-- o --
It was 8.30 am and I was late. The car stank of sweat, upholstery and aftershave. Through the fogged-up windscreen, tower blocks loomed like giants over the flyover that snaked into the distance, their windows reflecting the dead grey light of the sky. No movement in the massed ranks of motorised idiocy ahead. Windscreen wipers ticked like a metronome, marking off the precious seconds of my time.
My briefcase with its precious contents lay on the seat beside me, draped in my discarded jacket and tie. The corner of the note Janet had left me poked out of the jacket's inside pocket. I squirmed as sweat trickled down my sides and jabbed at the horn again, staring with loathing at the rear of the Volvo ahead of me. Damn her! She knew today was make or break, and what does she do? Slips out of bed, doesn't even wake me, no morning kiss, no "good luck, love", no damn breakfast, just a tart note on the kitchen table reminding me that we were going to dinner with the Rawleys that evening, so "don't be late, will you". Well, I was late now, and it was her bloody fault for not waking me - she knew I was a deep sleeper, we'd joked about it often enough - no, too concerned with her own job, not about whether I lost mine! Probably she'd done it deliberately; her revenge because for once, just this once, I'd taken the car. Bitch! I'd explained about the MD's perverse choice of meeting place, I couldn't get there for nine o'clock by public transport, so I had to have it this morning. We'd talked it through, and I thought she'd accepted the implacable logic of my case. And then she goes and does this! Jaw muscles ached from clenched teeth. Steel-grey clouds spat drizzle.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, damp shirt sticking to my back. The radio, burbling its useless comfort in my ear, informed me that the hold-up was due to another idiot going too fast in the early fog - ran into a lorry, which had skidded into the central reservation and spread its load of noxious chemicals across both carriageways. The motorist was dead, of course. The announcer cheerily suggested avoiding the area if at all possible as there was a six mile tail-back. I snorted in humourless mirth and pushed the off button. Pity you didn't think to mention that half an hour ago. Drops of condensation trickled down the windscreen.
A wave of movement passed along the solid stream of traffic ahead of me. The lorry to my left roared into life; the foul smell of diesel exhaust filled the car. As I crawled forward, I saw a gap in the silver crash barrier in the central reservation, just wide enough for my Volkswagon Golf. Illegal, of course, but my only hope. Gritting my teeth, I steered into the centre lane to give myself clearance (brakes squealed, a horn blared), wrenched the wheel round, bumped up the six-inch verge. The car bounced wildly; a spasm of fear clutched my chest as I heard the scrape of steel on concrete, but the back wheels followed andthen I was over and plunging onto the empty carriageway beyond, fresh air in my face, seat hard against my back, free! I glanced contemptuously at the stationary cars In the other carriageway as I drove down the slip road, despising them for lacking the initiative that I had shown.
My euphoria had evaporated by the time I turned onto the roundabout at the end of the slip road. Only one sensible way to go, past a square of stained concrete shops thronged by grey-haired, grey-faced figures shuffling stooped over wheeled shopping bags. The harsh roar of the engine as I accelerated through the red light of a pelican crossing told me that I had holed the silencer (how was I going to explain that to Janet?), and I was heading in the wrong direction, east instead of north. I glanced at my watch; 8:34. Eighteen miles to go in twenty-six minutes. I could do it, if I could find a main road; the outskirts of town couldn't be too far away.
The shops gave way to semi-detached 'forties houses; a tower block loomed behind them, balconies draped with multi-coloured washing that hung limp in the still, damp air. Glowing red traffic lights signalled a crossroads. I flipped down the indicator, then saw the red-rimmed sign with the crossed-out left bend. Damn one way system. Traffic thundered across as I waited for the lights, slapping the steering wheel in frustration, come on, come on! Red, red-amber, green, and I accelerated away, exhaust hoarsely roaring, swerving round the last of the cars trying to beat the lights. One minute, two minutes, still no turn. Damn it, where are you! Ahead, a car pulled out from the left. I slowed down, indicated... glowing signs, white bars on red, one on either side, impassively guarding the turning. Hell! The cars from the traffic lights came up behind me; I pulled out in front of them, the protesting horns just audible over my engine's roar.
Another traffic light, turning to red. Just my damn luck. I pulled into the left lane, then noticed the no left turn sign. I swore loudly. This was bloody ridiculous! A car drew up on my right, others behind it and me. A cramp in my stomach reminded me of my missed breakfast. I glanced to my left, saw the green directions board, saw my destination indicated to the right as the lights changed. My sinuses prickled, tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. The damn road must go round and under. "I just don't believe this," I muttered. "I DON'T BLOODY BELIEVE IT!" Stopping on the crossing, I flicked up the indicator switch as the cars in the other lane cut in front. A discordant chorus of horns sounded from the traffic behind me, angry shouts. My heart throbbed; blood heated my face. Finally my nerve broke and I accelerated ahead, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to turn. Time: 8:39.
I passed under a railway bridge; semi-detached gave way to grimy red-brick terrace. Still nowhere to turn round, the moron behind me directly on my tail. Suddenly a narrow unsignposted gapappeared between two rows of houses on my right, a miraculous space in the oncoming traffic. I swerved across the road and into it, a pokey street lined by dingy doorsteps and French windows with white lace curtains. Cars were parked down one side, old, dirty and dented, one with its windows smashed, another leaning on two flat tyres, narrowing the road to a single lane. I kept driving, kept looking. Only when a road flanked by no entry signs joined from the left did I see the white-on-blue one way arrow. Oh God. Now I would have to turn right and hope I could rejoin the main road leading north to my destination.
The street emerged at a T-junction, a one-way arrow pointing right. On the far side rusty iron railings enclosed an open area, clumps of long yellow grass, heads heavy with rain drops, pushing between them. I checked left, spun the wheel clockwise. So far, so good. First damn bit of luck all day. A one-way street led off to the right which I ignored, the railings ended and the terraces crowded in again, the harsh putter of my holed exhaust echoing from side to side. Fewer cars here. Ahead, more no entry signs blocked the way as the street bent southwards; I cursed and followed it, glancing at my watch. 8:42.
The terraces on my left were replaced by a high brick wall, miraculously free from graffiti. The street finally ended in another T-junction, a sign ordered me to turn right. At least I was headed west again, but the seconds on my watch were ticking inexorably away. Can't be too far to the main road, please don't let it be too far... a red-brick church with a squat tower flashed by on my left, torn strips of paper, yellow and illegible with age, fluttering on its noticeboard. Immediately beyond it, a car-choked street turned left, flanked by the inevitable one way arrows. I kept going. The car bounced over a rut in the road; the tarmac here was light grey and worn-looking, but remarkably free from repair patches. A few shops came up on the right, distinguishable from the residential terraces only by their larger windows; clothes shop, baker's, grocer's, hairdresser's, ironmonger's. Beyond them, a narrow street went off to the right then turned a corner into mist; I slowed, then speeded up when I saw the sign. No through road. Damn!
I looked at my watch again; 8:45. Hell, I had to get out of this! I spun the wheel to the left as the way ahead was blocked by no entry signs, drove past a soot-blackened building with the words "PUBLIC LIBRARY" inscribed in Times Roman capitals over its entrance. A Y reg Vauxhall lay abandoned at the side of the road, half the bodywork and the tyres missing. Ha, vandals certainly got that one. I steered round it and turned right at a T-junction where arrows pointed in both directions. On my left, a wire fence separated a large field of allotments from the road. In the distance the field ended in a wall and beyond it chimneys stretched into the sky, strange assemblies of vanes at their tops spinning in the breeze. Some new form of TV aerial? Something else nagged at my time-panicked mind, a wrongness. I realised what it was as houses began and more no entry signs forced me to turn right, away from the allotments. The railway. I had passed under a railway bridge after those last damn traffic lights, when I was on the main road heading east. Since then I thought I had been travelling steadily west and south. I should have reached it by now. Had I made a wrong turning? I peered up to determine my direction by the sun. No help there; the sky was a uniform grey.
The terraces here were roofless and semi-demolished; the front wall of one had partly fallen down (bricks were scattered across the road) revealing, doll's house-like, the plan of its interior. Pain from tensed muscles pulsed dully in my arms, in my shoulders. The road bent left and left again, taking me back towards the allotments. A double arrow indicated that I could go in a circle or turn right. Typical of whoever had designed this bloody system. I turned right, then right again when no entry signs blocked my way. Where was that damn main road?
The cuff of my shirt had covered my watch; I took my hand off the wheel and pulled it back. My heart jumped when I saw the time; 8:48 and 32 seconds, 33, 34, 35... A red-brick wall with a white-framed window in it loomed ahead. Frantically I pulled the wheel down and screeched round to the west. A way off to the left flashed by, another road entered from the right. Then the squat tower of a church interrupted the endless terraces. I turned and stared at it as I passed by. I could have sworn... yes, there were the shops, the no through road, the left turn and the library. I had gone round in a circle. But how? I thought I had only driven west or south, except for that stupid square by the allotments. What the hell was going on?
The left-right turn by the allotments appeared and on impulse I turned left, noting the curiously old-fashioned nameplate high up on the wall of the house at the corner. Campbell Avenue. Elderly, dented and vandalised cars lined the street. Green ears of corn waved beyond the fence; in the distance a tractor chugged through the midst of a brown ploughed wasteland. A ramshackle hut stood in the corner of the field, a radio mast surmounted by a slowly revolving vane assembly clinging to its roof. Beyond it, houses began once again and I came to a cross-roads, the left way - Gold Street - forbidden by no entry signs. I turned right, down Randall Road, past houses on the right and a wall on the left. Time, time, time... 8:50 and 23 seconds. Cold sweat trickled unpleasantly down my temples, my breathing shuddered. "I'm going to be late," I hissed to myself, feeling whirling hysteria rise within me. "The most important meeting in my life and I'm late!" The road ended at a T-junction, right turn only, and I shot round it, screeched to a halt and stared. The red-brick church again.
My heart hammered in my chest. Stress, that's what it must be. I'm panicking, forgetting turnings. Perhaps I don't want to get out, subconscious fear my plan'll be rejected. They taught us that on the management stress handling course. So, calm down, deep breaths, act rationally, make a plan. Define problem: You're stuck in a one-way system and can't find the way out. (I glanced at my watch, and fear squeezed my heart again; 8:52 and 12 seconds). Determine stages to solution: one, calmly locate exit; two, find a phone, ring the office and explain situation (but I can't tell them I'm lost in a one way system!); three, drive carefully to destination. Implement stage one: I'll need to ask a local, or find a map. The A to Z! Janet always kept one in the car for finding back routes round traffic jams. I pulled it out of the door pocket, fumbled feverishly through the pages. Yes, there was the main road I had come along, there was the railway bridge... but there was no field, no church nearby. I flipped back to the index, looked up Campbell Avenue. Ten in the town, but none on the page I was sure I was on. Gold Street? The same.
I flung the book into the back and threw off my seat belt. The slam of the car door echoed down the silent street. The air smelt fresh and wet. I crossed over to the shops and entered the baker's. A woman with curly grey hair and black eyebrows, wearing a curious patchwork dress, was talking to the flour-smeared baker who was standing, hairy arms folded, on the far side of the counter. The rich odour of freshly baked bread made my empty stomach ache.
"...terrible chilblains, I can hardly sleep! I'm sure it's the weather; I can't bear this damp."
"Yeah, cold and damp is bad for chilblains," agreed the baker .
"I've been to see Harry, of course, but his supplies are so limited. Hot water was all..."
"Excuse me," I interrupted, "How do I get to the main road?"
The baker gave me a hostile glance. "I'm serving this lady here..."
"I'm sorry, but it's urgent. I'm late for a very important meeting. "
He unfolded his arms and frowned at me. "I said when I've finished with this lady. Hot water, you were saying, Pat?"
Anger surged within me. "Look, will you just..."
"Oh don't be nasty, George," said the woman. "Can't you see he's a lost one?" She gave me such a sympathetic look that I wanted to bury my head in her shoulder and weep. "You poor duck."
"All right," said the baker. "He'd just better learn some manners, is all. The main road, y'say? To the flyover?"
I clenched my teeth and restrained myself from asking the baker if he treated all his customers like this. "Yes, that'll do."
"You can't get there, it's one way only."
"I bloody know that, I've spent the last damn fifteen minutes going round your blasted one way system! Now will you just tell me how to get a main road? Any one will do..."
The baker and the woman exchanged conspiratorial looks. "You can't," the baker said.
"Damn you..."
"He's right, you know," said the woman, staring with wide eyes into mine. She took my arm. "Come with me, dear, I'll..."
I shook her off. "Let go! All right, if you won't tell me how to get out of here, at least tell me where there's a phonebox."
The baker shook his head. "There ain't one."
"All right, has someone got a private phone I can use? Look, it's really urgent. I'll pay."
"No-one round here, dear," said the woman. "We're all cut off."
"I don't believe this!" I muttered. A hunger-cramp knotted my stomach. "At least you can sell me a pastry."
"I've only got loaves and they're not for sale," said the baker. "Not without a card."
"I've got Access..." I slapped my trouser pockets. My wallet was in my jacket, in the car, of course.
"He means one of these," the lady said. She held up a handwritten green card, stating that Miss Patricia Alice Harper was entitled to one small loaf on Tuesday and Friday of each week.
I looked at the baker. "A card? For bread? You must be off your bleeding rocker! This is the 1990s, chum, not bloody 1945!"
The baker shrugged. "That's the way we do things round here. No card, no bread."
I stared at him for a moment, choked with rage, then barged out of the door, slamming it behind me. As I crossed the road, I wondered if there was a baker's association I could report the man to. I'd forgotten to ask his name, of course, and his shop had no front board... Then I saw that someone was fiddling with my car.
"What the hell are you playing at?" I shouted, breaking into a run. The man, a fellow in his fifties wearing a flat cap and threadbare jacket and trousers, looked up as I approached without a trace of guilt on his gaunt features. He had got the cap of my petrol tank off and a tube ran from the entrance hole to a four gallon can on the ground. Sickly fumes filled the air.
"Just siphoning off your petrol, sir, as you won't be needing it."
I grabbed him by the shirt front, my fingers ripping through the old material, and pushed him against the car. "You bastard!" I said, breathing heavily. "You bloody bastard!" Blood pulsed in my temples. My hand formed itself into a fist.
The man's eyes were wide with fear and confusion. "But you'd abandoned your car..."
I pulled him round and thrust him at the window, bumping his head. "Does it look abandoned? Are the windows smashed?" I tried the door. "See? Locked! You were bloody stealing, you bastard!"
The man pulled away and adjusting his clothing with as much dignity as he could muster. "It seems I was a bit premature," he muttered. He raised the can to reverse the flow of the siphon.
"Get out the way!" Grabbing the container I shoved him aside, ripped out the tube and upended the can over the entrance hole. Foul smelling petrol leaked down the side of the car. I noticed that in his efforts to get the cap off the man had scratched the paintwork. Something else to explain to Janet.
"Hey, careful!" the man said. "That stuff's precious!"
"Damn right it is, at two pounds thirty a gallon." I flung the can back at him. "You're bloody lucky I haven't got time to report you to the police."
"Ain't no police round here," said the man.
My hysteria boiled over. "Shut up!" I shouted. "Just shut up!" I got in and slammed the door, twisted the key in the ignition. The engine started on the second attempt and I roared off, turning left up Gold Street. The road was partially blocked by abandoned cars. Some were stripped almost to the chassis, doubtless by my petrol-stealing friend. A red-brick school, fronted by a grass-split grey tarmac playground inscribed with faded chalk-drawn hopscotch games, passed by on the left. A potent smell of overcooked food entered through the vents. On the side of the street not blocked by cars a line of chamber-pots, one outside each door and each covered by a square of cardboard or wood, marched off into the distance.
Gold Street ended, as I had expected, at the intersection with Campbell Avenue. I turned left and glanced at my watch. 8:57 and seven seconds. I wondered wildly if it could be fast. No, I'd set it by the radio yesterday. The radio! I flicked it on. The hiss of white noise filled the car. I twisted the tuning knob from side to side, punched the frequency buttons. Nothing. Despair started to creep up my sinuses as I swung the car round to the left (the road ahead was no entry), the back wheels screeching and skidding. The damn thing must have broken, aerial damaged or something. I dared not think of the alternative. Ahead, a double arrow appeared, one I did not remember, in front of a red-brick wall with a white framed window in it. This must be it! The way to the left led back to the church, the right turn was the only one I hadn't tried!
I raced round the corner and stamped on the brake as a huge black rectangle appeared, completely blocking the street. The car skidded, tyres screaming against the tarmac like wounded animals; I wrapped my arms round my head and braced myself. The seatbelt jerked hard against my chest, broken glass tinkled, the engine idled. I looked up.
In front of me stretched the bare interior of an articulated lorry. My front right headlamp had smashed against its tailgate. Rails ran along the roof; a single coat hanger hung from one of them, swinging slightly from the impact. I stared at it for thirty seconds, breathing deeply, thinking nothing, then shifted into reverse with a trembling hand that almost missed the gear stick. As I backed out, I saw the gleam of a petrol tanker beyond the lorry, also abandoned in the middle of the road.
"Now what the hell do I do?" I babbled to myself as I drove on. "I'm stuck here, stuck here for ever..." Ahead the grim spire of the church tower appeared once again, and on my right an entrance flanked by no entry signs. The one I had first come up. Yes, I was sure of it, there was the red brick wall down one side! Screw the one way system, go back the way I came!
As I swung right and powered down the road, I tried to remember the maze I had come through to get here. Railings and grass to left... a road to the right... left turn with no entry straight ahead. So, there should be a T-junction coming up. Turn right, then left, and I was back on the main road!
Just then, the end of the street came into sight. Sick fear clutched at my muscles, and I skidded to a halt. It was not a T-junction but a crossroads, and I knew with despairing certainty that the junction I was approaching was of Campbell Avenue and Gold Street, and that I was on Randall Road.
I jumped out of the car, ran to the nearest door and pounded my fists on it. A shuffling of feet, a scrabbling at the lock; the door opened revealing a hunchbacked old woman, brown eyes staring up at me from between scraggly grey locks.
"What is it?..." she asked. I pushed her aside and barged down the entrance passage, shouting hysterically "Got to get out... critical meeting... must get out..." The corridor ended with a door to the left leading into a cold sitting room, full of stuffed furniture and the musty smell of old people. I looked around wildly, found the door to the kitchen, ran through it, past the wood-burning stove and out of the back door into the yard.
Beyond a low fence, the allotments stretched away into the far distance. I vaulted the railing and ran like a madman through the acres of green corn, trampling shoots underfoot, then out into the neat rows of cabbages, arms flailing, heart pounding, cold air catching my throat, pain tearing at my abdomen, my skin damp with sweat and tears. I was halfway through the ploughed area, falling at almost every furrow, my leather shoes and cotton shirt plastered with earth, when the church clock struck nine, its dull chime echoing from both my right and left. I held my watch up to my face, blinked away the tears; 9:01 and 35 seconds. One and a half minutes late! I ran on, despairing, sobbing, past a large covered heap that reeked of human excrement, through the potatoes and the cabbages and a flock of cackling hens, reached the wall that bounded the far end of the allotments and scrambled up it, scraping my shins and covering my trousers with dust, the dying embers of my hope flickering into life for one last time. Landing awkwardly in the road on the other side, I looked around, panting like a dog. It wasn't... yes, yes, there it was, twenty yards down the road, exactly as I had left it, one door hanging open, Janet's stupid little blue toy rabbit stuck to the back window (I gave it to Mrs. Russell at our last Christmas celebration. She thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; tears shone in her eyes as she thanked me). I staggered over to my car and with the last of my strength kicked the front wheel, then slumped over the bonnet and sobbed out my despair. A door opened and the old lady I had pushed past looked out.
"You poor thing," she said. "I put the kettle on; would you like a cuppa tea?"
-- o --
They found me a place to live, assessed my skills, put me on the rotas for food deliveries, night soil collection, planting, harvesting and building maintenance. All two hundred of us meet in the school hall every thirty days; decisions are made by democratic vote. We have no leaders. None are needed, for everyone understands our situation.
The sky is forever covered with grey cloud here, and we have never seen the sun. From time to time the clouds are thicker and then there is a light drizzle which is enough to keep us and our crops alive. There are winds too, sometimes cold, sometimes warmer, but no recognisable seasons. In the evenings the light fades but it is never totally dark. Our greatest concern is the lack of energy sources. We conserve all we can; meals are cooked en masse in the school kitchens, bricks are taken from empty houses at the edge for insulation and Robert's wind turbines help. Even the manure is tapped for methane. But it is not enough. We are fortunate that it never freezes.
It should be hell, stuck here, no electricity, no television and the drains running in a circle. I thought so at first, spent several days trying every possible combination of streets to see if a way out would miraculously appear. The no through road is a strange exception; it ends in a wall of white mist, where the locals say the railway embankment used to be. On several occasions I pushed into the blankness, the sound of my footsteps dying away, the wall I followed fading from under my fingertips, all sense of direction gone. Every time I panicked, turned round and stumbled out again. I have not tried since. I think that the mist must be the source of our air and water.
But the odd thing is that I've grown to like it here. There is real communication between people, not through car horns and notes on the kitchen table. The work is repetitive and tedious, but it means something, it isn't just paper-pushing for the sake of earning money. When I was ill for a day with a stomach upset, twenty people turned up to ask how I was, they were concerned. I know everyone in this community by name; in my old world, I didn't even know who my neighbours were. Not that the people here are perfect; Pat talks about her chilblains every time you meet her, and Robert drones on about his wind-powered radio for hours if you are foolish enough to give him the opportunity. I almost miss Janet sometimes - at least she knew when to stop. But for the most part our talk here means something, it's not just idle chatter to pass the time in empty lives.
There's one thing we don't talk about, though, and that is the strangeness of our little world. I climbed up the church tower one day and looked out over the red-tiled roofs to the line of towers marching off into the misty distance, each with a small black dot clinging to it that was myself. The truth, I suppose, is that we are trapped in some sort of recursive space-time bubble created when the one way system was installed. It's crazy, like something out of the Twilight Zone, but it's my experience and I can't refute it. At least our world is simple and readily understood; we are in control, and the only complications and ambiguities are the ones we create to spark interest and gossip. Indeed, I have started one of my own.
The fact is that there is too much reality and we poor humans can only cope with a little. Which is why we don't discuss our situation, the irrational fear that we might draw the attention of a Cosmic Censor to the irregularity in which we live and that it would smooth it out, let the world we came from, so bewilderingly complex that we must live in shells of comforting illusions that preclude any real communication between their inhabitants, reconnect with our own. And so we are cold to strangers until we know that they are not harbingers of that dreadful return. Even I, who should have known better, was pretty harsh to Cath when she stopped her Daimler to ask me the way out. Now we get on much better.
It is possible, to delve into science fiction madness once again, that our world was set up by a superior intelligence, a sort of scientist's maze with us as the rats. Certainly the fact that just enough is supplied for our needs is suspicious. In which case, perhaps the no through road is the way out, leading to another world or back to our own. I am convinced it is a portal of some sort, and one day I intend to find out what is on the other side; when I do, I'll take a copy of my story with me, so that if something happens others might understand. One day, perhaps, but not yet...
I wrote this for you, Cath. Happy birthday.
-- o --
Mark Tolley 2/11/91
Revised 20/5/93