NaNoWriMo - The Handyman Day 19

Wave hello

One of the toughest parts of starting a book, is getting the characters on the page. I'll often see them in my mind but finding the words to convey them as real can take some time.

Invariably there is a magical moment during the process, usually about the time we get into the mix of the main story, when the characters make themselves known. They become real and the words to describe them come a lot easier.

It is a moment I seldom see coming. In Chasing Innocence it didn't happen for Sarah until late - when she was fighting Simon. For Mahrie it was her return after burying her husband, and her reaction to the police waiting outside her house.

When the characters do start waving from the page. It is one of the great feelings.

Of course you may read the following excerpt and wonder what the hell I'm going on about. It might be difficult to know without the context of what happens before. This was the moment for me when Daniel Harper started waving. It will now be about honouring his story that drives me to the end.

Daniel does a last check, makes sure the keys are secure in his rucksack, the change of clothes, clips his shoes into the pedals and freewheels onto the road, merges into the traffic. 

The bike is gleaming, oiled, there are no gears. There are no brakes, the bike's momentum is controlled by the continual rotation of the crank - it stops and the bike stops. The handlebars are seven inches across, left hand to the right, designed so he can filter through traffic, between cars, taxis and buses. He’s spent the morning giving it the once over. He wants to see if he’s ready to work. 

At the station he pulls on his cap because he doesn’t want trouble. The train has to pass through Slough. London is the multi-cultural hub of Europe. He’s nervous. Not the fear of physical confrontation but of being reminded of other people and their anger. There’s a telescopic batten taped to the inside of his bicep, just in case. 

The worry is for nothing. He climbs on the train, lifts in his bike and they rattle and roll into Slough where people pour off and on, the doors close. On into Paddington. He doesn’t think anyone paid him any attention. He has been trained to notice these things. 

The underground could take him to Wimbledon but he needs to get back into the flow. This is where his days were spent, couriering envelopes and packages, criss-crossing through the alleys and roads of the ancient city. Tuned into cabbies and bus drivers, pedestrians with a death wish. Upwards of one hundred daily miles on a seat narrower than his wrist. Decent money and flexible. It could be unpleasant, the weather, the nutters, never worse than sitting in an office. 

It’s nine miles to Wimbledon, it takes him forty minutes. He’s an hour early for his appointment. Sits in the park to cool down. Knows the child voices and the mothers aren’t Molly and Angela, has to stop himself hoping. Watches them with his body heavy with loss, a malevolence wants to twist inside. For those who robbed him. A tension he lets flow to the cool autumn. He thinks of Angela and the love she had for life. 

When he’s ready Daniel takes his lock from the rucksack, the sort you’d get for a high-end motorbike. A long chain of thick links encased in a kevlar sheath. He removes the bike wheels, takes them with him. Only the frame is shackled to the bike rack. He changes in the public toilet, the cloying bleach and piss. He sprays deodorant. He knows Wimbledon well, he used to see Doctor Mistry at the Neurological hospital, after he came out of the army. Daniel likes to be respectful. Would never wear his cycling gear to see a Doctor. When he leaves the toilet he’s wearing his wedding suit trousers and a shirt. Polished black shoes. The wheels in one hand in a special carrier, rucksack on his back.

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