Every time rider 6-9 pushed down on the pedals, water squelched through his trainers. Rain streaked down his face, mixing with the grit and mud thrown up from the tires of his Ridgeback mountain bike. London traffic had ground to a halt, the downpour overburdening the drainage system, gushing floods down the road side. More annoying, the radio strapped round his shoulder crackled on, "Six-nine, six-nine, six-nine." The controller at base had the most irritating voice he could recall. Acknowledging his call sign, he pulled the radio to the wet stubble on his chin and clicked the button down. "Roger, six-nine receiving."
"Where are you now, six-nine? Where are you now?"
"I'm at the Piccadilly end of Shaftsbury Avenue," he replied, swerving between cars, his voice unwavering as he slipped through gaps barely wider than his handle bars. "I'll be at the drop zone in zero minus 15 minutes, Roger Roge."
"That package is getting a bit warm, six-nine. You'll have to pull your finger out, fast as you can. Give me a call when your empty."
Smarmy git, that Paul thought 6-9, but answered simply "Roger Rodge." Swearing over the air waves was a sackable offense. He thumbed up to a higher gear, and raised himself off the seat, straining on the pedals. He followed the curve of Piccadilly Circus, took a right on Regency Place, then bolted into the wide plaza of Leicester Square, a short relief from the turmoil and stress of the weaving roads. 6-9 curb-hopped onto the wet pavement, as Paul taunted over the radio, "I would like all you riders working hard today out there in the rain, to know that it's lovely and dry in the office."
An alley off Leicester Square took 6-9 down a narrow back street of China town. Oriental spices and steam rose from the restaurant kitchens, bringing a grumble to his stomach, empty since breakfast. Curb-hopping once more round the back of the National Art Gallery, he avoided the congestion of Trafalger Square before coming into Charring Cross Road. Another narrow passage and sharp left brought him careening down the Strand towards Fleet Street. Never needing to consult his pocket book map of the city, his routes were instinctive. He could decipher the language of the street, the cracked paving stones, the pot holes in the road, the broken traffic lights encrusted with lead from exhaust fumes. Rumbling engines and distant sirens were his muzak of the city. Fumes from exhaust, although dampened by the downpour, hung toxicly in the air so thick it burned his breathing passages when he inhaled. 6-9 spat out the distasteful coating in his mouth and pulled a well-worn bandanna from his neck, up and over his chin and nose to acts as protection from the fumes.
6-9 had worked the circuit for over five years, employed most of the time by the mega-companys, City Link, Mercury Dispatch, Quick Silver, and now Heaven Sent. Established by a group of riders, it had become a bastion for veterans of the road. Although operated from a small back street office, the camaraderie between riders was strong. The recession had hit dispatching hard, forcing companies to make cutthroat reductions on the charge for deliveries. He had often dropped a package to a business bustling with secretaries and computers one day, only to find closed doors and a 'to let' sign pasted on white washed-glass the day after.
6-9 finally reached the drop a 233 The Strand. He locked his bike up and pressed the intercom, removing the bandanna from the lower half of his face as he was buzzed in. They would not like him dripping on the floor, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Within minuets he had made the delivery and was taking shelter outside in the street, drawing on a well-deserved cigarette before calling base empty.
The radio on his shoulder squawked his call sign, reminding him of a constipated parrot, "Six-nine, six-nine, six-nine. Where are you now? Over."
"Roger, six-nine empty on The Strand."
"Okay. Roger Roge. There's a pick up round the corner of the office waiting for you."
"Isn't there anyone closer? I'm miles away," 6-9 said with a reluctant sigh.
Another riders voice crackled over the radio, "three-seven, three-seven."
"Roger, three-seven," came the reply from the controller.
"I'm just passing the office now, I could pick it up."
6-9 let out a silent cheer, while listening in on the conversation, but his hopes were soon dashed by Paul's reply.
"Three-seven, your an imbecile! You already have a job on board going south west, this package is heading east end."
There was no reply from 3-7. The controller's irritating tone came back on the air.
"6-9, are you coming in for this pickup or what?"
Bollocks thought 6-9. "Roger Roge, heading your way." He took the last draw of the cigarette and flicked it sizzling into a puddle on the pavement.
The traffic was still slow-moving and there was no reprieve in sight from the brooding sky. Headlights were on, the window wipers hardly helping visibility through rain-streaked windscreens.
6-9 had pedaled through the back-blistering freak summer of '95' and the extreme snow drifts of '98', but even he had never seen rain like this before.
Twenty minutes later, 6-9 pushed open the door of the Heaven Sent office and stepped dripping into the radio room.
Paul was seated before the radio set. He was ten years younger than 6-9, insufferably arrogant and pimply. Paul swiveled his chair as the door swung closed, scowling at the puddle forming at 6-9's feet. "Mike what the fuck are you doing here? You should radio in for details of that pick up. The job's already getting old. Shape yourself."
"Fuck the job. I know where it's going, I already checked the docket. I wanna talk to you ."
Paul looked uncomfortably at his watch, " okay, but it'll have to be quick ."
"Yeah, quick. Everything's quick with you, isn't it?"
Paul raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "This is a business Mike. There's pressure at the top. I got to push."
"I got to push. " 6-9 repeated slowly.
The radio interrupted noisily, bringing with it the sounds of the street, "Five-two, five -two."
Paul swung round on his chair and snatched at the radio's hand set. "Roger five-two, go," he fumed, exhaling noisily through his nostrils.
"I'm having trouble finding one nine five Tower Bridge Street, Roger."
"You deaf as well as punchy five-two? I said one five nine, repeat, ONE FIVE NINE."
"Okay, okay! Roger Roge."
Paul swung his chair back round. 6-9 had come a few steps closer, and was now shaking his head.
"Man your fucked. You've got a problem with people." He pointed a stiff index finger at Paul. "I don't like the way you talk to the other riders. And I don't like the way you push. There's a lot of good riders out there giving it all they got."
6-9 turned to leave. As he was going out the door he heared defiantly, "So, what's your problem, Mike?"
6-9 paused in the doorway. When he turned his face was calm, "I had an army record as well as a prison one when I was your age. I'm no stranger to taking orders. This is a real choice fucker of a job. We gotta work together. You're here to help, not give us misery over the radio." Paul had already started to mouth a reply when 6-9 stopped him. "Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining, Roger Roge?"
He left the office and didn't call in on the radio until he had made the pick-up. "Six-nine clear and heading east." There was a pause before Paul's voice came over the radio, "er... Roger six-nine, carry on."
Once in the East End, 6-9 was in the heart of the old city. He turned down Gresham Street and then cut through Bell Street, one of many streets built in medieval times to accommodate horse and cart. The ancient builders had not forseen the motor car.
Half way down Bell Street was a garbage truck moving slowly down the narrow passage, already three cars patiently stuck behind it. As 6-9 peddled past the cars, he curled up his nose at the smell of mouldy old cabbage. The stink grew stronger as he approached the rear of the truck. He jumped the on to the pavement where there was plenty of room to overtake.
As 6-9 passed along side the garbage truck, two stacks jutting from the top of the cabin, suddenly roared and plumed black smoke as the big diesel accelerated. 6-9 pushed down hard on the pedals to pull away, but as he picked up speed, so did the truck. The side of the garbage truck, stained with graffiti and slime, loomed over him. The gap between the wall on one side and the truck on the other narrowed drastically, closing in on 6-9, forcing him to pull in his elbows and knees to make himself slimmer. On his face he felt the heat from the truck's engins and the cold damp of the wall. He thumbed up to a higher gear. Pumping his legs like pistons he began to pull ahead of the truck. His visual was the diminishing gap; he focused on judging his distance, his speed, the opening in lightning calculations. It was going to be close, real close. Imagination got the better of him as he felt a whisper of bumper against the back tire before finding himself propelled into the clear street ahead. He must have closed his eyes in an involuntary wince because he could not recall the precise moment he shot through the gap, but looking back over his shoulder, he could see the garbage truck fading into the distance.
Close calls were like second nature, which he usually found exhilarating , but shaves that close just weren't worth the wage packet at the end of the week. Although he was still picking up speed his legs felt like lead. His vision had become blurred and spots floated before his eyes. 6-9 attributed this to a lack of oxygen in his brain, or a surge of andrenalin from his near miss. He stopped pedling and free-wheeled while gulping in air until his bike ran out of momentum. He dismounted and stood, swaying on his wobbly legs. He would be glad when this day was over.
6-9 was unsure how long he had been standing by in Oxford Street, or for that matter, when it had stopped raining. Once again he pulled the radio to his chin and called in. "Six-nine, six-nine." No answer. Not even a static hiss came over the air waves. The radio was dead.
He pulled a cigarette from his pack and placed it in the side of his mouth before lighting it. He wached the smoke rise, unhindered by any breeze in its upward ascent. It would be good to get a pick-up and move off Oxford Street. 6-9 slouched in a doorway, still calling in occasionally.
After a time, a distorted voice drifted faintly over the radio. "Is that you six-nine? Is it you out there?"
6-9 cocked his head and placed his ear intently against the radio. Again the voice repeated itself, fainter than before. This time he responded. "Roger this is six-nine. Your signal is very weak. you'll have to speak up."
He listened in as the distorted voice became loud and clear, Pauls voice. "Mike, do you read me?"
6-9 found it odd that Paul was using first name terms over the radio. "Roger Roge. What's occurring? Any jobs in the area?"
"There's been a change in plans, Mike. Somthing's happened." Feed-back whined over the radio before Paul's voice came back, this time with authority. "Six-nine, six-nine, where are you now?"
"Standing by on Oxford Street, Rodge."
"What do you see six-nine? Describe to me what you see."
"Odd request controll. You'll have to elaborate, Roge."
"Just tell me your surroundings six-nine."
"Well... I'm in the Soho end of Oxford Street, there's shops on either side... everything's pretty quiet, Roge."
"What about people, six-nine? People."
"There's nobody about, Roge." A mild tone of surprise entered his voice.
"Don't you think that's a bit strange, six-nine?"
"Now you come to mention it Roge, yeah."
Pauls voice crackled over the air waves after a slight pause. "I need to know the signiture on the last job you did after two three three, The Strand."
"Roger." 6-9 pulled the paperwork of the day out of his bag and checked. His voice came back quiet and confused." There's no signiture controll. I've messed up. I just found the package I was meant to deliver in my bag."
"It's okay, six-nine. But tell me, why are you standing by in Oxford Street, when the package was going to the east end?"
"I don't know Rodge... something's wrong."
"Do you remember going down Gresham Street, six-nine?"
"Roger Roge, yeah."
"You remember," Paul's voice began to tremble slightly, "going down Bell Street?"
"Roger." 6-9 was picking up the anxiety in the controller's voice making him feel uneasy. "What are you getting at, Roge?"
"Just listen in, six-nine. Do you remember seeing any vehicles in Bell Street?"
"Vehicles?" He took his finger off the radio button, and repeated to himself in a whisper, "vehicles." A familiar stink began to waft up his nostrils, mouldy old cabbage. An engin roared in the distance, and a single vehicle turned into Oxford Street, making its way towards him slowly, stopping and starting. 6-9 didn't have to squint his eyes to know it was the same garbage truck he had overtaken earlier that day. As it drew closer he noticed the graffiti and slime on the side. Still stopping and starting, the garbage truck looked ominous and a lot bigger than he remembered, sending a chill down his spine. Chains slapped loosley against its side with the jogging motion. Everytime it began to move off, plumes of diesel smoke puffed from the stacks resembling thick black ostrich feathers.
A dence cloud of squawking sea gulls was rising, flapping noisily above the truck. Once it stopped again, the gulls would return to it's roof, pecking at the infestation of maggots crawling through its rotting hulk. He saw crimson blood and maggots flowing into the gutter, then he remembered. He watched the side of the garbage truck coming at him. He could hear the meatle of the handle bars squeal as they became trapped against the wall, crumpling up like silver foil. As he was flung forward, the view changed. He was now looking down upon himself. The bike fell away and disappeared under the trucks rear wheels. Repeatedly his broken and twisted body, resembling dirty limp rags, was bashed about and sandwiched between the two surfaces. He burst open like a sack, entrail and gut spewed out with the pressure released from his now gaping stomach. He watched on as his head was crushed, then was pulled back from the vision.
"I'm dead." He pressed his finger down on the radio button. "I'm dead, Roge." Once more he was standing alone on Oxford Street.
"That's right, Mike. I don't know what to say." Paul's voice became choked up again. "I'm sorry."
"How long have I been here?"
"Well... you had the accident about six years ago."
"Six years..." his voice trailed off as he realized the lenth of time was irrelevant.
The radio hand set trembled in Paul's sweaty palm. He fiddled with the fine tuning on the channel as 6-9's voice became more distant.
For six years Paul had listened, at first terrified by the faint, familiar voice. Everyone in the office at one time or another had heared it, though very few spoke of it. The call sign came to be considered as unlucky, none of the riders would take it. By attrition, 6-9 had somehow come to be Paul's responsibility. After hours, when he was alone in the office and the air waves clear, he would try each channel patiently calling, "six-nine, six-nine, do you read me?"
Now finally he had answered.
6-9 stared at his hand and read more into it than he ever had before. He looked around. Everything was bathed in a gentle pervading light, even his bike had flecks of golden blue shimmering around the frame. The world around him began to crumble. Huge chunks of masonry toppled from the buildings, only to reach the ground as a fine dust. Shop fronts fell away like superficial movie props to reveal a lush green landscape of medows and orchards. It seemed to 6-9 that singing on the horizen was a citadel made of light which towered into a fluid sky pattern of oil on water. From the sky dipped what looked like a great bronze whale, arching itself elegantly before thrusting back into the firmament. From the singing citadel burst a beckoning radiance of light.
6-9 felt his ego fall away, and shatter into a billion pieces on leaving his body. All his fears shrugged off like clothing no longer needed. Time deconstructed, he reintegrated into the now, centering on the infinite present. He felt relieved, like waking from the grip of a too realistic dream.
"Mike?" There was no answer. Paul tried franticly again. "Six-nine, six-nine, are you still there? Can you hear me Mike?"
"Roger, six-nine. Something's happening. It feels good. My God, everything's made of light!"
"What's happening Mike, tell me?" Paul begged.
"I'm not sure Paul. It feels like I'm going somewhere."
"Where, where?"
"I don't know, but I think I've already arrived. Wacky way to go, control. Thanks for your assistance. Six-nine signing off, over and out."
"Mike! Mike... six-nine come in, do you read me?" A gentle pich of feed-back rippled over the radio, whining like a whale song, a distant siren of the deep. It stopped abruptedly and all that could be heard was the white noise of static. Paul slumped in his swivel chair and released the hand set from his tight grip, letting it drop.
"Carry on six-nine," he whispered. He stood up, supporting himself shakily on the desk top. The shirt he wore clung to his sweat-soaked back. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in front of him, and lit up. 6-9 had lost his way for awhile, outward bound and chugging the big nothing, and now he was back on track. Well, thats my job, isn't it? Paul thought with a smile. Dispatching.
He locked up the office and walked towards his car, the night crisp underneath a canopy of stars. the airwaves now clear of a wayward rider calling out the dead man's handle.
Six-nine, six-nine. Standing by.
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