Cyclopathic Tendencies

PROLOGUE

Beeeeeeeep!

The driver of the 4x4 screeched to a halt, slamming a fist on the horn as a cyclist flew like a bat out of hell from a blind side lane. He only just avoided hitting him.

What the hell's he doing, swerving out in front of me like that? Damn fool!

Mark pedalled on, huffing and puffing up the lane, ignoring the driver's horn. That'd be right! he thought. I escape some hideous fate back at Masterton Manor only to get mashed under his wheels.

The driver was still shaking his fist and shouting obscenities when two other cyclists swung out in hot pursuit, panting and sweating, speeding up the road as though they were gunning for first place in the Tour de France. Bloody idiots! he shouted, as if they could hear him. I've got right of way here!

Mark cycled on ahead for a few more miles at full pelt, eventually coming to a stop at an open grassy verge with a wooden picnic bench. He could only hope it would be safe here. He collapsed in a heap against the wide bough of a tree and was just tucking into an energy bar when Larry and Paul arrived.

Blimey! I'm pooped! Paul gasped as he tossed his bike down and slumped against the tree next to Mark. "I can't believe I'm so knackered after such a short ride."

It's the adrenalin, Larry said, crouching down and handing Paul a plastic bidon of water. Here, drink. The danger may not be over yet, my friend!

Mark laid his head against the tree, a tidal wave of exhaustion washing over him. Yet thoughts and memories kept floating into his mind.

How on earth did things ever come to this? he wondered. Just a few months ago, everything had seemed perfect. There he was, Mark Bradley, one of the youngest ever cyclists selected as a hopeful contender for this year's Tour de France. He'd been given access to state-of-the-art training facilities at Masterton Manor and he'd been sponsored by one of the world's leading corporations.

All in all, he was on his way up, the outlook rosy.

He was full of self-reproach. But how could he possibly have known what the future would hold? How could he ever have guessed that, within just a few short weeks of setting foot at his training facility, the cream would begin to go sour and his very life would be on the line?

PART I – On Top of the World

CHAPTER 1

Three months earlier

As Hans Overmeyer stepped out of the minibus, the very sight of him made Mark shiver. He was decked out in shorts and a T-shirt and bore no sign of breaking out in goosebumps, despite the fact that it was early spring – still a chilly time of year in England.

The stocky hulk of a man sported a shaven head, but Mark couldn't decide if it was a relic of days in the military or whether it was a pre-emptive strike against premature hair-loss.

Mark had been waiting outside the city coach station with Simon. The twenty-somethings had never met before in person, but Mark couldn't fail to have heard of him, given his notoriety on the international cycling circuit. Simon had a broad-shouldered, six-foot physique that was more redolent of a swimmer than a cyclist, and with his short blond hair, engaging green eyes and dashing good looks, Mark guessed he wasn't short of female attention.

They'd come in on different coaches and had chatted for a while at their rendezvous point. In any case, they'd be seeing a lot more of each other, now that they were in the running to ride in the Tour de France this July with their sponsor, the global company Conscience Corp.

Hans ran through the perfunctory introductions and grabbed their bags, stowing them in the minibus, which was emblazoned with their sponsor's trademark green advertising. Well, then, let's get you to the training facility, he said, rubbing his hands together.

They jumped in and Hans set off. By the way, the facility's owned by Professor Masterton, he said, talking over his shoulder as he drove along. He's the brains behind this whole outfit.

Mark's brow creased. Professor Masterton? I thought he was supposed to be some sort of eccentric recluse. He glanced at Simon, who was obviously thinking the same thing. When they'd been recruited for this gig, the details had been strangely shrouded in secrecy. It was common knowledge that the Professor's late father was the founder of Conscience Corp, but as far as anyone knew, the cycling team it sponsored was run by a cohort of professional trainers and had nothing to do with the Professor.

Hans caught their expressions and threw the young men a canny look in the rear-view mirror. We don't like to give too much away, he explained, tapping the side of his nose. Gives us the edge over the competition.

Mark shrugged inwardly. Fair enough. Makes sense, I suppose.

The Professor is a master scientist and engineer – a genius, really, Hans enthused, his German twang more noticeable as he continued to speak. And mark my words, he's set to completely transform the team's chances of winning international cycle races.

Mark and Simon exchanged glances. An impressive claim. It all sounded rather lofty – but then, this wasn't amateur racing they were talking about. This was the big leagues.

Anyway, you'll meet him this evening, Hans said, turning off a ring road and heading out of the suburbs. I manage the facility for the Professor and oversee everything you do while you're staying there. I'll basically be working as your main coach and soigneur for the next few weeks. From tomorrow, I'll be putting you through your training paces. The rest of the hopeful contenders for this year's Tour de France have already settled in, so now you two are here, we can get stuck in.

Mark couldn't put his finger on what it was, but there was something slightly creepy about the ambiguous-looking grin the man threw them in the mirror.

Hans turned the steering wheel and Mark looked outside to find they were now moving into the countryside; and it was only then, when they were away from the noisy traffic, that he realised how strangely smooth and quiet the engine was. This is an automatic electric vehicle, Hans explained. The Professor had it built way before electric became popular, so it's a bit old now, but it does the job.

Mark relaxed the side of his head against the window as the minibus bobbed along on the uneven road, sparrows darting about in the hedgerows as they sailed past. The skeletal trees lining the lanes were poised to come into leaf and would soon green the gaps between the evergreens. Beyond lay green hills speckled with cows and sheep, and brown fields had been furrowed ready for early plantings.

He closed his eyes and dozed off as the spring sunshine streamed in through the windows, warming his face as thoughts drifted in and out of his mind. The look on his dad's face as he left him at the coach station. His heart-felt words. Your mum would be so proud. His holding back a tear.

After his mother had died of cancer in his teens, Mark decided to leave school early to help run his father's bike shop. His father hadn't tried to talk him out of it. He was a determined youngster who reminded him of how he used to be at Mark's age. He, too, had shown promise as a talented cyclist early on, and eventually made it to the top levels of cycling. You've got the potential to do the same if you want, he always told Mark. And once he began achieving consistently excellent placings in local and national races, his father got a part-time helper in the bike shop and sponsored his training.

Just after his twenty-first birthday, Mark was talent-scouted to join the national track cycling team. It was both a happy and sad day for both him and his father. They'd been a crutch for each other after his mother died, and now that Mark would have to live away from home, that company and support would be sorely missed by each of them. But the break had to be made. It was your mother's dying wish to see you live your dream, his father urged him. You go and be the best you can be.

With a bitter-sweet nod, Mark left, and they comforted each other knowing that they were just at the other end of a phone. Besides, I can come back whenever I have time off, he thought. Help out in the shop, just like old times.

Mark's reverie was broken as the minibus lurched then slowed down. He yawned and sat up straight in his seat, trying to get his bearings. Simon was opposite him, sitting across two seats with his legs raised, listening to music on mini earphones.

Mark looked out of the window to see tall fencing that ran parallel to the road behind the hedgerow, topped with a line of barbed wire. Are we passing a military base or something?

Hans made a turn and immediately came to a pair of large security gates flanked by trees. Simon lowered his feet onto the floor, pulled out his earphones, and turned to see where they were headed. Hans lifted a remote control off the dashboard, pressed a button and the gates slowly opened.

Masterton Manor? Mark said, squinting at the words spelled out above the gate. I thought we were going to a training facility.

I think you might be in for a pleasant surprise, Hans said with a satisfied smile. Masterton Training Facility and Masterton Manor are one. Technically, the Professor is Lord of the Manor, though he doesn't care much for the title. Anyway, you'll have state-of-the-art facilities at your disposal on the premises, as well as round-the-clock security and a dedicated management team on hand. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Hans drove on and the two lads looked at each other with intrigued expressions as the gates closed behind them.

The tarmac driveway seemed to snake on forever through lines of trees and bushes but eventually opened out to reveal a glorious old mansion some way off. Open expanses of picture-postcard countryside surrounded the building itself, the landscape changing to trees, bushes and shrubs as you moved out, with picturesque hills rolling away in the distance.

Mark's eyes widened. Blimey! I didn't expect this. He just assumed he'd be training at some modern-looking sports facility with no real character. This was anything but. With seemingly countless windows, the place was of grandiose size, and as they drew closer, he could see it was built of weathered old stone and due for a little restoration. In patches, it was covered in deep green ivy, and Virginia creepers that would come into their own in autumn with warming shades of red.

The minibus slowed as it neared the house. Out the front, Mark spotted a man he could only assume was part of the round-the-clock security Hans had mentioned – at least, he had the stereotypical look of a security guard: regulation shaved head, beefy frame, dark clothes. When they came to a stop on the large circular drive near the front door, the man held his hand to his ear and started talking to his wrist. He must have one of those sleeve mics, Mark guessed. Just like in the movies… Amazing! Wonder who he's reporting to. Some security office in the mansion, he imagined.

That's Johan, Hans said, seeing that the lads had noticed him. He sweeps the perimeters, that kind of thing.

I can't see a broom, Mark joked inwardly. He couldn't help feeling that the guard's presence was reassuring, given that a bunch of high-profile international cyclists would be staying at the mansion. You never know what lengths some journalists will go to to get a story these days.

Hans got out of the minibus and slid the side door open to let the young men out. Allow me to show you to your quarters. I'll arrange for your belongings to be brought up, he said.

Mark and Simon stepped up to the heavy oak front door and it was immediately opened by a man wearing a black suit, white shirt and gloves. Despite his sour expression, Mark stepped into the mansion's wide foyer area with optimism in his stride.

This is Jeeves, Hans said, introducing the ancient-looking butler. Can you bring up the bags, please, Jeeves? The butler raised an eyebrow. It wasn't his real name at all – just a joke name that the Professor, in his playful youth, had dubbed him with. All butlers were called Jeeves, weren't they? From then on, the name had stuck. The butler had been working at the mansion for what seemed like an eternity, yet despite his lengthy service, he still baulked whenever he was addressed as such, though he never uttered a word about how he felt. It wasn't a servant's place to do so.

Relics of the past filled the mansion's large open hallway as Mark walked in: an umbrella stand which looked like it predated the invention of umbrellas; old portraits and oil paintings of landscapes hanging on the downstairs walls and up the staircase; and an old vase filled with flowers resting on an Edwardian table against a far wall. But with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the mansion wasn't as dark as one might have expected.

Mark's eye followed the line of the old staircase that wound up along the wall on the left side. Judging from the pattern on its carpet and the amount of wear, it hadn't been changed since Queen Victoria was on the throne. If they even had fitted carpets back then.

Mark and Simon exchanged a wide smile, thinking the same thing as they looked around. This place is amazing. It's like being transported into the past.

Mark breathed a contented sigh. I'm gonna enjoy my time at Masterton Manor, that's for sure, he thought. I mean, look around. He was about to sojourn in a plush old mansion straight out of a movie set on a beautiful estate in the south of England. There were top-notch training facilities to look forward to. And he had prospects to ride the most famous and respected race in the world.

How can I possibly go wrong?

CHAPTER 2

Cyclists usually sleep two to a room, explained Hans as Mark and Simon followed him upstairs. The long staircase wound its way up to a spacious landing that overlooked the main hallway. Hans turned off into a dimly lit corridor that was lined with oak panelling and more paintings. Mark, I've arranged for you to share with your friend Paul, as requested.

Great, thanks, Mark smiled. Paul was a couple of years older than him and for years, they'd cycled together in their local club up north. They'd become the best of friends – like brothers – and jokingly called themselves the Dynamic Duo, continually challenging each other to a 'duel on the bike', as they called it, eager to test their mettle.

The chairman boasted that they were a feather in the club's cap – 'rising young stars' – and he was most pleased to see Paul offered a place on the national track squad. Mark and Paul had kept in contact ever since, although only briefly – professional cycling didn't leave much time for a personal life. By the time Mark was talent-scouted for the team, Paul had already been snapped up to ride with Conscience Corp for a second season.

Mr Percival… Simon, you're in here, Hans said, opening a creaky door to the first room along the corridor. You're one of the lucky ones – a room to yourself.

Mark pointed at the name on the door. Marcus Pantomimi. What's with this? he asked Hans.

All the rooms are named after famous cyclists, he smiled, almost proudly.

Cool, said Simon.

Your bags will be up shortly, Hans said to Simon. Make yourself at home. We dine at seven o'clock sharp.

As Simon disappeared into his room, Hans looked Mark up and down. He had the same short brown hair and brown eyes as his friend Paul, but whereas Paul had a stereotypically tall and spindly cycling physique, Mark was shorter and had a bit more meat on him. Hans liked that. I just hope the lad isn't going to be as cocky as his friend, though. Paul had stayed at the manor the previous year before taking part in his first Tour de France as a domestique rider, but Hans often found his flippant attitude irritating. If there's one thing I hate, it's back-chat.

Despite his reservations, Professor Masterton had been keen to have Paul on board again this year. And Hans always acquiesced to his wishes without hesitation, deferring to what he saw as the greater intelligence. In any case, he was only with the riders for a relatively short time, and would have fun whittling the fifteen hopefuls down to a strong team of nine before they headed off to their mountain base in France – at which point they'd be handed over to another management team who'd take them through to the Tour de France.

Mark followed Hans along the dark corridor. An elegant walnut table was pressed against one of the walls, dressed with flowers that looked parched, and with carpeted floors that creaked eerily underfoot, the place reminded him of the antiquated hotel they'd stayed in once when he holidayed in Blackpool as a lad.

They arrived at the next room. Teddy Smirks, Mark said, noting the name on the door. My dad's favourite cycling hero.

Hans opened the door, its hinges whining. The room had a window overlooking the front of the mansion, and it was more spacious than Mark had expected, with high ceilings. The walls were covered in wallpaper that looked like it dated back to the Victorian era. Its edges were coming unstuck in places and its original deep arsenic green pattern had now faded to a dowdy lime colour.

Yet more frames hung on the walls, but rather than housing paintings similar to those elsewhere, they contained memorabilia of Teddy Smirks in his cycling heyday. Mark was taken aback to see an original black and white still of the rider as he topped a cobbled climb in the Tour of Flanders surrounded by enthusiastic onlookers. There were also quaint old newspaper clippings and cycling magazines with the rider on the front cover.

Paul was lying on one of the two beds engrossed in a magazine and looked up nonchalantly when he heard the door. Afternoon, he said, staring back down at his magazine, teasingly underplaying his delight at seeing his old friend.

Eventually, he couldn't contain himself and suddenly looked up and smiled, casting the magazine aside. He jumped up, beaming at Mark, and the two gave each other a playful manly hug.

Welcome to Masterton. Glad you could make it. Looks like you finally caught up with me, eh? Paul said, slapping Mark on the back.

Mark caught the playful jibe... Although they'd always given each other