Revolution Earth

Chapter 2 Pick Up and Deliver

Bethnal Green, London, Tuesday, 2.35pm

Even at the height of summer, that room never saw sunlight. The one window was so loose that some forgotten previous tenant had stuffed newspaper round the edges to stop the frame from rattling. Sometime back about then, they stopped cleaning the glass. It was hard to tell whether the rain-spattered soot on the outside or the dust and cobwebs on the inside were most responsible for blocking the light as it struggled to find a way through. Instead of daylight, a dazzlingly bright 100-watt bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling under a plain white shade. Cara's attempt to green Tariq's office had fallen flat. The energy-efficient replacement bulb might have been cheaper to run, but what was the point when he couldn't actually see? Dusty filing cabinets, piles of ring binders, loose files, random sheets of paper, old, discarded computer screens, keyboards and dangling wires, bowed and groaning shelves full of invoices and VAT receipts made the small space seem even tinier.

Only one smooth space appeared in all this clutter, a direct diagonal path from the door to the desk where, beside the 20 line phone – the computer – the microphone – and the black box of the radio system, Tariq sat in his wheelchair poking at a cooling bowl of lentils with a cold, stale chapatti.

'Business is good, very good. We have 40 people riding for the firm now. No, Auntie, it's not that they can't afford motorbikes. Bicycles are quicker in this traffic. We're beating off the taxi firms, even the motorbikes, for deliveries. But,' he paused as he tried desperately to prevent another set of Bangladeshi cousins from booking their tickets and coming to London expecting good jobs and a place on his sofa for six months, 'the profit margins are so small with all the other bike firms competing, and the tax, my God, the taxes are terrible in this country.'

'You know your cousin Jamal has now finished his degree – BA.' The voice of Tariq's auntie in Dhaka was hopeful, almost wheedling, even though the VOIP connection was whisper thin. '

Just a moment, Auntie.' Tariq was grateful for the incoming call. Flicking from his computer connection to the telephone without having to change headphones was a bonus he owed not to Bluetooth but to another cousin, whose electronic skills had been honed in the backstreet emporia where fixing and making do were almost religious principles. 'Yes, got that. Pick up in the next two minutes. Package for Charlotte Street.' Another flick of the anonymous little soldered box and he was speaking into the radio mike. 'Jonie: Pick up from 252 Charing Cross Road to Charlotte Street.'

'Sure, Tariq, on it'. Jonie's voice was way too loud – he'd need to get that squawk box fixed. '

Auntie, my switchboard's lighting up like Diwali,' Tariq lied. 'We'll talk again, maybe tomorrow?' Auntie was no fool. He'd need until then to come up with a decent excuse to keep the relatives away.

In the far corner atop another filing cabinet of abandoned documents, the ancient television was running highlights of the Tour de France. As he watched the breakaway riders straining up a steep patch of climb, each trying desperately to hang on to the wheel of the man in front, Tariq's Restless Leg Syndrome began to bother him again. His phantom thigh muscles seemed to tense in turn, sharing the pain even after all those years in the wheelchair. For so long, the Tour had been his ambition. He'd arrived in London the proud possessor of one cast-iron cooking pot, one manual typewriter, and one five-gear racing bike with the name Eddy Merckx stencilled on the crossbar.

That first job as a rider had almost been his last, but the rush he got from it was pure opium. In those days, London was a dream of wealth and glamour. The work was hard enough, 50, 60, 70 miles a day in heavy traffic, in rain and cold and snow. His tropical bones had never felt so cold. But as he stood on his pedals one brilliant summer morning, swooping round the corner into Oxford Street, a Japanese tourist had snapped him in full flight, and he knew that his was the most glamorous job on the planet.

From that day on, the Tour beckoned. Surely if he could hold his own among the bright young athletes of London's courier scene, with all the obstacles and insanity they faced, he could excel at road racing. In the annual charity ride to Brighton, he had come in a sweating, pulse-pounding first. There was cheering and applause. There was an item in The Bangladesh Observer. There was a call from Rabobank.

Ah well, no regrets. You couldn't ride professionally in all weathers every day and not expect your number to come up, and his was a nasty one. It was best not to think back. The psychiatrist had told him as much when he was getting advice on managing the pain.

'Don't brood.' And he didn't. And so it was with pleasure, not regret, that he admired and applauded in his turn the huge battle of wits, stamina, and skill that made the Tour not just three weeks in hell, but the greatest sporting event of the calendar. Those boys in the breakaway –  not one of them was a front runner, but it was early in the race, there was a stage win to play for and the possibility of securing a decent lead in the overall race standings on the first day in the mountains.

The lad in the Rabobank colours had a decent chance of getting a minute or two on the leader board if he could only hold the pace and keep the others with him so the breakaway wouldn't get dragged back into the peloton. The wild pine landscape revealed by the helicopter shots reminded him of the Kashmir he had always dreamt of but had never seen outside the movies.

'Cyclotron. Come in, Cyclotron.' The radio's abrupt screech interrupted his reverie.

'Tariq here,' he answered, not quite able to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

'Mickey. I ride for Cycle Positive. I'm in Old Compton Street, corner of Frith. One of your riders is down, can't see who, just the bag. I'm carrying meds, can't stop.' Tariq closed his eyes momentarily. Times like this always brought on a sullen twinge in the base of his spine. He flipped the switch and toggled another on the radio deck to APB.

'Rider down,' he shouted at the radio phone. 'Rider down. Corner Old Compton and Frith Streets. Rider down.' He knew he would hate himself for saying the next bit, but it had to be done. 'Pick up the satchel and deliver.' Tariq fumbled for the line changer, then dialled 999. Amazingly, the response was immediate. A calm Indian voice told him that the incident was already logged and that a uniformed police officer was on his way to the scene. The pain in his coccyx got worse.