sweaty fighting smell, heard his raspy breath. Just in time I hoisted my sword over my head as he attacked. Steel clashed. I held his weight, heaved, turned, advanced, swung. We smashed our swords together again. I felt his strength and mine.
The crowd were up: thousands of creatures and men stamped their feet in the amphitheatre of the sky. Their voices roared. Swords locked, I ducked, twisted, to spin his weapon from his hands. I didn’t see the fallen metal dustbin on the pavement. I braked but my front wheel thumped into the side of it. I catapulted over the bin and landed on the pavement.
The crowd groaned. Jupiter held out his arm, his fist clenched. He punched his thumb to the ground.
I’d never thought that I could lose in my own imagination. Maybe I wasn’t even that good at imagining. I lay there, closed my eyes, sighed. It warmed the inside of my cardboard helmet but nothing else. Everything was going wrong today.
I opened my eyes but it wasn’t the gladiator of Rome looking down at me. It was a little white dog.
I didn’t know if dogs had imaginations or if they thought like us at all, but this little dog looked me right in the eye and turned his head to the side as if he was asking the same question that I was: How can you lose when you’re the hero of your own story? Which was a bit strange seeing as nobody can see what’s in your imagination.
I leaned up on my elbows and stared back. The dog had ginger fur over his ears and eyes, like his own kind of helmet hiding who he really was, and circles like ginger biscuits on his white back.
“Did you see the size of that gladiator?” I said.
The little dog looked kind of interested, so I said, “Do you want to be a gladiator too?”
I think he would have said yes, but just then a great shadow loomed over us.
“Is that you dreaming again, Leo Biggs?” a voice growled.
It was old Grizzly Allen. He had one of those deep voices like it came from underground. If you try and talk as deep as him it hurts your throat.
Grizzly is our neighbour and the most loyal customer at my dad’s café just around the corner on Great Western Road – Ben’s Place. Grizzly was always in there. It was easier and a lot better than cooking for one, he said.
You might tell a dog what you’re imagining, or your best mate, but you don’t tell everyone because it might make you sound stupid.
“I didn’t see the bin. I couldn’t stop.”
Grizzly held out his hand and pulled me up like I was a flea, or something that weighed nothing.
“No bones broken, eh?” he beamed. “Perhaps just something bruised.”
I checked over my bike. The chain had come off and the rusted back brake cable was frayed.
“Aw, man!” I sighed.
“Bit small for you now,” Grizzly said. “Can’t be easy to ride.”
“Yeah, I know. I need a new one.” I shrugged, but I didn’t really want to talk about that. I’d had this bike for four years, got it on my seventh birthday; the handlebars had worn in my grip. They were smooth now, like the tyres and the brake pads and the saddle. I didn’t want to say anything about how I’d thought my parents were getting me a new one for my birthday, today. I guessed they didn’t think I deserved it yet. It wasn’t like I’d passed my Grade 6 trumpet exam, like Kirsty had.
Grizzly picked up my bike as if it was as light as a can opener, leaned it against his wall and lowered himself down, all six feet four of him folded into a crouch.
“Can’t do anything with this here cable.” He sort of growled in his throat, but I didn’t know if that was because he couldn’t fix it or because he was uncomfortable hunkered down like that.
The little dog watched Grizzly’s hairy hands feeding the chain back on the cogs. Grizzly didn’t have a dog and it looked odd, a great big man with that little white and ginger dog standing, all four legs square, by his side.
“Did you get a new dog, Grizzly?”
Actually there was nothing new about that dog, except he was new here in our road. I don’t mean he looked old, because he didn’t. He was almost buzzing with life. There was something ancient about him though. Like one of the gold Roman coins in our museum. Sort of shiny and fresh on the outside, but with years and years of history worn into them.
“He’s not mine,” Grizzly said. “This here is Jack Pepper.” The little dog watched Grizzly’s broad face and his tail swayed at the sound of his own name.
“He belongs to Lucy, my daughter. She’s asked me to look after him for a couple of weeks while she takes herself off for some holiday sunshine over the other side of the world.” He winked at Jack. “We’re keeping each other company for a bit.”
Grizzly steadied himself against the wall so I offered him my shoulder to help him up. He was heavy. His joints creaked and clunked like a worn-out machine and he groaned. Jack Pepper stood between us, looking up as if he wanted to know everything that was going on with Grizzly so he could help. Jack didn’t seem to understand that he wasn’t even as tall as my knee.
My bike was twisted, but Grizzly held the front wheel between his knees and pulled the handlebars with one almighty yank until it was straight again.
“Should do it for now,” he said, “but you’ll have to get down to TrailBlaze to see if they can do something about those brakes.”
He looked at me for a long time before nodding towards the fallen bin, and the rubbish strewn along the pavement. There was a smell of rot and something sharp.
“Jack had his nose to the front door so we came out to look and see if cats were getting in the rubbish.”
“I didn’t see any cats,” I said. “Mrs Pardoe’s big ginger cat went in dad’s shop once and stole a chicken sandwich, right off the side.”
“And who wouldn’t want some of your dad’s delicious food, eh?” Grizzly laughed. “Hear that, Jack? Maybe I’ll be treating you too!”
I picked up the bin, then the empty soup tins and old teabags and threw them back in. Jack Pepper sniffed and sniffed. He didn’t seem to mind whether they were good or bad smells: he just enjoyed sniffing them. I tried to put the lid back on, but it was bent and didn’t fit properly.
Grizzly took the bin and put it back in his front garden, rested the dented lid on top.
“Best keep this out of your way, hey, son?” He smiled, his small eyes shining under his broad lined forehead. He nodded towards my helmet. “Hard to see out of that, eh?”
“Oh, this!” I took my cardboard gladiator helmet off, embarrassed that I’d forgotten I had it on. But Grizzly wasn’t laughing at me. He seemed quite impressed actually.
