Title: The Biscuit Thief
Author: Rhys Hughes
Publisher: Telos Publishing
The bicycle was a new machine but it had been modelled on the penny farthings of old. It had a big front wheel and a small rear wheel and Burt felt very high up on the narrow saddle. It wasn’t exactly like a penny farthing. The disparity in the size of wheels was smaller, and it had brakes and a chain and gears, and it even had a bell that often worked.
But the real gimmick was the appearance of the wheels. Both of them had been manufactured to resemble massive biscuits. And not just any old biscuits, but the biscuits sold by the firm he worked for. A large round shortbread and a small, at least in comparison, round shortbread.
Burt pedalled hard. The bicycle moved.
The point of the exercise was for him to cycle around the town, attracting the attention of anyone who happened to be on the streets. It was a marketing ploy, not a very good one really.
Burt turned a corner, skidding as he did so.
He almost lost his balance.
He regained it with difficulty and gasped.
A child appeared from nowhere. He wore a flat cap and braces held up his trousers. He was an urchin.
“Hey, mister. Give us a go on your bike.”
“Go away,” said Burt.
He pedalled even harder. He desperately wanted to get away from the child. He despised young people. He turned another corner and saw a snowball fight ahead. It was in furious progress. Kids of all ages were hurling orbs of slushy snow and ice at each other, causing as much damage as they could. Burt had no inclination to run that particular gauntlet.
He remembered how he had been himself when he was a child. A little menace. He knew what children were capable of. Adults might have power, but children were no less vicious. He wouldn’t be surprised if the snowballs had been squeezed into hard ice. And he made a very tempting target, especially with the solid wheels that resembled biscuits. He could hardly blame them for aiming at him.
He turned down a narrow lane and came out on the canal path. The waters of the canal, normally stagnant, had iced over, but the ice was thin. The snow on the path was hard and treacherous, but he had no option. Better to venture down this route than expose himself to the snowball battle.
He slowed down, began to wobble, speeded up again. Just below the ice, the canal looked like a trench full of stewed tea. It was filthy. There were no barges. The canal hadn’t been in use for half a century. It was full of scrap metal, shopping trolleys, bedsteads, prams and corroded industrial springs.
It was inevitable that Burt would skid on a patch of black ice, lose control, veer off the path and plunge into the frozen canal, while squeezing his brakes and shouting mild obscenities.
He landed on the ice, which broke, and the bicycle sank beneath him while he struggled to swim towards the bank. And as he floundered, a rogue snowball from nowhere hit him in the face.
He managed to reach the bank, using the sign as a paddle, and when he pulled himself onto dry land, he found a triumphant child beaming down at him. The child had a second snowball ready and hurled it at Burt. It connected with his forehead and the child skipped away.
Burt turned sadly to gaze at the canal. There was no evidence remaining of the bicycle and he wondered what punishment his manager at the office would decree for him when the loss was reported.
He walked home, drenched and chattering.
Maybe he could retrieve the bicycle before anyone noticed it was missing? But thinking about the effort involved depressed him. It was better to admit the truth and allow himself to be berated.
He dried himself in his bathroom with a towel, changed into clean and dry clothes, and returned to the office.
“What’s this? Back already?” said Victor.
“I’m afraid so, yes. Had a little accident. I skidded into the canal and the bicycle sank.”
Victor shook his heavy head.
“What on earth were you doing by the canal?”
“I was taking a shortcut,” said Burt. He felt extremely dejected. He tried to rally himself. He said, “One thing I noticed as I fell into the canal. The water is the colour of tea and the wheels of the bike look like biscuits.” He waited for this observation to sink in. “So it was a regular dunking!” he announced.
Victor spoke in sombre tones.
“You’d better dredge the canal and get it back. Mr Longshanks doesn’t like it when his property goes missing.”
“I know,” said Burt.
Victor was insistent. “He’s getting worse. I think the stress of falling sales is getting to him. I recently heard him threatening to sack the next staff member who lost or broke anything.”
Burt sank into his chair, too tired to rush back out. But he knew that Victor was right. He had to get the bike back and clean it up and return it to the garage. The sooner the better. He waited for ten minutes, then abruptly stood. “I need to return to the canal and get the bike back.”
“How will you manage it?” asked Victor.
“I don’t know,” said Burt.
“Will you jump into the canal and wade through the water? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why not use a net or a boathook to snag or grab the thing? You can remain dry on the bank.”
“Do we have a net or a boathook here?”
“No,” said Victor.
Burt sighed. He left, trudged the corridors and went down the stairs to the basement, went through the gloomy corridors to the garage, approached Jobber in his booth. The janitor said:
“Anything I can do to help, Mr Reckoning?”
“Fishing rod, Jobber.”
“Yes, I do have one. Haven’t used it for years. Used to go fishing when the canal was clean. It’s bloody poisonous now. Here it is. I don’t think you ought to eat anything you catch, sir.”
“I don’t intend to.”
Leaving him with that mystery, Burt walked up the ramp and made his way to the canal path. On the way he was accosted by a child in a flat cap. Was it the same kid as before? Hard to tell.
“Going fishing, mister?”
Burt growled at him.
He found the spot where he had skidded into the water. This patch was free of ice. He held the rod awkwardly and cast. The hook flew up and snagged on a branch of an overhanging tree. Burt pulled with all his strength. The rod bent. A crack like a rifle shot and the branch came down on him. Blood poured from his nose. His eyes watered. He said:
“My lack of foresight is abominable.”
Then he tried again.
He was lucky and snagged something under the water. He pulled, bending the rod, but the submerged object wouldn’t budge. He leaned back and suddenly the thing shifted in the mud and slime. It came free and poked above the surface of the water. It wasn’t a bicycle.
It was an old rusted pinball machine.
Then the rod snapped. It sounded exactly like the snapping branch, which had sounded like a rifle shot.
He heard giggles behind him. He turned.
A child was watching.
“Are you a terrorist, mister?”
Burt took a grip on himself. He had to be flexible in his approach in order to solve the problem. He took the broken branch and used it as a harpoon. First he tied the fishing line to the broken end, then he hurled it blindly like a spear. There was a gurgle as it pierced the water. He waited a moment and hauled on the thin line, cutting his fingers.
The thin end of the branch had jammed between two gear wheels. A very lucky strike. Burt pulled the bicycle to the side of the canal, then kneeled and lifted it out. He regarded it with dismay. The frame was intact, the chain, gears and bell remained, but the wheels were missing. They were gone. The wheels that resembled biscuits. Stolen!
That was the only answer. A thief had visited the area between the time of his accident and the time of his return. People are despicable! He wouldn’t be able to replace the wheels. They had been specially commissioned. He would have to admit his guilt to Mr Longshanks and take the consequences, even if it meant he would be sacked.
“The bike has lost its biscuits. I have lost my marbles,” said Burt, sighing a sigh deeper than any he had sighed before.
About the Book:
An astonishing novel of wit and warmth mixed with the surreal absurdity of life, told as only Hughes can. — Telos Publishing
From Rhys Hughes “I grew up in the 1970s in Britain. That was my formative decade. THE BISCUIT THIEF is a speculative farce, a comedic fantasy novel set at that time. It satirises the typical British popular culture of the decade. It delights in references to TV shows such as Space 1999, Doctor Who and Reggie Perrin, and it also draws inspiration from Conan comics and dozens of other cultural essentials. The Goodies, Spike Milligan and Monty Python were powerful influences on me.”
About the Author:
Rhys Hughes was born in Wales but has lived in many different countries. He began writing at an early age and his first book, Worming the Harpy, was published in 1995. Since that time he has published more than fifty other books and his work has been translated into twelve languages. He recently completed an ambitious project that involved writing exactly 1000 linked short fictions. He is currently working on a novel and several new collections of prose and verse.