arrested alongside the riders, handcuffed and herded into waiting police vans.
The crowd lost it. They were pushing and shoving and shouting in fury. Not only had the local favourite lost, but now this farce. A bottle whizzed past Heather’s ear. She ducked and swore. An elbow landed in her ribs, and she gave a whine of pain. Ryan gripped her hand tightly and tugged her through the crowd. There was a stink of beer and sweat and anger. She was being pushed and shoved, but Ryan would not let go of her. Her hand was slick with sweat and she fumbled for his fingers, trying not to lose him. More police sirens. A small child began to cry. Others, clearly, were deciding that they’d had enough, and the families began to drift away.
Taking advantage of a small break in the crush, Heather saw Freddie only fifty metres away. He waved, frantic.
Ryan grabbed her arm.
‘Come on.’
They ran, reaching the small cordoned off area outside a bar that had been designated the ‘press area’.
‘Doping?’ demanded Heather, when she saw Freddie.
He frowned. ‘Nah. Can’t be. That’s not a police matter. Must be something else. I’ll see if I can find someone local to brief us.’
They watched as a hundred riders and their support teams were made to sit down as searches were conducted. Some people were arrested and driven away. It was a large and coordinated operation.
‘There is no way this is doping,’ muttered Ryan.
Some of the crowd remained, curious, buying beers, settling in for the remainder of the afternoon, deciding that this was an alternate kind of entertainment, better even than a bike race. The cycling fans were angry, convinced that their race had been hijacked. A couple of men in yellow jerseys wandered over to the press pack and started to fire questions at the journalists.
‘No idea, mate,’ said Ryan with a shrug. ‘Sorry.’
One of the men in yellow noticed Heather. ‘Hey, Heather Bishop! Great to see you here. I was such a fan.’
Heather winced. She loathed it when people spoke about her in the past tense. She wasn’t actually dead. The man didn’t notice and continued to rattle away.
‘My brother-in-law had a T.B.I. but he didn’t make anything like recovery you have. He still needs a stick to walk. And he really struggles with depression and that now. But you’re all good, right?’
‘Great,’ she mumbled, trying to force a grin and not stare at her feet. She ought to be used to members of the public knowing her medical history. All the lurid details had been printed in the press, after all. The cycling fans were invariably kind and meant well, but she always detected a tug of pity. She felt Ryan watching her, ready to pounce and cut off the conversation, in case she lost it. She pushed down the anger that bubbled in the pit of her stomach like indigestion, and the buzz of resentment and anger in her ears that built and hummed like tinnitus.
She was saved from the awkwardness of the encounter by the arrival of a policeman. He was tall with thick greying hair. He ambled over, hands thrust into his pockets, and nodded amiably at the assembled press.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Inspektor Simo Subotić. I’ve been asked to come and tell you what is going on. This isn’t my case, but I speak the best English, so hey, lucky me, and lucky you. We received a tip that this race was being used to smuggle drugs into the Balkans. I can’t release any more than that at this stage without jeopardising the ongoing investigation.’
There was a groan from the reporters at the lack of actual information and then a cacophony of questions was instantly fired at Simo. He held up one hand with a peaceable shrug.
‘Hey. One at a time.’ He pointed at Freddie. ‘You.’ ‘What drugs? Which team? How?’
‘Can’t say. Don’t know. And couldn’t tell you, even if it was my case.’
A man joined Simo. He was wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and Heather recognised him as the pilot of the helicopter. He spoke to Simo in a low voice. Simo nodded then looked around the faces in the sunshine. ‘Anyone else?’
A classroom of hands shot up and Simo sighed. He pointed to a female journalist in dark sunglasses. ‘You there.’
‘Were there riders involved?’
‘Again. It’s not my case. I’m only talking to you because I speak the best English. But even if this was my case, I couldn’t say. This is going to be a very unsatisfactory question-andno-answer session. I’m enjoying this pleasant sunshine, and we can keep at it. But maybe you want to wait until the department releases a full statement about the afternoon’s events.’
Ryan’s hand was in the air. ‘Can you confirm that the drug was cocaine? And that you’ve found a stash in one of the support vehicles?’
Simo studied Ryan for a moment. ‘I can say nothing at this moment. As I said, you need to wait for the afternoon statement.’
Heather tugged on Ryan’s arm. ‘I’ve had enough.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get outta here.’
As they walked away, Heather looked at him. ‘Where did you hear that it was cocaine?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘You know me. I asked one of the local reporters. I’m good with languages.’ He smiled at her, and put his arm around her shoulders.
2
Heather was relieved to leave the chaos and confusion of the race behind them and ride out into the peace of the open road. By mutual agreement, she and Ryan barely discussed the previous day’s events. It cast a pall over breakfast. They were both subdued and saddened. Heather had dedicated her first life to racing, and she’d give anything to have her career back, so the thought that anyone would jeopardise the sport enraged her with numb fury. If she thought about it too much, it was going to spoil everything. She mustn’t get too upset. She mustn’t. Something was beginning to hum inside her skull.
Ryan had mapped out a full day’s riding but declined at first to say where they were heading. The route lay in the shadow of the mountains, creeping skywards, unlit by the morning sun. An old tractor had crashed over the rusted barrier some time ago, and no one had moved the carcass. It sprawled tyre-less, windows smashed, a warning to careless travellers.
‘I want to make a detour to see the old Olympic rings from the eihty-four Winter Games. They’re at the top of Bjelašnica peak. It’s a bit of schlep, but the view is astounding. All abandoned. It’s sad and weird – kinda poetic. Nothing else, just the rings and a derelict cable car station, on a mountaintop,’ said Ryan, peering into the glare through his Ray-Bans.
‘You’re kidding? A detour? For Olympic rings,’ said Heather, hurt.
Ryan clicked his chinstrap. ‘Okay, we won’t be able to get right to the top. We’d probably need to hire mountain bikes to get all the way up there, but we’ll get a great view even from the end of the road.’
‘Ryan, I don’t want to see the rings.’
‘I know, honey. But I think you should.’
He pedalled off, ending the discussion, and Heather had little choice but to follow. Her legs were tired; they felt soft, like they used to after over-training, and she climbed slowly, already hurting, not attacking the incline with her old fury. Despoiled Olympic rings felt horribly like her own ruined dreams. She wanted to tell him that she understood that she was supposed to fade with dignity and embrace a gradual decline. But the athletes who had managed that had been at least allowed to compete at their peak; and even if they’d lost, never touched gold or even won a single race, they hadn’t had their best snatched from them. There had been time to prepare for retirement. The now familiar anger pulsed through her veins like a heartbeat. Yet her irritation began to dissolve with the last of the morning’s mist – Ryan was right, the view was remarkable. High puffs of clouds cast shadows on the coarse grass sloping down the valley; a silver river idled between rocky foothills stubbled with dark forests. As they cycled higher, the trees became sparer, only the odd ragged pine until they pierced the treeline entirely. Bleached boulders studded the steep valleys, and the paved road surface became more and more uneven. The white houses below were as small as teeth. They passed shattered buildings.
‘Avalanche?’ asked Heather.
‘War,’ said Ryan.
They stopped for a drink and a snack at a viewpoint, and Heather started to disappear behind a bombed-out house to relieve herself. Ryan grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t. It isn’t safe. There were minefields here. Don’t go off the road. Just pee here. I won’t look.’
‘Jesus.’
After pulling up her shorts, Heather looked at Ryan with some hesitation. She knew he hated to talk about his time during the conflict. She understood he’d been here as a U.N. peacekeeper during the war, but whenever she tried to get him to talk about it, he’d change the subject. He’d seen things he didn’t want to talk about, but she wished he would.
‘Were you here then? In ninety-two? Is that how you know about the minefield?’
He looked at her strangely and then laughed. ‘I was here last week with a hundred and fifty of the world’s best cyclists. They didn’t want one of the women going off the road and getting blown up. That’s not really the sort of publicity the Tour de Balkans is after.’
‘No. Especially after yesterday.’
There was an eerie stillness biking high up in the mountains. There was little sense of life above the treeline – no birdsong and barely even the skitter of insects. The wind buffeted the bikes and trembled the tiny wildflowers that were sprayed across the grass like dabs of blue and purple paint. The road skittered into rocks and stopped. Ryan climbed off, sweat pouring down his brow.
‘Jeezus,’ he said, drinking from his bottle. ‘Whose stupid idea was this ride? I’m too old for this shit.’
‘Hey,’ said Heather. ‘Go easy, or you’ll make yourself sick.’
She looked up and saw the concrete of a ruined building stark against the bold blue of the sky. Behind it were the rings themselves.
Ryan placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You made it. Not the way you wanted to, I know. But you did.’
Heather swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. ‘But what do I do now?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘You’ll figure it out.’
Heather wanted to believe him. ‘Can I have a minute?’
He planted a kiss on the top of her head and walked away, flopping down with a groan beside a clump of brilliant blue gentians. Heather pulled down her sunglasses and swallowed the lump in her throat. Ryan was right. She needed to come here, see the rings and grieve for the lost part of herself. The last few months hadn’t been her best. She’d been edgy and ill-tempered. Until recently, it had all been about her recovery. That had defined her. In many ways it hadn’t been so different from training. She’d understood it. She had an impossible goal, something out of reach to strive for as all the nurses and physiotherapists marvelled at her progress. It was easier to focus on her recovery than to try and consider what she had lost. That was too big. But she was better now, or as better as possible, and she needed to consider who she was going to be next. Now that she was no longer the Heather Bishop. The uncertainty was making her tetchy, triggering the mood swings again. The counsellor said that was to be expected. Part of the recovery process. She needed to accept the change and come to terms with this new version of herself. Only, she didn’t want to. She preferred the old one. Besides, ‘recovery process’ was bullshit. It suggested that recovering the previous ‘Heather’ was possible, like an old corrupted file being restored. This was a total rewrite.
Everyone kept telling her how lucky she was to have survived, but the truth was she hadn’t. Not all of her. The time had come to finally accept that and try to let go. She glanced at her palm and saw that she’d plucked one of the tiny papery yellow flowers and was mulching it between her fingers. She blew it away, and it caught on the wind like flakes of gold.
It was dusk by the time they reached Zikoč, a dreary collection of buildings huddled in the shadow of the foothills at the base of Jahorina mountain. One or two of the houses were old or had been repaired but most were clearly new, built after the war. It was a charmless town. A pink neon sign missing the ‘H’ announced ’otel. The hillside resonated with the sound of barking dogs. A man yelled and the barking paused for a moment and then resumed.
They checked in and Ryan had the first shower then sat with a cold compress on his knee. He was tired and short-tempered after the long ride.
‘Why don’t these motels ever have a bath? And why is the water pressure always like some dude pissing on you?’ he grumbled. His Californian accent always grew stronger when he was annoyed, and, when he emerged, he was rubbing his very blue, now slightly bloodshot eyes.
Heather went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and climbed into the grubby shower. The water was barely warm. She shivered.
‘It’s cold,’ she yelled.
‘It was hot when I had mine,’ he called back. ‘Anyway, you like ice baths.’
‘That was different,’ she muttered.
Heather closed her eyes and counted, willing herself not to feel the burning cold. Felt a creak of discomfort in the bridge of her nose where it had been broken in a crash long ago. In the cold, the old fracture prickled. It had given her small nose a slight bump, which she didn’t mind. Without it she thought she looked too much like a china doll, green-eyed and small-boned. She’d always been tougher than she looked. Opponents underestimated her, and her lightness was a godsend on the hill climbs.
Climbing out of the shower, she palmed a couple of pills, then jumped, realising that Ryan was eyeing her from the doorway.
‘Which pills are you taking, honey?’
‘Just the painkillers. The nerve in my neck is playing up.’
He studied her for a second to see if she was lying, and Heather closed the door on him. She couldn’t bear it when he watched her like this. He called it concern. Love. She tried not to find it claustrophobic, but she knew how much he worried about her. She’d put him through hell. In the early days after she’d been allowed back home, he’d been called to the supermarket to pick her up after she’d gone out alone, bloody-minded in her determination to be independent and buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s in mid-December. The doctors all told him that he had to let her – to just go with it. But then she’d forgotten why she was in Tesco. And who she was. She was sitting on the floor panicking amongst the rows of humming freezers, and Ryan sat down beside her and held her as she sobbed, and then he walked her home. It hadn’t been the last time he’d received one of those phone calls.
These days she often felt him watching her while he pretended to check his phone or stir the pasta. Every time he went on tour he worried that he should cancel. Now she felt compelled to put on a performance of coping at every moment.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he demanded, the anxious, habitual frown creasing his forehead.
Heather rubbed the familiar fault line of the scar running just above her right eye. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. I love you.’
It was exhausting.
They had dinner in the one restaurant the little town had to offer. They were a handsome couple: Ryan older, but not uncomfortably so – enough to intrigue and warrant a second glance. Even after nearly two decades in the U.K., he maintained a permanent Californian tan. She supposed it was the constant travel to sunnier climes.
A few locals had wandered in now and were gathered at the bar, drinking beer and the unnamed local spirits. Ryan snuck a look at them. Heather studied him with concern.
‘Are you okay? Do you need to call Freddie?’
‘No. Why would you say that?’
‘You keep looking round at the bar. Do you want a drink?’
Ryan reached for her hand. ‘It’s fine, I’m just people watching.’
‘Okay.’ Heather shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
‘Have some faith, Heather. Please.’
‘I do. You know I do.’
Ryan’s phone began to vibrate and he picked it up, listening intently. He ran his fingers through his hair, a worried tell. He swore softly as he hung up and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. ‘It was cocaine. Hidden in support vehicles. They confirmed it.’
‘Which team?’
‘Zero-Zoom.’
‘Shit.’ Heather stared at him.
Ryan looked around again at the bar, as though desperate for a drink. ‘I feel real bad for the riders. Managers should have known better. Free transport. Free drivers. If a thing seems too good to be true . . .’ he concluded with a helpless shrug.
‘Are you going to write about it? It’s a good story.’
To her surprise, Ryan shook his head. ‘No. It’s too goddamn depressing. They’ve cancelled the rest of the tour. Everyone is flying home. They’re at the airport. What a goddamn shame.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Almost makes me long for doping.’
‘I know you feel bad for the riders, Ryan, but do you not think that it was their job to ask questions? I know I did.’
‘Sure, Heather Bishop. Paragon, on and off the road.’
‘That’s not fair, Ryan.’
She felt two points of colour rising in her cheeks, twin angry suns. She pushed back her chair and slapped some money on the table to cover her share of the bill. ‘I’m going back to the hotel. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just sad about the race. I shouldn’t take it out on you.’
