Sean Gabb - The Break

Overhead, on her left, there was a sudden noise. It might have been the call of a night bird. She was aware of the low whistle, but paid it no attention. When, after a few seconds, the call was repeated from on her right, she came carefully to a stop and looked about. There was no change in the darkness. But the steady hiss of tyres on unswept asphalt, and the tick of ball bearings tight-packed in grease, had given a comfort she only realised once all about was in silence. She suppressed the urge to cough again in the sulphurous air and listened hard. She was almost relieved when, after a long and comparative silence, she heard the scrape of a sash window directly above, and a sniggering laugh.

She was wearing clothes that had been dark before they were dirty. Her bicycle was black and without reflective parts. If she picked it up and crept slowly forward, she might be able to escape the attention she’d excited. No luck. Three more silent steps, and she was aware of a red flash so faint and so brief, she’d normally have put it down to a trick of her own eyes. But she saw it again—a still faint but now continuous glimmer from an upper window on her right. There was the scrape across the road of another window pushed up, and another glimmering of red. One voice called low and incomprehensibly from an open window, and was answered by another. Even before she heard a high, rhythmical scraping from behind, Jennifer realised what was happening. All her life, she’d heard people at home talk slightingly about the ways of London. In the safety of Deal, those grim and whispered jokes about the Strange Meaters had blended into the general condemnation. Now, she was in London, and at night, and alone.

She twisted her bicycle round and switched on its double turbo-lights. For the two men hurrying towards her on their roller skates, it was too late to pull off their night glasses, or to look away. For them, it must have been the equivalent of coming out of a darkened room to stare straight into the midday sun. She saw two pairs of hands go up to faces and heard the simultaneous cries of pain and of anger.

She’d been seen. Bathed in a glow of light not visible to the naked eye, she could be seen. There was no value in turning the lights off. And she needed them. She got back on her bicycle and pressed hard on the pedals. Shooting forward, she changed into a higher gear. Now she could see everything about her, she was able to go as quickly as if she were coasting downhill. Another half mile or so, and she’d reach the Elephant and Castle. This might be silent and in darkness. Or the expanse of its roundabout might be filled by another street market. Whatever the case, she’d heard that the Strange Meaters mostly kept to their own districts. If she stayed ahead for long enough, these might turn back.

Because she’d passed into what was still a main road, used by the authorities and for the carriage of goods, the way ahead was clear. There was no glass or sharp metal pieces to slow her down. She could hear only the creak of her bicycle and the sound of her own rapid breathing. For a moment, she was able think she’d outrun her pursuers, or that they had given up on her. Again no luck. Before she could slow and look round, she heard a closer scrape of roller skates, and the high, panting squeal of a voice that sounded scarily close. She barely had time to gasp in another breath of the polluted air, when she felt a scrabbling hand lay hold of her saddlebag. She twisted a little to her left, and barely avoided crashing into a high kerbstone. The hand fell away, and she clutched harder on the handlebars and prayed she’d not run over a pothole.

But young men on roller skates can pick up an impressive speed. On a racing bicycle, Jennifer might have had some chance of outrunning them. On a bicycle made for getting safely about her normal business, she had no chance. Even if she’d dared trade an ounce of present speed for a switch into top gear, they were faster. She heard the shrill, anticipatory cry of the one who was almost beside her, and felt herself wobble as the other grabbed hold of her backpack. She could feel the bicycle go increasingly out of control. She could slow down, or she could be pulled over. There was another shrill cry, and then a low joint giggling as of youths high on cannabis. Another moment, and they’d pull her to a stop. Then, she’d be off the bicycle. A hand clamped over her mouth, she’d be dragged into the dark shadows that lined the street. They’d not let her see the dawn, she could be sure. This wasn’t the Olden Days. It wasn’t robbery they were after, nor rape—though these might be part of the incidental details.

It was too late to be sensible: time instead to try for the big advantage a bicycle has over roller skates. Without warning, Jennifer stopped pedalling and squeezed hard on the brakes. As rubber tyres scraped and she wobbled over, she felt both attackers go down at the same time. Skidding and tumbling and rolling in the pool of light before her, they were carried forward on the road with much the same effect on their bodies as pumice stone has on a pencil rubber. As if in slow motion, she heard the sharp crack as one struck his head on a kerbstone. The other screamed as he fell head over heels and landed on his knees. With another scream, he lurched at her. But both kneecaps must have gone in his fall, and there was no getting up.

Far behind, Jennifer heard shouts of rage, and then the loud movement of metal blinds. She untangled herself from the fallen bicycle. Then, before she could put herself into order and get on again, two hands clamped about her left ankle. The attacker who’d knocked against a kerbstone was twitching away as if at the end of an epileptic fit. The one who’d done his knees was still mobile. Somehow, in the seconds she’d spent panting and shaking and leaning on her bicycle, he’d dragged himself across the five yards that separated them. Now, he had her fast.

“Eatie meatie!” he shrilled through the pain. “Eatie sweety meatie!” She kicked out and tried to dislodge the hands. But, if stricken, the youth was plainly drugged on something more exotic than cannabis. His response was an obscenity that hissed through the gaps in the ski mask covering his face. She kicked again, now at his head. But this was his opportunity to tug suddenly on her ankle. She hit the road with a bump that took her breath away. The youth gave a laugh that turned into a cry of maniacal joy as he took hold of her knees. “Treatie eatie sweety meatie!”

Still far behind her, but growing closer, Jennifer could hear shouts and pattering steps. She tried again to shake free of that iron grip. But the youth now had his arms about her waist. She twisted over on her side and pulled out her knife. She struck at random and almost lost the knife as it got caught in his padded anorak. He let out a cry of pain and relaxed his hold on her waist. Before she could take advantage of this, he’d made a grab at the knife. He missed, but pulled his entire weight onto her body and got both hands about her throat. She felt the plastic mask pressing against her cheek, and was aware of the smell of flesh that might not have been washed since The Break. She heard a low and expectant gibber: “Lunchie munchie— gooood !” She struck again with the knife. This time, it went straight through the anorak, but glanced off his ribs. Then, as the youth jerked briefly upward, she hit out with all the strength of despair and buried the knife in his throat.

And that did it. This time, there was no cry of pain or anger—no tighter grip on her own throat. All she felt was the warm, pressurised spray from severed blood vessels, and a convulsion that had the youth over on his back. She heard the kicking of his trainers on the road, as he went into spasms, and a buzzing, choking sound from his throat. He might have been a ghastly thing to see, but the lights on her fallen bicycle were pointing away, and she could see nothing. Jennifer scrambled to her feet. As if in a dream, she pulled the bicycle upright and got on. Her bloody hands slipped on the handlebars, but she wobbled slowly forward. She thought she’d fall off. But she righted herself and thrust harder on the pedals. She thought of changing gear, but found she couldn’t loosen her hold on the handlebars. There may have been the sound behind her of a woman screaming. But all she really heard was a pulse beating loud in her ears. Still wobbling, she strained to pick up speed in top gear. The next time she looked up, it was to see the lights of the street market that overspread the Elephant and Castle roundabout.