Friday the 25thof April 1992 was unique for two reasons; the fact it was the day after Chris’ 12th birthday was just one of those.
He loved his new bike; a Raleigh Activator. He’d be the envy of his friends. Not only did it have a bright orange frame, it had front suspension – a rarity on bikes of the late 80s early 90s. Most kids in town still had BMXs. Some still rode around on Choppers – those bikes with a front wheel smaller than the back.
Chris lived in Stocksbridge, a small town on the outskirts of Sheffield. Being surrounded by rugged paths, rolling hills and ominous woodland, it was every bikers dream. Chris’ Raleigh Activator was the perfect weapon to attack the landscape with vigour. He hadn’t been able to enjoy his gift on his birthday because it was a school day, and when he’d finally arrived home, it was too dark to venture out much beyond the foggy roads that weaved around the sleepy borough. They glowed a sinister dull orange under the streetlights. He’d decided it was safer to wait for the weekend to give his new bike the christening it deserved.
Deborah – Chris’ mum – made a hearty breakfast that Saturday morning. She’d giddily waited for Chris to rise from his slumber and bound down the rickety wooden stairs of their cramped three-bedroom terrace. He’d taken too long; she couldn’t wait any longer.
“Chris, get your arse down those stairs, now!” Her voice echoed a hollow thunder up the uncarpeted staircase.
“Coming mum!” Chris shouted back.
He was beckoned by the alluring smell of overcooked bacon, soft scrambled eggs, golden-brown toast and freshly ground coffee. Deborah however was left unfulfilled as she watched Chris wolf down the food without fanfare or thanks then run straight to the shed to fetch his new bike.
“Good morning to you too,” she uttered sarcastically as he darted out of the back door.
“Sorry mum. Daylight’s wasting,” Chris shouted without turning back.
“Don’t I get a kiss?” she asked with raised voice.
“Nope,” came the reply, barely audible from the shed at the bottom of the garden. She smiled.
Chris loved escaping the rowdy and rambunctious house on his own. He didn’t mind it when it was just him and mum, but when Stuart – Chris’ dad – came home after his nightshift at the concrete plant, the house exploded into chaotic fragments that bombarded Chris’ senses until he could take no more. Mum and dad were not the problem, it was Mary and Scott, Chris’ sister and brother, who dad picked up on his way home from work. They were only five and six so often stayed at Chris’ nan’s house on a Friday night to give Deborah and Stuart a break from the pairs exuberant and wily ways.
Today proved to be no different, so Chris saddled up his bike, rolled down the morning-dew-dampened streets, passed row after row of pre-war terrace houses and arrived at the base of Margery Hill. It wasn’t a steep climb up Margery Hill, more a gradual incline to rather disappointing crescendo. He wouldn’t be going to the top anyway, just far enough away to escape.
After about half an hour, Chris burst through the cloak of the all-consuming woodland and out into a remote clearing. It was a quaint little knoll that sat snug against the treeline and stopped at a trickling stream that would block any further progress were it any deeper. The whole area was covered by untouched grass that shone vibrant green, complimenting the blue sky above to provide a welcoming sandwich in which to lay. Chris rested his new bike on the soft meadow and slumped down next to it, savouring the contrast of orange frame against green grass. He looked across the creek for a short while, contemplating the beauty of nature, then closed his eyes whilst snorting in a lung full of cool, clean, crisp air.
Upon opening his eyes, Chris noticed a dog; a big black dog stood not a stone’s throw away. “He wasn’t there before,” Chris thought to himself.
The jet-black dog stood chest flared on long slender legs. It looked like a Great Dane just not as clumsy; more noble than nonchalant. It didn’t move. It just stood and stared at Chris who, surprisingly,wasn’t scared. Somehow, the unexpected visitor made him feel even more at peace. It was a mutual acceptance of each other’s presence. Chris grew confident enough to approach the hound, albeit slowly. It wasn’t long before he got close enough to reach out and touch the beast. The dog did not flinch as Chris ran his palm softly down the dog’s back. The seemingly brittle yet thick and strong hair clicked together like the teeth of a comb. Again, the dog did not flinch. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the creature was gone.
Chris next saw the dog 27 years later, for the very last time, when it stood at a taxi rank outside a nightclub in London. Chris had been there celebrating with colleagues after his rather impressive promotion at work.
He just wished he’d noticed the dog sooner,before that night in London. Maybe he could have started treatment sooner, before the cancer took hold -like he’d managed to do when he was twelve.
