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Extended Work
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| The Key | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 04 January 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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We have a new bed. The wife has started snoring. Note a monotonous tone, but each snort and snuffle unique. Consequently I didn't get to sleep till after 2 on Monday night. On the 6 am alarm wake-up I had this dream in my head. Unusually, the dream was internally consistent, no office turning into an airplane seat, and discovering that I was dressed as Shirly Temple by accident. Weirdly, not only did I remember all the detail, but I had dreamt a narration as well, as though I was dreaming writing it down. The first paragraph I dreamt. I have no idea as to its relevence to the rest of the story. I dreamt a scene after the end of this as well, but it seemed a good place to end this chapter where I have. On reflection it seems a little Da Vinci Code, but I have not read the book. I think there is more scope for humour in this character. It seems to be more of a modern day Philip Marlowe. Don't know what will happen to this, whether it's worth developing more. As always, all criticism gratefully received. Where does the story start? The first century AD, when the early Christian church reached Rome? Later, when Christianity rode across Europe on the back of the Roman army like fleas on the backs of rats? In the Dark Ages, when tiny fragments of bone or wood were sanctified in gold caskets? Hitler’s pillage of treasures in France, and the desperate rush to hide them? For me, it started one grey Monday morning on my commute to work. If, like me, you live in a small Kent town and work in London, you really only have two options to get into work. You can walk the mile to the train station, catch the branch train to the mainline intersection, hope that the connection is good, hope there’s a seat available, hope a fat person doesn’t pin you to the seat, hope you don’t stop outside London Bridge for fifteen minutes for no apparent reason, and then spend the rest of the day anticipating the same trial of a journey back home. Been there, done that. Or you can don leathers and skid lid, and bike in. I am what is known as a born-again biker. For a couple of years when I was young I had a small 125cc bike for fun. Now, years later, I had taken it up again. But this time it was purely for the commute. There was no joy about it, no joi de vivre. It was simply the most practical way for me to get into work. The commute was a journey of two halves. For a boring half an hour I sat on motorway or dual carriage way. For a scary half an hour I filtered through London traffic, till I parked up in the square mile. They tell you to ride defensively. They tell you tips and tricks. But after a while you learn an instinct. Either that or you leave the wreck of a bike at the scrap yard and swear off biking for ever. You see the car waiting to turn right across your path and you can tell that he hasn’t seen you. Or you filter past stationary traffic and you see the gap that you just know a car is going to barrel out of, turning in from a side street. Though sometimes something happens that you can’t predict. The pedestrian that suddenly steps out between two vehicles, looking the other way. The car that jumps the lights as you pull away on green. Sometimes you can swerve or brake. Sometimes you can’t. The three or four minor scrapes I’d had had done nothing more than scratch the exhaust. They had all happened within a mile of work. They were all as the result of some other idiot’s actions. I’m no boy racer. Not for me the thrill of screaming between cars at thirty, nor playing chicken with oncoming traffic. I don’t shave ten seconds off my journey time by going the wrong side of traffic islands. You may have heard my name whispered in legend. I am The Biker Who Sticks to the Speed Limit. The Motorcyclist that Obeys the Highway Code. That was my undoing, that Monday morning. Motorists see the leathers, the helmet, and assume that you are a reckless boy-racer. I was riding down a rat run, not five minutes from work. I was taking it steady. There were a lot of kids about. You’d be surprised, the number of schools there are on the edge of the City. Shadwell, Cheapside, the area around Banglatown. Dozens of them. There was the pelican crossing. On my side of the road was Mum, scanning the road, making eye contact with the drivers, a little kid in each hand. The kids’ eyes were fixed on the little red man, straining to cross to see their mates. I covered the brake lever with my fingers just in case, ready for the light to change or the little tykes making a break for it. Sure enough, the green light was replaced by the amber. I braked. Not, as the driver later claimed, an emergency brake. An emergency brake is when you stop in the shortest possible time. I could have braked harder, stopped shorter. Admittedly I braked harder than I usually do. But I had time to stop. The car behind me had more time to stop. But he saw the boy racer in front of him, decided that I was going to jump the lights, decided he was going to follow me. So as I braked, he accelerated. The crash took a second, maybe two. But I remember an infinity of detail, as though it were filmed by some arty director who likes to capture all the sickening violence in slo-mo. There was the crump of the impact, as the front of his car hit the rear of my bike. Camera shot from ground level, as my right boot slid off of the footrest and stamped on the ground. Over-the-shoulder shot of me releasing my grip on the handlebars, left leg raised high, letting the 300 lbs of hot, screaming metal slide away from me. Side shot of the front of the car as it hit my straight right leg, sweeping me up and back. Close-up of the windscreen as the back of my helmet smashed down, starring the glass. I remember, in all the panic and fear and pain, feeling a little grim satisfaction that I had at least caused some damage to the bastard’s car. Inside car shot of the driver’s feet, as his right foot at last stamped down on the brake pedal. Vertical overhead shot as I slid forward and to the right, sliding down and off the side of his bonnet. A low side shot of empty tarmac, the bike sliding as a backdrop. My horizontal body hitting the hard, cold, hard, hard surface, right side of my body taking the impact. I continued the roll the fall from the bonnet had given me, rolling to the right even as I slid, sure I was about to be crushed under his wheels. I heard the scrape of stone on fibreglass as my helmet transmitted the slide through to my ear. And then I was still. The breath had been knocked out of me, and I felt as though I would never be able to breathe in again. My body was one general sensation of pain, remote, as though someone else was hurt. I knew on an unconscious level that in a moment the pain would become very focused and very personal, but at that moment the main problem was no breath. I wondered if I was about to die. There was the taste of blood in my mouth. And then the real world rushed back in. I heard the pink-pink of heated metal cooling, the horrified shouts of mums and kids, the background hum of London traffic. Car doors slammed. Everything along my right side, from ankle to shoulder hurt. I was too scared to move a muscle. Too winded to say a word. I opened my eyes. The visor was shattered, jagged pieces framing my vision. “You’re going to pay for a new helmet too”, I thought. Stupid, really. There was I not sure whether I was going to live and I was already filling in the insurance claim. From behind me came a man’s voice, trembling. “Oh God, Oh God. Are you alright mate?” I tried to twist to see who was talking, and my rib cage tore at my side. I tried to answer, but all I could do through the pain and the lack of breath was to moan. A motorcyclist knelt down in front of me, bending over so his face filled my view. Good old bikers’ code. You won’t see it written down anywhere, but it goes something like: When you see a brother biker on the road, nod in acknowledgement; When a biker pulls over to let you pass, wave a hand or foot in thanks; When a biker comes up behind you, pull over to let him pass. These are strongly encouraged recommendations. But the compulsory commandment is this: When a fellow biker is down, you go to his aid. Never mind that you and he have nothing in common. Today it’s him, tomorrow it may be you. I could see a couple of other bikes pulling over on the far kerb. “Hi. Can you hear me?” I nodded slightly. “Are you hurt?” The ridiculousness of the question made me snort, but the pain in my ribs cut it short. I nodded feebly again. From behind me a woman started shouting. Screaming insults, she raged about her children’s near death experience, the selfishness of drivers. For a moment I thought it was directed at me, but then I heard the stuttering apologies from the tremulous voice I had heard before. I grinned, glad that it wasn’t my fault. Glad that someone was laying into the git that had smashed into me. The biker in front of me straightened his back for a moment. “Oi, oi”, he called at the invisible pair. “Never mind all that. Let’s leave who’s to blame till the police get here. This bloke’s hurt, give him some peace, for Christ’s sake. You want to sit in your car, mate? Love? You want to take your kids onto the pavement?” He bent over again, a rueful grin on his face. He raised his eyebrows at me. I tried to grin back, but what with the pain and the helmet, I don’t think he could really see. “Don’t move, alright? The ambulance is on its way. Where does it hurt?” “My ankle, my side”, I wheezed. It hurt in plenty of other places too, but they were the worst. And it was cold, lying on the cold tarmac. Despite the motorcycle jacket and trousers, the cold was creeping into me from the road. I was shivering with that and the shock of the crash. A wave of nausea hit me. I reached for my helmet strap. The biker Samaritan pushed my hand away. “Don’t do that, mate. Best keep your helmet on.” “Gonna be sick!” I moaned. “My head’s fine, but I’m going to be sick now.” The saliva rushed into my mouth, my skin was going clammy. He undid the strap and gingerly removed my helmet, for all the world looking as though at the first sight of brains he would snap it back on again. I turned my head as best I could and vomited onto the road. The smell brought fresh waves of nausea. Each convulsion sent a hot knife through my ribs. I wiped my mouth with the back of my gloved hand. “Good job I’m wearing waterproofs”, I joked with the Samaritan. He smiled. “I can hear the two-tones. You’ll be away soon, sunshine. Hang on in there.” I felt better now. I didn’t think I was seriously hurt. Surely I was going too slowly to be hurt at all. How fast had that bastard hit me? “My bike?” I asked. He looked down the road, out of my line of vision. He shrugged. “Worse off than you. Look on the bright side. You wouldn’t want to end up worse than your bike, would you? It’ll be fine, mate. The insurance will deal with all that, and you’ll be able to claim it all back off of his anyway.” I tried an experimental adjustment of my legs. The left one was fine. The right ankle was not so fine. It hurt even to flex my toes. All along the length of my right leg I could feel the graze and bruise forming. Thank God I always wore protective clothing. I could breathe a little easier now too, but the ribs were still the most painful of the injuries. The two-tones nee-nahed to a halt on the pavement and two paramedics bent over me. “Where does it hurt?” I told him. “Did you lose consciousness?” “I don’t think so.” “And you’ve been sick?” “No, I’m just looking after this for a friend” I replied, thinking how brave I was, laughing even in the face of such adversity. “Listen friend. We can swap jokes or we can help you. Which is it to be?” “Yes, I’ve been sick.” I wish other people found me as funny as I thought I was. What happened to being happy in your work? “Your head injured at all?” “No.” “Your back?” “No, I don’t think so. Just my side and my leg, really.” “OK, we’re going to check you for broken bones, then we’re going to whisk you off to hospital, OK?” “Fine.” And they did just that. As they loaded me into the ambulance a policeman appeared, taking down my particulars. One of the bikers phoned my boss for me, advising him I wouldn’t be in. Then the ambulance nee-nahed through the rush-hour traffic to A and E. I was prodded and poked, X-Rayed and left for an age on a trolley in a cubicle. Eventually a doctor looking barely eighteen swished the curtain aside. “Mr Anders?” He had a South African accent, blonde hair and a dimple in his chin. I instantly disliked him, and hoped fervently that he was gay. “Yes. Will I live?” He grinned. “Probably. You’ve cracked some of your ribs, but sadly there’s not a lot we can do about that. We don’t even strap them up nowdays. You’ll just have to wait for them to heal. Your ankle is sprained, but there’s no broken bones. Keep your weight off it and it’ll be fine. I’ll prescribe some painkillers. Do you have a headache?” “I guess. Not too bad though.” I had a nagging headache, it was true. But be fair, I had just bounced off of a speeding car onto tarmac. He shone a penlight into my eyes, waving it back and forth. “Is there anyone at home can look after you?” That’s kind of you to offer, but I’m straight, you impossibly handsome git. “No. I live on my own.” If he knew what tact was he might have raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn’t. “I’m sure you’re fine, but being sick and the headache can indicate a touch of concussion. We’ll keep you in overnight, just to be on the safe side, then we’ll let you go tomorrow. OK?” And without waiting for a reply he flashed his perfect bleached teeth in a smile and swished back out of the cubicle. What seemed like an age later I was installed into a bed in a general ward, six beds to a section. My fellow inmates were mainly aging (well, older than me) men, with one young lad of maybe eighteen at the opposite corner, by the window. Within minutes I was visited by a policeman, who took all my details and a statement. He had already made up his mind what had happened, and merely looked for my confirmation of his story. The other driver was being reported. My bike was at such-and-such a garage, but it looked a write-off. The impact had twisted the frame. He left all the details on my bedside, which was just as well. My concentration was wandering. By the time he left I was feeling tired, and could hardly keep my eyes open. It was early afternoon. Maybe it was the shock, maybe the painkillers, but I found myself dozing fitfully, the day passing in stops and starts. I opened my eyes, and recoiled, startled. There was an ancient man standing over me, his eyes boring down. He looked a hundred. His flesh had disappeared, so that his wrinkled, parchment skin seemed to hang directly from his bones. His frame was lost in ill-fitting regulation-issue pyjamas. He was supporting himself on a drip-feed stand. “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was thin and high, but there was something about it that demanded attention. Maybe he was once an officer in some war. The Boer war, possibly. “Peter?” I answered. It wasn’t meant to be a question, but I had just woken. I was in that barely awake stage where you’re not sure of anything. He nodded, satisfied, as though I had given an unusually plausible answer to a difficult question. “The Gatekeeper!” Ah. He was in here for senile dementia, then. Either that, or he was the world’s oldest Dungeons and Dragons player. My confusion must have shown on my face, because he continued, “Saint Peter. Given the keys to heaven. Your name. Same as his.” He spoke briskly, no time for complete sentences. “Oh, OK.” Well, what else can you say to that? It didn’t exactly invite a long conversation. “I’m dying”, he told me, matter-of-factly. Whereas that will stop any conversation in its tracks. “I’m sorry.” He waved it away, as though my sympathy was irrelevant. Which it was, I suppose. “Listen!” His eyes were filmy, but nonetheless his stare fixed on me. “Listen!” he said again, loud and urgent. “I’m listening.” Where else was I going to go? “Do you know the key to life? Do you?” I shook my head. He shuffled closer. “The key to life…” He paused, breathing noisily. Yes? The key to life? …is never going to bed angry? …is eating five portions of fruit and veg a day? …is always breathing in again after you breath out? What? “The key to life… is in this book.” And he slammed a book down on my chest, causing me to wince. I grabbed it unseeing with my left hand and moved it over to the left of my chest, away from the cracked ribs. So that was it. He wasn’t senile. He was a Jehovah’s Witness. He looked at me fiercely, nodded and shuffled round, wheeling the drip stand with him. I watched him walk towards the neighbouring bed. As he reached it he turned towards the bedside cabinet, then collapsed. It was like one of those demolition videos, where the block of flats collapses in on itself. First his knees buckled, and his legs folded up under him. Then his head dropped forward, so that he looked as though he had fallen asleep squatting down. Then he fell over backwards, bringing the drip stand down on top of himself. I leant over. He was lying on his back, unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. I called out for the nurse, but my ribs wouldn’t allow me much of a shout. I hit the call button. A nurse appeared and shouted for the staff nurse. Within a minute a team of nurses had scurried around, lifted him to his bed and pulled the curtains closed. Damn! He really had been dying. I remembered the moment earlier lying in the road, when I was unsure whether I was dying or not. How could you cope knowing that you really were dying? I hoped his God was looking out for him. I hoped Peter let him in. The book was still in my hand. I lifted it up to look at the front cover. The Seventeenth Book of Times Crosswords. I chuckled, despite myself. OK, so he wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness after all. But who was to say that the key to life really didn’t exist in the cryptic clues held within its hallowed covers? I opened the dog-eared pages. A key dropped onto my chest.
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