Exercises in Earlham by Kenny Stetson

It was midday. I was cycling down Earlham road, swerving around the occasional large hole, downhill towards the city centre. Pedaling frantically, I reached the point when air drag and the friction of my tires on the hot tarmac prevented further acceleration. A swift-footed citizen hurried uphill against the tide, and into the mess of blurred shapes at the corner of my eye. He or she was carrying something, possibly a sledge hammer or a pickaxe. I resumed pedaling at an absurd speed, almost knocking myself off balance as I flew passed the crematorium. Tiny insects slammed into me and stuck to my forehead. I kept a tight grip on the handlebars, squinted and ducked even lower, tearing through a thick cloud of exhaust fumes. The brake lights of a truck flashed on the runway ahead of me. Maximum velocity. The rushing wind in my ears subsided and the flavor of carbon monoxide on my tongue faded. My blistered tongue. The warm lorry. And a shitload of fries. Unaccustomed as I was to cycling on the left, it surprised me to see Kruger and O'Cinneide suddenly overtaking in a blue Cortina. Kruger waved as they passed and steered clear of the truck. The truck turned to the right.

An hour later I caught sight of them again outside the Castle Mall post office. Kruger was advising his companion to have another button put on his overcoat. They didn't see me. I walked in to send a parcel of tobacco to an acquaintance on an Arizonian farm.