Flight of the Gazebo

Chapter 1 - The Gazebo

Drome approached his fallen mountain bike with all the enthusiasm of a sacrificial victim being forced towards the lip of a volcano. At least, thought Drome, a sacrificial victim would believe his death would please the gods, produce a bountiful harvest and earn him a place in paradise, whereas he... well, his faith was rather lacking in that regard. Of course a real sacrificial victim would be prevented from any last minute religious doubts by the spear points pressed into his back. In Drome's case, however, the spear points were the taunts and laughter of the other members of the Amblesby Bike Club who had stopped behind him in a medley of colourful Lycra.

"The round, turny things roll along the ground," called one, to an accompaniment of snorts and chuckles. "You're supposed to sit on top."

Drome ignored him, straightened his back and marched up to his fallen machine. It lay straddling the path, one wheel spinning with a ticking that sounded to Drome like a snigger. That, more than anything, convinced him the bike was possessed.

Only a few minutes earlier he had been straining on the pedals, determined to be the first of the group of riders to reach the hill's summit. But his bike had reared like a wild horse and thrown him to the ground.

He had been pleased when he had originally bought his bike from the market in the nearby town of Huddon. It had looked shiny and impressive with its chunky off-road tyres and thick rubber boots covering, what turned out to be, entirely inadequate suspension. Perhaps inadequate was not the word, he reflected. It was more like reverse suspension, amplifying the bumps instead of reducing them as though its prime purpose was to ram his spine through the base of his skull.

The wheel had stopped turning. Drome was sure the bike was looking at him.

A roll of thunder caused the bikers to look up.

"Oi! Get out of the way. It's going to chuck it down in a minute," said one.

Drome picked up his bike and moved it to the side of the path, making a pretence of checking it over while the others pedalled past.

"Don't worry about me. You go on. I'll catch up," said Drome. He watched them roll away, dust lifting from their spinning wheels as they rode over the crest of the hill. Drome pushed his bike after them.

Another clap of thunder sounded as he paused at the hilltop to look down into the broad, shallow valley beyond.

Heavy, black clouds threatened the village of Amblesby. From his lofty position, Drome could see the entire village laid out in miniature. The small green, surrounded by houses and shops, looked almost luminous bathed in the late afternoon sun against the backdrop of approaching cloud. The manor house with its large walled garden lay off-centre, edging onto the mishmash of fields surrounding the village. The church spire poked up like a finger beckoning the coming storm. It wouldn't be long before the heavens opened and beat down on Amblesby in fury and, more importantly, as far as Drome was concerned, soaked him to the skin unless he could get home quickly.

Despite his attempts at cycling, he wasn't really an outdoors person. His job as an IT Help Desk Analyst at an accountancy firm in Huddon ensured that he spent most of his waking life sitting behind a desk. His mother never tired of pointing out the grisly fact that unfit people like him filled the cardiac wards of the nation's hospitals. It had been this that spurred him to join the ABC.

Drome thought of himself as a medium. Not the sort who talks to the spirits of the dead, but just a medium everything: medium height; medium weight; medium build; medium brown hair; medium brown eyes. He was one of the faceless blobs in the crowd, the anonymous person in the corner of classrooms and offices, completely passed over by teachers, gym instructors and managers. Women seemed to place him at the lower end of the scale of men they found interesting. It didn't help his love-life that at thirty-one years old he still lived at home with his mother. Even dressed as he was in a garish red and white cycling shirt, blue skin-tight padded shorts and yellow helmet he still didn't stand out. The main thing about him that wasn't medium was his luck, he thought. That definitely was not medium. More like somewhere between poor and disastrous.