Chapter Eight
Cycling in the dark is inadvisable. But, when it would be madness to put the lights on, and when young eyes have grown used to their surroundings, it is possible. Jennifer was half way along the Old Kent Road, and passing at the speed of a brisk walk through an area that was neither commercial nor industrial. She might once, in the Olden Days, have been driven this way by her father. If so, it would then have been a road jammed with perpetual traffic and illegally parked vehicles. But that would have been then. The road now was clear of traffic. The only evidence that vehicles had once been parked here was the usual litter of smashed windscreens and of metal parts too small or worthless to be swept up for recycling in the workshops. But for the glass, she might have gone faster. But for the need to get through this place of potential danger, she might have got off and walked. Instead, her eyes straining to see the faint glitter of glass cubes on the road, Jennifer made her way towards the Elephant and Castle roundabout.
From habit, she came to a stop at one of the main junctions. On the off chance that hers wasn’t the only vehicle on the road, she looked both ways before passing across. It was here that the road was narrowed by mountains of rubbish too organic for recycling and too rancid for scavenging. In London, even the rats were now in short supply. With a splashing of tyres on seepage, Jennifer stopped pedalling and put her main effort into keeping her balance.
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!”