Exile

Chapter 2

London is a savage city and she didn't belong there. She might never have been found but for Daniel. She would have disappeared completely, a missing splinter from a shattered family, a half-remembered feature in a pub landscape.

Daniel was having a good morning. It was a sunny January day and he was on his way to his first shift as barman in a private Chelsea club favored by footballers and professional celebrities. The traffic was sparse, the lights were going his way and he couldn't wait to get to work. He slowed at the junction, signaling right to the broad road bordering the river. He took the corner comfortably, using his weight to sway the bike, sliding across the path of traffic held static at the lights. He was about to straighten up when he saw the silver Mini careering towards him on his side of the road, the wheel-trim spitting red sparks as it scraped along the high lip of the pavement. He held his breath, yanked the handlebars left and shot straight across the road, up over the curb, slamming his front wheel into the low river wall at thirty miles an hour. The back wheel flew off the ground, catapulting Daniel into the air just as the Mini passed behind him. He back-flipped the long twenty-foot drop to the river, landing on a small muddy island of riverbank. The tide was out, and of all the urban rubble in the Thames he might have landed on, Daniel found himself on a sludge-soaked mattress.

He did a quick stock-take of his limbs and faculties and found everything in order. He thanked God, remembered that he didn't believe in God and took the credit back for himself. Staggered at his skill and reflexive dexterity, he pushed himself upright on the mattress, his left hand sliding a viscous layer off the filthy surface. Gathering the mulch into his cupped hand, he squeezed hard with adrenal vigor. A crowd of concerned passersby were leaning over the sheer wall, shouting frantically down to him. Daniel waved. "Okay," he shouted. "Don't worry. Other bloke all right?"

The pedestrians looked to their left and shouted in the affirmative. Daniel grinned and looked down at his feet. He was sitting on a corpse, the heel of his foot sinking into her thigh.

He scrambled to his feet, shaking the mattress, making her arm fall out onto the muddy bank. She was wearing a chunky gold identity bracelet with "Ann" inscribed on it. He staggered backwards towards the river, keeping his eyes on her, trying to make sense of the image.

He could see her now, a bloated pink and blue belly and a void of a face framed by stringy gray hair, drained of color by the rapacious water. A ragged handful of custard skin was missing from her belly. Daniel called out, a strangled animal cry, and flailed his left hand in the air, scattering her disintegrating flesh. He crouched and splashed his hand in the brown water, trying to wash away the sensation. Panting, he turned back and pointed at the rotting thing hanging out of the mattress.

A man shouted to him from the high river wall. "Are you injured?"

Daniel looked up. His eyes were brimming over. The man's head was an indeterminate blob floating above the river wall. Daniel's eyes flicked back to the corpse, startled afresh by its presence.

The well-meaning man was shouting slowly, enunciating carefully. "Can you hear me?" he yelled. "I am a first-aider."

Daniel tried to look up but each time his eyes flicked back to her. He imagined she had moved and fear took the breath from him. He started to cry and looked up. "Are you the police?" he shouted, in a voice he barely recognized.

"No," shouted the man. "I am a first-aider. Do you require medical attention?"

"Get the fucking police!" screamed Daniel, his eyes streaming now, his nose running into his mouth. He shook his hand in the air, his skin burning with disgust. "Get the fucking police."