A man stood disconsolate at the edge of the Serpentine, gazing down into the fractured moonlight reflected at his feet. Let's call him George; but he could be any man who has come to the end of desolation row.
A swan silently approached to beg crumbs. "I've got nothing for you," said George, who appeared to have made a decision. "I wish I'd never been born," he announced. There was nobody to disagree, or to stop him from what he did next. He filled his backpack with rocks. Then he retrieved the faithful bike that had brought him here, gave the kickstand a final kick, and climbed aboard. It wouldn't be Thelma and Louis, but it would do.
George and bike quickly splashed into the abyss. The abyss swallowed them up. Or would have done, but it's not much of an abyss. "Oh for crying out loud," he said, still only knee deep. With some difficulty he cranked further, then abruptly disappeared into the belly of the city's snake.
The swan paddled over to the lazy vortex which was shedding dreamless ripples. Then something miraculous happened: the swan turned into an angel, revealing its true self. The celestial being dove under the black water and resurfaced with George, who to be honest had been having second thoughts at this point. They struggled in tandem to shore, but not before George shouted "My bike! What about my bike?!"
"Cyclists…" the angel sighed under his breath, then went back to retrieve the bike. As George examined it for damage, the angel gently probed the mortal he'd saved. "Why did you want to end your life?" he asked. "It's such a precious gift to throw away."
Minutes ticked by, the only sound a drip-drip-drip from the bike, which had suffered a puncture wound but was otherwise OK. "Because the world would be exactly the same if my mother had a headache that night," said George finally. "I know feeling sorry for yourself isn't an attractive quality, but I don't even have looks going for me."
The angel took this in, then nodded. "So you agree," said George, a little hurt to have the bait spurned.
"No," said the angel. "I was listening to the boss." He pointed to the heavens. "He's just told me you're not on the register of births."
"What does that mean?" asked George.
"It means you never were born. Must've been a clerical error. Fancy that. It looks like I got wet for nothing."
George was nonplussed. "I don't feel nonexistant," he said. "I mean, no more than usual. Are you sure?"
"He doesn't make mistakes," said the angel. "Still, I can see how it would be a rough transition for you. How about I accompany you home?"
"Sure, thanks," said George. "If I still have one." He hopped on his bike before remembering the puncture. "I didn't bring my repair kit," he told Clarence. (Did I mention the angel's name was Clarence?)
"Lock it up and we'll grab some Charlotte Bikes," said Clarence as they approached the rental stands.
"What happened to the Boris Bikes?" asked George. "Are you showing me the future?"
Clarence looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. "No, it's still the same date on the calendar. But in a timeline without you in it, Boris never became mayor. He was soundly beaten by Charlotte, who only spent a short time as a dissolute libertine before trying her hand at politics."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," said George. "I don't understand. In what way could I have possibly caused that to happen?"
Clarence explained: "Every choice we make affects the next choice. When you started your cycling forum, Charlotte was one of the first to register. Like many others who were escaping the Cycling Plus forum, she was in search of a new playroom. Yours suited, and she continued to pursue that life. Without your forum, she and many others would've either quit C+ and fora altogether, or moved on to CycleChat, which may be fun and friendly but doesn't have quite the same
je ne sais quoi."
not to be confused with je ne sais koi"Couldn't they have started their own forum, like I did?" asked George. "It's a lot of work, but it's not rocket science."
Clarence shook his angelic head yes then no. "Coulda shoulda didn't, at the time. That's just not the way it panned out. Everybody on your forum was changed by their association with it, in ways small and large. Mostly small, granted, but as you can see, some of the ripples of that decision were profound. Think butterfly effect."
"Is she a good mayor? Is it a change for the better?" asked George, curious. They grabbed a pair of Charlotte Bikes and he nearly came a cropper.
"This is fixed gear!" he exclaimed. "I can't ride this."
"Sure you can. Just remember to keep pedalling," said the angel with devilish innocence.
They left Hyde Park and entered straight into Soho. This wasn't hard: London was all Soho now.
"Now I'm really confused," said George. "I thought she didn't run on a disolute libertine platform. What happened?"
"Call it an unintended consequence," said Clarence. "I won't be able to explain everything, and you wouldn't believe me even if I could. Suffice it to say the butterfly can flap its wings in strange ways."
They weaved their way through the city, at times passing other cyclists who had forgotten to bring their clothes. Clarence told him that now every day was optional naked bike ride day. George's brief sojourn in the drink had made him thirsty, so they stopped at a Hummers Pret A Venir (they were everywhere – "He bought out all the Pret A Mangers" explained Clarence) to fortify themselves with a Baileys Irish Cream and Kahlúa & Ameretto topped with whipped cream, which is moreish. Then they carried on, George still grumbling under his breath because he couldn't coast.
Presently they came upon Trafalgar Square. George half expected Nelson's Column to have been rebuilt as something more priapic than it was already, but the Admiral had been left in peace.
almostThe Fourth Plinth, on the other hand, featured an orgy in progress. George thought he spotted Boris's Johnson in the middle of the action. A man on a penny farthing rang his bell at Clarence, who had stopped in the middle of the road to blush mightily.
George lived quite far south of the river, so they had a good long ride, at one point mingling with a group on their way to the coast (did I mention this was a Friday night?). "Why are you going there?" George asked their leader.
"We're running away to join the
circus," he said. "Where are you going with those rental bikes?"
George had forgotten about that detail. It was too late to do anything about it now. When the two of them arrived home they settled themselves on the meadow and counted stars for awhile, George in a contemplative mood, Clarence a little homesick himself.
"I'm beginning to think this has all been a dream," said George sleepily.
"It was," said Clarence, taking his leave by taking to the sky. "Good night, George."
He slept deeply and had another dream. Even while a subconscious player, he sensed it was particularly dense with allegory. It was set in London again, but not; you know the way dreams can mess with geography. He was sitting on a bench that had a big advertisement on it saying Better Call Paul, kind of like in that tv show. Sharing the bench was a jaded looking guy in a raincoat, and a woman. She was sitting on part of his raincoat. The guy was discretely tugging at it to no avail. Finally he said "Can you move over a little, Miss? You're on my mac." Meanwhile a sturdy lumberjack, absolutely invincible looking, was cutting down a tree across the road. "Timber!" he sang out as it tumbled forward, startling George awake.
He was surprised to find that he really was in the meadow in front of his house. The postman was coming up the drive as on any other bright new day. "Anything for me?" he asked.
There was. It was a letter from his landlord, asking if he wanted to renew his lease.
