Linda, As in the Linda Murder

69

In his dreams things were usually even worse when he was feeling low. Naked anxiety that made his body swing, spin and fall, his legs twisting the sheets into a sweaty rope in the middle of the bed. Completely natural, seeing he was so utterly exposed to his thoughts, unable to defend himself by thinking about something else the way he could when he was awake.

But not this night.

Another Indian summer, almost fifty years ago. Jan Lewin has been given his first proper bicycle. A red Crescent Valiant. Named after the noble knight Prince Valiant, who lived so long ago that there weren’t any bicycles, just horses.

For the umpteenth time Daddy is running behind him, holding on to the saddle and cheering him on.

He grips the handlebars, pedals as hard as his legs can manage, and at least he’s stopped closing his eyes now when he knows he’s about to fall off and scrape his knees.

And now there’s just the worst bit left. The gravel path between the white gate up to the red wooden porch of the house, where Mummy must be frying pancakes because it’s Thursday.

‘Don’t worry, Jan,’ Daddy cries behind his back. ‘I’ve got you. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.’

Jan pedals and steers and manages better than usual, because Daddy’s still holding on, and when they reach the house he brakes carefully, puts his left foot on the ground and clambers off.

And when he turns round he sees that his daddy is still standing down by the white gate, a smile on his suntanned face, far too far away to ruffle his hair, but of course he doesn’t need to do that any more.