Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 697.

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Wuthering Dormice
(aka Bike)
Part 697
by Angharad
  
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“Miss Watts, the poor man died.”

“Whose fault was that? I nearly got killed too.”

“Yes, but a bike is replaceable.”

“What if he had killed me, too or instead?”

“Then I wouldn’t be talking to you now, would I?”

“Just a minute, Sergeant, I am going about my own business and quite legitimately, when two mistakes by fools in motor vehicles nearly kills four of us. I am angry that I nearly got killed, and I’m really pissed that a very valuable bike got trashed, all because two fools couldn’t wait a few seconds.”

“The one paid with his life, the other is very poorly and her daughter could be deprived of a mother.”

“To be driving like that with a child in the car was stupid. Practically every time I ride a bike some homicidal maniac in a car or van or truck tries to kill me. What do you lot do about it? Bugger all. Even when one of them nearly succeeds, all you seem to have is sympathy that he missed and killed himself instead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We accept your account of the accident, and our crash investigation team will check it out.”

“So you don’t believe me?”

“I just said we did, but witnesses, especially in the heat of the moment, can get things wrong.”

“I didn’t. I saw what was going to happen as soon as the blue car passed me, and tried to take avoiding action, but side-pull brakes don’t stop you that quickly and it was only because I was still moving that I managed to avoid the van. He just spun around as the car hit his back end, and then he came straight at me. I unclipped and let go the bike at the same time, falling into the bank and bouncing along it, the van came past and trashed my bike and I bounced along behind him leaving a few bits on skin and lycra on the road. It bloody well hurts.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“Plus I broke two fingers.”

“The van driver was killed.”

“I know that, I saw his brains all over the tree. I switched off his engine to reduce the risk of fire. It was his own stupid fault.”

“What if he left a widow and children?”

“Then perhaps he should have thought more about them before he drove so stupidly.”

“If you hadn’t been going so fast, he might have made it across the road, or the Subaru might have been able to over take you and clear the junction?”

“Yeah, and if he hadn’t been born, it wouldn’t have happened–what sort of logic is that? I had right of way, I was riding safely, the two drivers were at fault. You know as well as I do that ninety nine percent of accidents involving cyclists are the driver’s fault.”

“Just a wee bit biased there, aren’t we?” said the copper, who with his mate were making loads of notes.

“No, there are statistics to back it up, and most of the time the driver gets away with it. Look at that prat up in North Wales a year or so ago, killed four cyclists and injured several others, driving on bald tyres on icy roads, and he got fined a few hundred quid. He should have been doing time for multiple manslaughter–except cyclists don’t count as humans.”

“Calm down, Miss Watts, cyclists do count and we take incidents involving them very seriously.”

“Calm down, it’s not you who will wake up seeing a van coming at you every night, is it? And what about my children? Or don’t they count either? I’ve said all I’m going to, if you want any more contact my solicitor.”

Just then Simon arrived. “I thought I could hear your voice,” he said then looking at the burly police sergeant who’d been taking my statement, said, “Bloody hell, Masher.”

“Stone me, Cameron, the human battering ram, what are you doing here?”

“Collecting my fiancée, what about you?”

“Collecting a statement about a fatal.” He looked at Simon and then at me. “That’s your fiancée?”

“Yeah, the lovely, Cathy.”

“Good luck, mate, you’ll need it.” He went past Simon who was looking perplexed.

“What’s all that about?” he asked me.

“It seems everyone wants me to feel sorry about some dick head who tried to climb a tree with a van, nearly killing me in the process.”

“Oh, what happened?” Although it was becoming tedious, I told him the same account as I had told everyone else. “God, you were lucky.”

“Yes, I was, whether God had anything to do with it, is another matter.”

“What?” he said but I declined to repeat my possible blasphemy, not because I was ashamed of it but I was tired and hurting. I was still waiting for the scan results.

A doctor poked his head in the cubicle, “Sorry, the scan isn’t as clear as we wanted, I’m sending you down for an ultrasound.”

“I thought they used those for pregnancies?” I asked.

“We do.”

“But I’m not pregnant, I can’t be.”

“I didn’t say we were doing it for pregnancy, I’m trying to discover if you have a rupture of the spleen.”

“If I did, wouldn’t I have bled to death by now?”

“Not necessarily, sometimes they take a few hours to happen.”

“You know best,” I said surrendering.

“Get that in writing,” called Simon, ever supportive of me–the swine.

I was pushed on a trolley down towards X-ray again, only this time, I had cold goo smeared all over my belly and some sort of transducer was moved back and fore over my abdomen.

“Interesting,” said the radiographer.

“What is?” I asked trying to see the screen of the machine.

“You look perfectly normal.”

“Do I, shows how deceptive appearances can be, doesn’t it?”

“How did they do the hysterectomy, there’s no scar?”

“There was no hysterectomy, I have XY chromosomes.”

“Oh, androgen insensitive?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Okay, I can’t see anything wrong with your spleen, although you will have some bruising.”

“Yeah, like all over.”

“What did you do?”

“Avoided being hit by a van on a country lane.”

“What in a car?”

“No, a bike.”

“A motor bike?”

“No–a bicycle, I sort of opted to crash into the bank at thirty miles an hour.”

“Can they go that fast?”

“Yeah, moments before I was doing over fifty, but it was down hill.”

“Gosh, you are lucky.”

“Yeah, my bike wasn’t.”

“Oh, did you break it?”

“No, I didn’t the van driver drove over it.”

“Oh, still, maybe it can be repaired.”

“Noooo,” I said shaking my head, “it’s six thousand pounds worth of carbon fibre, it’s in bits.”

“Six thousand, oh dear, that’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Won’t the van driver’s insurance pay for it?”

“I don’t know, because he’s in a worse shape than my bike.” She looked strangely at me, obviously trying to understand what I meant. “He hit a tree–head first.”

“Oh,” she said.

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