One day, in the hazy orange of an early evening, I was helping my mom water the plants outside our gate when I noticed my brother in the distance, pushing his bicycle home instead of riding it.
His head was lowered, and he dragged the bike with one hand while the other was clutched beneath his chin. The first thing I thought was that something had happened to the chain. Maybe it slipped off again. But as he got closer, I saw it. Blood.
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There was a smear of it trailing from his chin down to the base of his neck, and the white of his shirt collar had started to stain red. I dropped the hose. I ran into the house and shouted for my mom.
Turned out, he’d tried to dodge a speeding car at one of the junctions near the park. It was the kind of near-miss that leaves you winded more than wounded but not always. He flew forward, landed hard on the handlebar, and his chin met the road before his palms did.
We rushed him to the clinic that evening. I remember holding a towel against his face while my mom argued with my dad about road safety and how they’d reported speeding in that area before. The doctor gave him seven stitches. He walked out with a slightly puffed lip and a grimace that somehow made him look both tough and embarrassed.
The next few days, he couldn’t ride his bike. And in our neighborhood, that was a kind of grounding worse than getting your smart phone taken away. Not like we had smart phones yet back in the 90s.
A few days later, I was gearing up to cycle to the park. It was sort of our evening routine with the neighborhood kids but this time, I wasn’t taking chances. My brother’s bike was busted, and I wasn’t about to offer him mine. That thing was in perfectly good shape, and I had no interest in him wrecking it.
As I rolled it out of the house, he called out behind me, “Hey! Wait up!”
There was a backseat on the bike, you know, one of those small ones meant for kids, but still usable. I turned back and smirked.
“I’ll give you a ride if you can catch up to me,” I teased.
Then I faced forward and pedaled hard, laughing to myself as I gained speed.
A few seconds later, I felt a thud behind me and the seat bounced slightly. Then hands gripped my waist from behind.
“Wow,” I chuckled, “You’re faster than you look.”
He didn’t say anything. Typical.
We cycled past two blocks of houses. The evening breeze was nice, and the occasional bark of a dog echoed in the distance. As we neared the park, I glanced toward the playground. No sign of our friends.
“They’re not here yet,” I said aloud, expecting a grunt or a sarcastic reply.
Nothing.
“We’ll just wait at the swings then,” I added, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
I frowned, slowing just a little, and turned my head slightly. “Oi, are you — ”
There was no one behind me.
My hands went cold on the handlebars. I looked again, slower this time. The seat was empty.
My chest tightened as a thousand explanations flooded my mind. Maybe he jumped off? I looked around and saw no one remotely near where I was.
Maybe I imagined the thud, the hands? But no…I felt it. I had felt the pressure around my waist. Someone had been holding on. I cycled often enough to know the difference between wind resistance and the dead weight of a second rider.
For a few seconds, I was frozen. But I didn’t stop. I just turned the bike around and started pedaling home. And that’s when I remembered.
There was a story that had gone around the neighborhood kids when we first moved in, one of those half-whispered tales you tell to scare each other. They said a boy was beaten to death at the playground next to the park. Some kind of bullying gone wrong. He angered some of the older kids by playfully jumping onto the back of their bikes since they were friends with his older brother. It happened before we moved here, so I never knew if it was true. But every kid who grew up here seemed to know the name.
As I rode back, every creak of the chain and flutter of leaves made me flinch. The air felt heavier. I heard a dog barking wildly as I turned the last corner. Our feisty Pomeranian, Buffy (yeah I named her after my favourite TV shows.) She never barked like that unless someone unfamiliar came close.
The gate was open. I sped up. There he was, my brother. Sitting on the ground in the driveway, playing with our dog like nothing had happened. He looked up, annoyed.
“Why are you riding like a maniac?” he snapped. “I told you to wait for me.”
I hit the brakes so hard I nearly flew off the bike.
“You weren’t….you didn’t…get on?” I couldn’t get the words out.
He blinked at me. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
The bike wobbled as I got off. My legs were jelly. I looked at the back seat. Nothing unusual.
He tilted his head. “Why’d you say we’ll wait at the swings?”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Before you turned around. I heard you. You said something like ‘We’ll just wait at the swings.’ Were you talking to yourself?”
I didn’t answer. I remembered saying that at the park. How could he have heard it?
I didn’t tell anyone about what happened. I didn’t want them thinking I was making up stories.
That night, I couldn’t really sleep either. And just as I started to drift off, maybe around 1 a.m., I heard it.
Ring-ring.
A clear, familiar sound. The bike bell. It came from outside the window.
I peeked through the curtain. The street was empty.
But the bike? It was leaning against the wall just where I left it.
And the bell?
Still gently swaying.
