John Hawks - The Dark River

He opened his eyes. The pub was crowded with men and women about his age greeting one another as if they hadn’t met for several weeks. Occasionally one person would argue in a good-natured way with someone else, and then both of them would hand money to a tall man who wore wraparound sunglasses.

Were they football fans? Gabriel thought. He knew that the English were passionate about football. The men in the pub wore hooded sweatshirts and jeans. A few had tattoos-elaborate designs that emerged from their T-shirts and curled around their necks. None of the women wore a dress or a skirt; their hair was cut very short or tied back as if they were Amazon warriors.

He studied several people standing near the bar and realized that they had only one specific thing in common-their shoes. The athletic shoes weren’t the conventional styles designed for basketball or jogging through the park; they had flashy colors, elaborate lacing, and the kind of treaded sole you’d need for all-terrain running.

Another blast of cold air and a new customer entered. He was louder, friendlier, and definitely fatter than the rest of the people there. His greasy black hair was partially covered by a wool cap with a ridiculous white pom-pom on the top. His nylon jacket was open, revealing a prominent belly and T-shirt with a silk-screen drawing of a surveillance camera with a red bar slashed across it.

The man with the cap bought a pint and made a quick circuit of the bar, slapping backs and shaking hands like an alderman running for office. Watching closely, Gabriel could see a hint of tension in his eyes. After he had greeted a few people, the man entered the snug, sat down on the bench, and punched out a number on a mobile phone. When the recipient of the call didn’t answer, he left a message.

“Dogsboy! It’s Jugger! We’re at the Hope and Sirloin. All the crews are in. So where are you, mate? Call me.”

The man with the cap closed his cell phone and noticed Gabriel beside him. “You from Manchester?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“So what crew you with?”

“What’s a crew?”

“Ah, you’re from the States. I’m Jugger. What’s your name?”

“Gabriel.”

Jugger motioned to the crowd. “All these people are Free Runners. There are three London crews here tonight plus one down from Manchester.”

“And what are Free Runners?”

“Come on! I know they got ’em in the States. It started up in France with a couple of lads just having fun on the rooftops. It’s a way of seeing the city as a big obstacle course. You climb over walls and jump between buildings. You break free. It’s all about breaking free. Understand?”

“So it’s a sport?”

“For some. But the crews here tonight are hard-core underground. That means we run where we want. No boundaries. No rules.” Jugger glanced to the left and right as if he were about to tell a secret. “Ever hear of the Vast Machine?”

Gabriel resisted the impulse to nod. “What’s that?”

“It’s the computer system that watches us with scanner programs and surveillance cameras. The Free Runners refuse to be part of the Vast Machine. We run above it all.”

Gabriel watched the door as another group of Free Runners entered the pub. “So is this some kind of a weekly meeting?”

“No meetings, mate. We’re here for a straight-line race. Dogsboy is our man, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”

Jugger held his seat as his crew began to gather in the snug. Ice was a fifteen-or sixteen-year-old girl, small and severe-looking with painted eyebrows that made her look like an underage geisha. Roland was a man from Yorkshire who talked slowly. Sebastian was a part-time college student with paperback books stuffed into the pockets of his frayed raincoat.

Gabriel had never been to England, and he found it difficult to understand everything they were saying. Jugger had once driven a “juggernaut”-which was what the British called a certain kind of truck, only it wasn’t a truck-it was a “lorry.” Potato chips were “crisps,” and a glass of beer was “a bitter.” Jugger was the informal leader of the crew, but he was endlessly teased about his weight and his “bobble hat.”

Along with the British words, there was also a Free Runner vocabulary. The four members of the crew chatted casually about monkey vaults, cat leaps, and wall runs. They didn’t just climb up the side of a building; they “murdered it” or “wolfed it down.”

People kept talking about their best runner-Dogsboy-but he still hadn’t arrived. Finally, Jugger’s mobile phone began beeping and he motioned for everyone to be quiet.

“So where are you?” Jugger asked. As the conversation developed, he began to look annoyed and then angry. “You promised, mate. This is your crew. You’re letting the crew down… Sod this for a game of soldiers… You can’t just…Damn it!”

Jugger closed the phone and began to swear. Gabriel could barely understand half of what he was saying.

“I assume Dogsboy will not be in attendance,” Sebastian said.

“Bastard says he’s got a bad leg. I bet a tenner he’s in bed with a bit of fluff.”

The rest of the crew began complaining about their friend’s betrayal, but they quieted down when the man with the wraparound glasses approached them. “That’s Mash,” Roland whispered to Gabriel. “He’s holding all the side bets for tonight.”

“Where’s your runner?”

“I just talked to him,” Jugger said. “He’s…he’s trying to find a taxi.”

Mash sneered at Jugger’s crew as if he already knew the truth. “If he doesn’t show up in ten minutes, you lose your side bets plus the hundred quid forfeit money.”

“He might-maybe, perhaps-have a bad leg.”

“You know the rule. No runner and you lose the forfeit.”

“Gormless bastard,” Jugger muttered. He looked up at his crew after Mash had returned to the bar. “Okay. Who’s the runner? Somebody volunteer.”

“I do technicals, not straight lines,” Ice said. “You know that.”

“Got me a bad cold,” Roland said.

“You’ve had it for three years!”

“So why don’t you do the race, Jugger?”

Gabriel had always enjoyed climbing up trees and running across the rafters of the family’s barn. He continued to challenge himself in California with motorcycle racing and parachute jumps. But his strength and agility had been taken to a new level in New York when Maya recovered from her injury. In the evening, they would run through kendo exercises. Instead of wielding bamboo sticks, Maya would use her Harlequin sword while he fought with the talisman sword. This was the only time they both looked freely at each other’s bodies. Their intense relationship seemed to express itself in a relentless combat. At the end of the kendo workout, both of them were breathing hard and drenched with sweat.

Gabriel leaned forward and nodded to Jugger. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll run for your crew.”

“And who the hell are you?” Ice asked.

“This is Gabriel,” Jugger announced quickly. “An American Free Runner. Expert class.”

“If you don’t have a runner you lose a hundred pounds,” Gabriel said. “So pay me the forfeit money. Either way, it’s the same. And I just might win your bets.”

“You know what you got to do?” Sebastian asked.

Gabriel nodded. “Run a race. Climb some walls.”

“You got to run the roof of Smithfield Market, cross over to the old slaughterhouse, get down to the street, and make it to the churchyard at St. Sepulchre-without-Newgate,” Ice said. “If you fall, it’s a twenty-meter drop to the street.”

This was the moment-he could still change his mind. But Gabriel felt as if he had been drowning in a river and suddenly a boat had appeared. He had just a few seconds to grab for a rope.