The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  In the end, fate came along and lent a hand: the paper folded suddenly and with little fanfare. For the hacks, it meant extended leisure time, and they greeted the news of the office's closure with unconcealed glee. For Gabe, however, at twenty-four, he couldn't afford to be so blasé. His qualifications were mediocre, and he felt many might be reticent about employing a former soldier, especially one that had had brushes with the law. Even so, the newspaper job, for all its shortcomings, had been enough to cast doubt on whether he was cut out to sit at a desk all day, tapping away at a keyboard, all life passing him by outside. He felt jaded with white-collar work, and the thought of spending more summers suffocating in an open-plan oven, shuffling files, filled him with dread.

  It had been his flatmate that had posited the solution. They had been throwing possible career routes between each other - based on Gabe's nebulous ideas of how he wanted to make a living that didn't involve some kind of corporate infrastructure - when Tom suggested a cycle courier. Gabe assimilated the notion and ticked off its advantages: it was outdoor work, it involved little contact with colleagues, it had a built-in fitness regime, and there was a pure simplicity to the job that appealed. He even owned his own bike, and growing up in the city had afforded him an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of London's thoroughfares that could be put to his advantage. The more he mulled the possibility, the more he could see that this could be his way to escape the stifling office environment, and use his love of the capital to work for him rather than be swallowed by its oppressive sprawl.

  He visited some local firms and eventually signed up. Within days he was pleased to discover that his instincts had been right, and the job gave him just the satisfaction that he craved. The sheer volume of traffic that he had to contend with had been an initial shock, but once he got the hang of making his presence known on the roads, forcing motorists to acknowledge that he was there, then it became a breeze. The freedom felt exhilarating, and he got to see the metropolis in a whole new light, a hidden London of back alleys and secret squares, centuries of history overlapping in forgotten corners far from the public gaze.

  Despite the marvels that the city still clutched to her bosom and that he continued to uncover on his journeys, Gabe reflected, it never looked its best in the middle of July. A little of its beauty was tarnished as it wilted under the heat, but he was glad to be witnessing it out here rather than viewing it through an office window, a position he'd been in for close to a year now.

  He shuttled across into Belgrave Square, and headed towards Hyde Park Corner, squeezing down the tight back roads of Knightsbridge, pedalling hard. He piloted his bike down Wilton Place, a car approaching in the other direction allowing him to pass. He powered forward, keen not to keep it waiting.

  When the Audi swung out suddenly from its parking slot on the left-hand side of the street, Gabe barely had time to brake - and consequently slammed into its wing at full speed.

  Hospital at first was a nightmare glimpsed through waking moments. He was told later - when he had been capable of processing the information - that he had been severely concussed (in addition to three fractured ribs, a broken nose and extensive facial bruising). But at the time Gabe flittered in and out of consciousness, snatching only handfuls of sobriety. He found it difficult to differentiate between the world inside his head and that of his bedridden condition; or rather it was hard to choose which was worse. When he was asleep, he plunged into a sea of shadow in which he seemed to be constantly rushing forward, as if caught in a slipstream or surrendering to the inexorable pull of a current. Sometimes the darkness dissolved enough for him to discern that he was racing along the city streets, his body floating only a few feet from the tarmac. A vague thought would always pop into his dream-self's mind that he was on a collision course, that unless he fought the power that controlled him, he was going to smash into an obstacle that was undoubtedly going to be standing in his way. It started as a suggestion, an irrational feeling that bubbled out of nowhere, but it would quickly blossom into panic and an incontrovertible sense of certainty that he was racing towards disaster. The city appeared abandoned as he raced through it - amorphous, indistinct buildings on either side, roads empty of life - but without question, somewhere, there was trouble waiting to hit him head-on.

  He never discovered it. The fear would build in tandem with his velocity to such a degree that he would surface into consciousness with a gasp, as if he had dived into himself and was returning for air. But his waking episodes were no respite; the heat and chaos in the ward day and night left him unable to relax, and any movement he attempted made him aware of his injuries. His body seemed to ache right down to the bone. The doctors kept him doped up, so his notion of reality was woozy at best, and he had few visitors to help anchor him to the everyday; his mother was living somewhere in Europe with her new husband, and his father was infirm, cared for by a nurse of his own back in Cork. With no siblings, the only face he could lucidly recognise was that of his flatmate Tom, whose sporadic trips to see him were as irregular as Gabe's sleep patterns. The combination of the drugs and fatigue would inevitably propel him towards unconsciousness again, a journey he vainly fought, terrified of once more flying through London with no notion of where he was going, or possibly finally meeting what was waiting for him at that moment of impact he knew was unavoidable.

  Over the following weeks, his confused mind stabilised and his lucid periods lengthened. His memories of the accident slowly returned, and if he closed his eyes he could visualise the front wheel of his bike buckling against the driver's door of the Audi, throwing him forward and across its bonnet. The recollection of his head bouncing off the windscreen - did it shatter? He couldn't remember hearing the sound of breaking glass; all that filled his ears was the screech of brakes and the scrape of metal on metal - made him gingerly run his fingertips over his puffy face. The skin was tender to the touch, and a lump the size of a golf ball had risen above his right eyebrow. He asked a nurse for a mirror, because the contours of his face no longer felt familiar, and the reflection that stared back at him confirmed it; he barely recognised himself. He'd been assured that the injuries would heal eventually, and that the swelling would go down given time, but even so the red-raw damage and the changes it had wrought on his appearance shocked him. His nose swathed in bandages, his lips split where his teeth had pierced them, purple-black bruises running in parallel with his jawline, he felt like he'd been battered into a different shape, moulded and created anew with all the attendant pain that such a process entails. He wouldn't be the same, he knew, no matter how well he recovered; already he considered what he looked like before the accident to be the face of somebody else.

  It proved true enough the moment he left the hospital, his bones sufficiently knitted together. The trip back to his flat was one fraught with anxiety as the noise and relentlessness of the traffic caused him to visibly cringe, despite Tom's reassurances. Gabe tried to remain calm, aware that a mere month ago he'd been whizzing through these very streets on his bike with nothing to protect him but a helmet and a shoulder bag, but now the idea seemed inconceivable. It was as if he were viewing the city through different eyes, seeing potential dangers at every turn. He dug his fingers into the passenger seat of his flatmate's Mini as it rounded a corner and braked at a crossing, expecting a phantom vehicle to thunder into their path any second. Tom told him that he had spoken to the doctor before they had released Gabe, and he had mentioned that a victim of such a serious accident was very likely to exhibit symptoms of something approaching post-traumatic stress, and that it was perfectly natural for him to be fretful once he returned to the real world. But it would pass as soon as he got his strength back and grew more confident.

  For Gabe, that day seemed a long time coming. Ensconced within the walls of his flat, he found himself lacking the courage to venture outside, and the more time he spent inside on his own - Tom working long shifts at a bar in the West End - the more he found comfort in seclusion. Rather tha
n facing down his fear, he embraced it and let it control him, ensuring that his daily routine was subservient to it. The courier company he worked for regularly got in touch, asking when he felt ready to return to work, and he fobbed them off with excuses, claiming he still needed time to recover. In truth, he was physically back to normal bar a few scars and tender patches, but in his head the thought of braving London's roads once more filled him with panic. He relived the accident again and again in his dreams, awaking sweating at the moment of impact and with a hard cluster of pain at his temple. Eventually, his boss telephoned him to apologetically let him go, saying that without any end to his convalescence in sight they couldn't afford to keep him on their books any longer. He was unemployed once more, and felt in no fit state to do anything about it.

  As soon as Tom learned that Gabe was out of a job, he sat down with his flatmate for a crisis talk.

  "Mate, we gotta do something or we're going to be out on our ear. There's no way I can manage on my wage alone, and I doubt your income support is going to add much. You've got to get yourself out there."

  "I know, I know," Gabe replied, conscious of the fact that there was no situation that couldn't be made worse by having a little guilt thrown into the mix. "I don't want to put us both in the lurch, of course I don't. It's just... I'm scared of going out there. I'm on edge, thinking something is going to happen. My stomach knots, I can't breathe, feel nauseous..."

  "It's a panic attack. The doc said you could expect them. But you can't afford to let them run your life. It's like you're caught in a loop - the more you stay in here, agonising over what's going to happen to you if you step outside the flat, the more the anxiety spreads. You're feeding it by not coming to terms with it. If you went out on those streets and became accustomed to them once again, you'd find that the fear would lessen. It's what you don't know - it's what you're imagining is out there - that's causing this apprehension."

  "I wish it was as easy as that..."

  "It's the only way forward, mate," Tom replied, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. "Otherwise it's going to explode into full-blown agoraphobia, and you'll be bunkered away in here for the rest of your life. You're, what? Twenty-five? You're going to imprison yourself for the next sixty years, is that it? Unless you're prepared to give in to it, you've gotta be strong and fight it."

  They sat in silence, Gabe listening to the hum of traffic filtering through the window, acting as an additional taunt to Tom's words. He knew his friend was right, and wished he possessed the resolve to act upon the advice. He admonished himself for being weak and pathetic. Was he really going to let this fear get the better of him? Was he really going to sacrifice his life to it? Otherwise, what difference would it have made if his guts had been splattered under the tyres of that Audi? Survival had given him a choice - either he grasped the chance with both hands or he just upped and surrendered right now.

  "It's something only you can do, Gabe," Tom said. "Of course, I'll help you in any way I can, but I can't make you take the first step. That's your responsibility." He sighed. "The other alternative is that you work from home. You know, tele-sales, or something. But whatever you decide, we've reached crunch-point, mate. We're in deep shit unless we take action now."

  Gabe agreed that it was time he got busy rebuilding his life, and promised that he would take charge of the situation; the implication being that he would finally face up to his fear of London's streets. But when it came to it, he found picking up the telephone to enquire about finding work cold-calling and selling kitchens the easy option. He hated himself even as he listened to the saleswoman's explanations of what the job entailed and the techniques of keeping the potential customer on the line. It seemed he had taken several long strides backwards, placing himself in employment that he despised and shackled once more to the mundane grind of monotonous, dismal toil. He put the telephone receiver down, having accepted the numerous conditions, and slumped in an armchair, feeling wretched.

  As it turned out, the work proved to be more stultifying than even he could stand, and at last gave him the incentive to get him through the front door. The countless hang-ups and insults thrown at him as he initiated his spiel were the final straw, and as he sat staring at the living-room wall, a disconnected tone buzzing in his ear, he realised that nothing that was out there on the roads could possibly be any worse than this. Indeed, if this stuttering circle of a half-life was all he had to look forward to, a little danger would come as welcome relief. He flung the phone to the floor, and strode out into the street before the fear-centre of his brain could stop him.

  He walked, without much regard to a direction or purpose, simply putting distance between him and the flat that he'd entombed himself within for weeks on end. Despite the familiar surge of sickness and the growing pounding in his head, as trucks roared past and sirens wailed, he didn't halt his progress; rather, he rode the anxiety out, staying above the wave and letting it carry him forward rather than disappearing beneath it. Breathing deeply, with each step he found himself surfing on something else too, something he hadn't felt since he'd been in uniform: adrenaline. He was terrified, but in contrast to his self-inflicted exile, there was a joy to his terror. It gave him an edge he had forgotten existed. He walked for hours, perversely enjoying the thrill he got from punishing his panicking senses. He was living again, he decided triumphantly.

  When Gabe informed Tom that he wanted to return to traversing the city's arteries, his flatmate commended him on his courage but warned that perhaps getting back on a bike would make him feel a touch too vulnerable at such an early stage. He suggested a compromise to ease his way back into the ebb and flow of the capital's heart.

  "Fact is, there's a sniff of a job at work," he said slowly. "Not in the bar itself, but working for the guy that owns it. Several of his boys come in to drink there, and they've mentioned on more than one occasion that he's after a new full-time driver."

  "A chauffeur-type job, you mean?"

  "Pretty much. The geezer's after someone who knows the city like the back of his hand, and let's face it, Gabe, that's your forte. If you're going to work to your strengths, then this could be an ideal opportunity. And at the risk of sounding like some pop-psychologist, it's going to be good therapy for you, getting you confident about being on the roads again."

  Gabe mulled it over. Piloting some rich creep around all day didn't have the same appeal or sense of freedom that cycling afforded him, but he could see it would work as a stepping-stone to regaining his self-assurance. Plus the prospect of visiting the many corners of London again was always an attraction. "What's he like, this boss?"

  Tom shrugged. "Rarely comes in to the bar. Seen him once, I think; seemed sound to me. Gary the manager deals with him, and they get on OK. He owns clubs all over, so I'd imagine he's proper loaded. You're interested then?"

  Gabe nodded.

  "Cool, OK, I'll put in a word with Gary, see if you can get a meet with the boss." Tom smiled. "Good to see you back on your feet, mate."

  "Yeah, feels good to me too," Gabe replied. "Oh, by the way, what's this bloke's name? The boss-guy?"

  "It's Flowers. Harry Flowers."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The jet-black limo wound its way through the tight lanes of the Oxfordshire countryside, incongruous amongst the fields of maize and rapeseed and the thinly populated farmhouses that dotted the landscape. Any motorists that passed it couldn't help but cast an eye over it and briefly wonder its business or destination, the fact plainly evident that the occupants were not local. The windows were mirrored, so they offered no clue as to the nature of those within the car, but its size and ostentation suggested it clearly wasn't a commuter or tourist. It could possibly be lost, a few observers mused, but it had come so far out into the country that it could only be here by design rather than accident.

  If a villager caught sight of it as it passed through the four or five cottage hamlets that represented suburbia out in this rural expanse, then there wa
s a glimmer of recognition; they'd seen vehicles of this ilk drive past their homes before on irregular occasions over the past two or three decades. Sometimes they had police escorts, a couple of motorbike cops stationed nose and tail, but mostly these dark limousines came alone, driver and passengers always obscured. However, anyone that had lived around here for any substantial length of time knew full well where these particular travellers were heading, and could even hazard a guess as to their occupation. Few, though, that had been born and raised in the area had ever gone near the place to which they were undoubtedly journeying - indeed, getting anywhere near it was nigh-on impossible - and while it was nestled away in secluded woodland, of interest only to those that were aware of its existence, its presence cast a pall over the surroundings. They did not know what was done there, or to what purpose these visitors made their periodic trips, but there was little argument that much good would ever come of it.