My throat clogs. Something inside me is telling me to close the window, shut my eyes and pretend that I never searched for his name. But I don’t. I force my mouse to hover over the video.

And I click play.

50

WesleyCycles67

And now I am back with Wesley, speeding along streets lined with people. And he’s cycling so fast that their faces blur into lines and their cheers stretch out like passing sirens.

My heart is beating a million times a minute, because he’s going too fast. He’s going too fast.

But he’s also not going fast enough.

Ahead of him is another cyclist, head down but body standing in its seat, forcing legs to pump so hard that the bike swings from left to right. On the rider’s back is the number twenty-four and ahead is a finish line wrapped in gold and this person’s going to get there first.

I can hear Wesley’s breaths bursting behind me like a steam train. As if nothing – not even a speeding car – could ever stop them.

The camera shakes and swings. The hands gripping the handlebars flush red.

He’s gaining on number twenty-four. So fast that soon the cyclist’s head next to him swings round to face us – their expression a flash of surprise before we’re gone again. And it reminds me of the joy we felt, passing the traffic-stuck cars on our final day together. The looks on the faces of the drivers as they realized that one man on a bicycle could beat a two-tonne car.

Wesley leans back and his hands disappear from his handlebars as the finish-line tape bursts against the camera. And I can hear him. Panting and laughing. His fists flying into view, clenched and impossibly strong.

‘I did it,’ a voice says from behind me. ‘Yes!’

The bike slows to a stop in the crowd where people of all ages are jumping up and down and cheering. And the camera is lost for a moment within their smiles and screams, before hands pick me up and spin me round.

And there – floating in a sea of people – is a man.

A yellow-striped helmet is strapped to his head, and purple sunglasses reflect a camera back at me. He’s wearing a fitted top that’s so tight, it’s like he himself has been painted blue and green. And curling through the gaps in all of this are shocks of bright red hair.

This is Wesley. The Wesley on the other side of the camera.

And although it’s the same Wesley I was with when he died, here he’s something else, too. A Wesley worth remembering.

A Wesley who Lived.

51

Rowan

And now I am in a bedroom that isn’t mine.