Rats in the Capital

A strange alchemy is happening in London

Sean had ten miles left, but only if he took it easy on the accelerator. As it was, his small Fiat's engine died the moment he turned off the M1.

'Noooo,' he cried, voice groaning as his car hit the on-ramp. 'Not now, you piece of shit. I'm already turning off!'

But the engine was silent, and the accelerator pedal felt lifeless as his three-door freewheeled past the wind farm and on towards the roundabout's first exit.

For a moment, Sean thought the car might have had enough momentum. But his heart sank when he spotted the queue for the petrol station on the sliproad through the trees.

The queue was several cars deep, so Sean was forced to stop twenty metres from the pumps. So close and yet so far, he thought as he heard his tyres squeak to a standstill on the hot tarmac.

He checked his rear-view mirror. Two cars had already pulled up behind him. 'Fuck's sake,' he said, head dropping against the steering wheel. He didn't want to push in front of a captive audience.

Someone might help, he countered. Take pity on me. But wouldn't that be worse? He wiped the sweat off his brow and squinted. Either way, the queue ahead was at a standstill.

I don't have time for this, he thought, feeling the noose of panic tightening around his neck. He checked his phone. It was 4:54pm. Everything would be better if he could be on the M1 again, heading towards the big smoke. London. But then that thought disturbed him because, nine months ago, he'd left travelling in the opposite direction. And as far as Sean was concerned at the time, wild horses wouldn't be able to drag him back.

He sighed. Used his shirt to mop the sweat on his brow, but the beads reformed instantly again in the close heat. The Fiat's engine was off, so he couldn't wind the windows down. When he opened the door, however, he felt hotter, hit by the searing summer heat as it rose off the tarmac.  

'Come on, come on,' Sean groaned. Nothing seemed to be happening at the pumps. Two of the fuel bays were occupied by a tanker and the next by a National Express coach. Beyond, the two bays were filled with white Transit vans, while bays five and six were occupied by a silver Mercedes and navy Ford hatchback. A red Porsche convertible stood at the far end on bay seven, gleaming in the sun.

For a moment, he wondered if he could make the motorists move faster by using the power of his mind.

Like the men who stare at goats, his mind offered, even though he'd never read the book or tried anything like that before.

The drivers of each respective vehicle were all inside the station, paying for fuel and refreshments—all except one, however: the Porsche driver, who was a broadly built man with cropped brown hair and lobster-red skin.

Not shy about declaring his alpha status, the man wore an expensive-looking white shirt that hugged the contours of his thick frame and completed the look with gold-rimmed black aviators to shield his eyes from the sun. Speaking with a gruff East-end accent, the man appeared to be having an increasingly public row with a woman inside the car as he filled his tank.

Wife, hooker, or mistress, Sean thought as he felt himself melting into his seat.

The woman opened the Porsche's passenger door. Then, extended one of her long legs before rising to her full height. Heavily tanned with blonde highlights, she transfixed Sean with the hem of her short skirt.

'Leave me alone,' she snapped, her Essex accent echoing off the garage forecourt.

From her expression, she looked like her feelings had just taken a hammer blow. And so when she reached the front door of the garage and turned around, she called the Porsche driver a 'Fucking prick' at the top of her voice.

Sean rubbed behind his eyelids as the Porsche driver called back.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Please,' Sean whispered as he looked up at heaven. 'Make it stop.'

'Listen, get your things,' said the Porsche driver as he checked the end of the petrol nozzle for drips. 'Then get back in the car.' He looked left and right as if to check the coast was clear before adding, 'And if you can't control your mouth, I'll box it in for you when we get home.' 

The woman shot inside the shop, and for a moment, Sean thought the Porsche driver might follow her in. Apologise perhaps.

He shifted naively in his seat.

But the Porsche driver did nothing but press a few buttons as he paid for his fuel on his phone.

Before long, the woman returned to the car, carrying a bottle of mineral water and what looked like a cheap vape pen.

At last, Sean thought as he waited for the Porsche driver to get in.

But the muscled man must have received a phone call or something because the next thing Sean knew, the Porsche driver was speaking to the receiver.

'Gal!' he said. Grinning and walking away from the vehicle like he had all the time in the world. 'Yeah mate, how are ya?'

Rage hit Sean's brain like a bolt to the head. For a brief moment, he felt crazed and desperate as his vision darkened and his gums ached. This man is getting in my way, he thought. And I must get back on the M1.

And so, knowing nothing else at that moment and seized by a mad desire to act, Sean drove his palm into the Fiat's steering wheel.

A comical whine rang out across the forecourt, Sean pressing the horn for a good half minute. When he stopped and looked up - partly because he was less angry now and partly because the whine sounded ridiculous - he was pleased to sense his anger had left him like the sea at low tide.

He looked up in hope.

The Porsche driver had ended his call. In fact, he had even put his phone away. In what could have been interpreted as a positive sign, the man was now looking at the Fiat and giving Sean his full and undivided attention.

'Sorry,' said the Porsche driver. But he was too calm to appear sincere. 'Do you have a problem?

'Come on, mate,' Sean said, trying to cheer the man along while saving face at the same time. He made a circling motion with his hand. 'Let's get this show on the road, yeah?' 

'And what are you going to do about it?' said the Porsche driver, putting his aviators in his shirt's top pocket before walking over to Sean's vehicle at pace. And now he was screaming. 'AY?'

Reasonably tall, Sean had never seen himself as weak before. But as the Porsche driver marched across the forecourt, it was clear this new adversary was broader-set. The man probably had fighting experience, too, which didn't bode well because his fists were the size of hams.

Sean would have closed his door, but it was already too late—even to reach for his phone and start filming.

The Porsche driver was at Sean's car door and clawing at his hair.

'Sorry!' Sean cried. 'Listen, mate, I'm sorry.'

But the Porsche driver wouldn't listen. Instead, the man just hauled Sean out of his seat and punched him square on in the face.

An explosion in his nose. Pain, blossoming out and the crunching sound of gristle. A loss of balance, the metallic taste of blood. And then, shortly after, a sense that he was falling.

A sharp edge struck his skull. Possibly his car, he wasn't sure. As time slowed, Sean thought a third blow would be enough to finish him off for good.

'Gah!'

Sean hit the floor and gasped, hands and knees breaking his fall and scraping his skin. When he opened his eyes, he felt weirdly thankful as huge spots of his own blood turned into a small puddle on the forecourt. 

Do something, Sean thought as he felt the Porsche driver grab his hair and drag him back, presumably to smash his head with his own car door. You won't get another chance.

And so, powered by a wild burst of adrenaline, Sean shot to his feet and punched the man's crotch with every ounce of strength he still possessed.  

The Porsche driver buckled in that gratifying way, then sank to his knees and wheezed like he'd been shot.

All that was left was for Sean to grab the man by both shoulders and throw him to the floor. Then, wipe away blood from his nose and rest against the car door.

'Oh my God, BABE!'

At the forecourt's edge now: The Porsche driver's wife, girlfriend, mistress or whatever. Screaming so hard that it sounded like she had just frayed her vocal cords.   

Sean didn't know what else to do. Hit the Porsche driver again? He didn't think he'd be so lucky a second time. Plus, people were watching now, and the man was swiftly regaining his composure. Ominously for Sean, he looked twice as mad as he had before.

'Hey, look,' Sean said, trying to placate him. 'This is all getting a bit out of hand, don't you think--'

'Fuck you,' said the Porsche driver, getting to his feet and pulling out a spear-point knife from his back pocket. He unsheathed it and made wild stabbing gestures in the air. 'Watch now as I cut you up!'

For a strange moment, Sean thought he might be dreaming. But the sight of sunlight on the blade brought him back to his senses.  

He turned and threw himself over his car bonnet. Then, shot up through the surrounding scrub faster than he had ever run in his life before.

When he reached the brow, he turned to see the Porsche driver through the trees. Thankfully, the crazed loon hadn't followed; he was too busy slashing at Sean's car tyres while the surrounding motorists all screamed out in horror.

'Bloody hell.' Sean wrapped his arms around his head. It was hard to get a handle on what was happening. The police would arrive soon. As much as it felt wrong to be leaving his car abandoned, he'd just been attacked by a madman who was also now destroying the tyres with a throwing knife. And who was still within earshot.

Sean desperately needed to get back on the M1.

*

He ran until his lungs began to burn, which wasn't far, but enough that he stood in a field of long grass adjacent to the wind farm. Blood from his nose mixed in with his sweat to form a red and sticky residue that stung just above his top lip.

He looked through his pockets, pleased to see he still had his wallet and phone. The police would no doubt soon contact him about the missing car. Either that, or they would track down his mother. In the meantime, there was no choice but to keep moving. Hopefully, both the police and his mother would understand everything in the end.

Sean brought up his GPS position on his phone's map and tried to squint through his reflection on the mirrored glass. When he used his hand as shade, he could see himself as a blue dot surrounded by a sea of green. When he zoomed out, he saw he was standing two miles from London's outskirts—and two miles from his new destination of Mill Hill Broadway train station. All he had to do was run two miles across country in a heat wave while still wearing his worn pair of leather loafers.

Sean's hand caught a splinter as he climbed up the first gate.

*

Thirty minutes later, Sean arrived at Mill Hill Broadway looking like a zombie extra from a film set. Gasping for breath, he ignored the horrified looks of the other commuters and staggered towards the gate. After a few moments, he realised his fellow commuters would tolerate the blood. Just as long as he didn't try to engage anyone in conversation.

A restroom is needed, he thought, some safe place where I can clean myself up. But there were none along the platform. Just a lonely-looking vending machine bleached white in the sun.

The M1 ran adjacent to the station, so the motorway traffic deafened him to the sound of the announcements.

Sean gazed at the black message boards. The southbound Thameslink train to West Hampstead was running three minutes late, so he went to the vending machine, paid two pounds for a 500ml bottle and used it to cool his forehead. Then, gulped the water down and paid two pounds for some more.

When he turned around, the Overground train was finally approaching. And he was thankful to have the extra water when he stepped on board.

*

He got off the train at West Hampstead Thameslink, his mind already blown by the hustle, bustle and unrestrained glamour of the capital. The kaleidoscope of different people, from the urbane businessman to the fashion hipster and every type of avatar in between. It excited and overwhelmed him as he crossed Iverson Road onto West End Lane.  

From the tube station's front gates, Sean navigated the station's innards, taking extra care to stay well clear of the yellow line as the first southbound Jubilee train approached. 

He jumped on and wedged himself into a seat between a selection of angry-looking commuters who seemed to be heading the wrong way and going into the centre. And now he could see his reflection in the carriage's opposite window; his face looked like it had been stretched over a bag of spanners.

Well, at least I'm here, he thought to himself. And it will get better.

It has to.

He held onto that as the train screamed its way through the darkness. And if anyone seemed bothered by his bloody face, no one dared show it. 

He switched onto the Piccadilly Line at Green Park and found himself in an aisle-facing seat. But then his train was held for ten minutes outside South Kensington due to a signalling failure, and in the heat, Sean found the wait unbearable. He was aiming for Charing Cross Hospital - just south of Hammersmith and its infamous gyratory - and that was the bottleneck he knew about. He didn't doubt there were many more unexpected ones to come.

'London,' he said to himself, crossing his arms and gritting his teeth as he baked in a metal carriage underground. He didn't care who was watching. Or listening, for that matter. 'Can't believe I'm back.'

*

'No,' shouted the nurse, waving Sean back with a hand to her mouth. 'No, no, mister, you need A&E!'

'What?' Sean replied, only remembering his nose was still covered in blood when he spoke. 'Oh!' He tried to wash it off using the gritty pink sanitiser in a bottle by the bowl, but the blood just smeared over his face.

'Nooo!' the nurse shouted, exasperated. 'Mister, this is Maternity! You need A&E!'

'No, I'm not hurt,' Sean shouted, so wired that he couldn't feel any sting from the sanitiser.

The nurse faltered. Somebody was speaking to her.

Sean was about to ask the nurse for Louie Carter's whereabouts, but when he looked to the left, he realised there was no need.

'Sean,' Louie said quietly from a bed in the next bay.

'Louie!' Sean shouted back.

His mouth dropped as he tried to decide what to say next.

Louie appeared to do the same. She looked tired and sad but beautiful, eyes wide and shining, hair tied back loosely in a bun.

Then Sean slowly became aware of other faces. A middle-aged man stood by Louie's side, wearing smart-casual clothes and a furious expression. There were women on either side, too, of various ages who looked vaguely similar to Louie. But who stared at Sean like he was something half-dead the cat had dragged in. 

He nodded at each of them, but there was no thaw.

'It's a girl,' Louie said blankly.

Sean looked down to where Louie pointed at her newborn.

Tiny, red, and beautiful, his daughter was wrapped in tight blankets and asleep in a cot beside Louie's bed.

He had never experienced such a feeling in his life before. A sensation of love and nurture so strong that he would have gladly died at that moment to guarantee that such a small thing would never come to harm.

He broke down in tears as he knelt by his daughter's side.

'Louella?' asked the old man quietly. 'Is this who I think it is?'

Louie nodded. As if that was obvious.

'Oh, hi, sorry,' Sean said, getting back to his feet and still wearing his stupid grin. 'Is everything OK?'

Everyone's gaze turned to Louie's father.

'No,' the old man whispered as he strode purposefully around the bed. 'Everything is definitely not OK.' He looked Sean up and down, fists shaking as he struggled to hide his contempt. 'I think you need to leave now, Sean. Before I bust up the other side of your face. Have I made myself understood?'

*

Well, Sean thought as he lit a cigarette in the car park, that was awkward. He blew out a cloud of grey smoke as he felt nicotine chills travel down his spine.

Seeing his daughter for the first time had been a moment of reckoning. At the same time, the realisation that he was now a father had hit him hard—the implications of everything and the cold realisation of what he had done to Louie—as well as all the things that meant about him.

Louie's father had been right. He had to leave.

Every time he closed his eyes, Sean could see that phalanx of hard faces. Louie's Dad, memorably, glaring at Sean like he'd already killed him in his mind before (and would gladly do it again for real). Louie's Mum, meanwhile, wearing an expression of pure disgust. The same could be said of Louie's sister and all those cousins and aunts. All joined together to form a wide beam of loathing that narrowed to where Sean stood at the apex.

A moment of great reckoning indeed.

He thought about phoning his Mum to tell her about the journey but figured that could wait. She had already been slapped in the face by the news she wasn't welcome at the birth. Hopefully, the police hadn't contacted her about his abandoned car as well.

'Ah, man,' he sighed. 'What a mess.' All his life, he had always sensed that he didn't quite fit in. But now he understood what it was like to be the man who left his girl pregnant. It didn't matter he hadn't known she was with his child at the time.  

His anxiety had been so bad he hadn't even bothered to check. Or even understood what it had all been about.  

Sean took another long drag on his cigarette. Then watched the exhaled smoke flare white beneath the light. There was no way he would have let another man off the hook so easily.

His one saving grace was that when Louie rang out of the blue yesterday to tell him she was about to give birth to his child, he knew what to do—for the first time in his adult life.

He didn't know how to do it, but he would return to London, and if Louie didn't take him back, at the very least, he'd stay close by for the kid. Otherwise, it would grow up fatherless like he had, and the whole damn cycle would repeat. And there was no way he could live with the thought of that. So here I am, he thought, back, watching smoke clouds underground.

It was too little, too late, he realised. In Louie's case, ridiculously so. But late was better than not being back at all.

That will have to do, he told himself before he picked up his usual refrain. And it will get better.

He flicked his stubbed cigarette into the shadows behind the bin. And that is when he heard the scream.

A human scream. Man or woman, it was hard to tell. But high-pitched and curdled. Human.

It came from the dark space behind two giant 1100-litre steel bins.

In the silence that followed, Sean could hear someone's breath echoing off the nearby walls.

Then, a series of loud bangs beat against the bin's sides.

Sean squinted in the darkness. 'Hello,' he asked the shadows. 'Anyone there?' But there was no answer. He cursed beneath his breath.

The person was still there—less than five feet away, squatting in the dark and rummaging behind the bin. But they didn't want to come out; to be fair, Sean didn't want to force them.

Was this the Porsche driver again? Crouching in the shadows with his blade, back too finish what he’d started?

Sean was about to look away when the bang came again. Then a second time, then a third.

Whoever it was, it sounded like they were getting ready to run. Away from Sean to an adjacent fold of shadows somewhere safer.

He took another few steps back. Felt his whole body tense.

'H...hello?' Sean asked as he carried on listening. And then, bizarrely, he heard the frantic sound of claws scratching against concrete.

Sean froze as a giant rat broke free from the space beneath the two bins.  

'No!'

Sean couldn't believe what he was looking at. A rat with a spaniel-sized torso, half-waddling over the concrete in a desperate bid for safety.

And then he heard it scream. The same high-pitched, curdling sound that he had just heard skulking behind the bins.

But that was impossible.

Sean bellowed like his sanity was being ripped apart at the edges.

*

'In L...London,' he said, trying to recite the saying as his shaking hands failed to light a cigarette.

Still beneath the hospital, Sean had only just recovered from the effects of a debilitating freeze response.

Only now could he look around warily at his surroundings.

'In L....L....London, you're never more than five feet from a rat.'

He had recited it many times to colleagues as an Environmental Officer in the capital. Because you could change that measure to any figure you liked; twelve feet, six feet, one. It just depended on where you were and the kind of money you had at your disposal.    

Sean shook his head and headed for the exit. Already, a headache was building, squatting inside his head like an illegal rave.

Considering the birth of his daughter, he thought he'd spare Louie and her family the tension of another visit and set off to find a cheap bed and breakfast down the road instead.

I just heard a rat make a human scream, he thought as he walked up the ramp and headed for the exit. He looked back at the shadows.

Or that rat was just feeding on a person.

London, he thought, daring himself to go back and check the shadows. Either reality was horrifying enough.

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