Free Bar None by Tim Lebbon Page A

a sense of peace that lasted most of a lifetime.
     
    I swerve wide around a burnt-out wreck in the middle of the road, see the deer standing on the tarmac a hundred meters away, lean the other way to avoid it, over-compensate, and feel the bike slipping away from me. My hand turns the throttle as I fall and the engine screams, wheels throwing up a haze of smoke as rubber burns. I let go of the handlebars and wrap my arms around my head. In those couple of seconds between losing control and striking the ground, I realise how casual I have already become about what we are doing.
    If I break a leg now, there is no hospital to go to, no doctor to set the bone, no antibiotics readily available. Only pain and suffering. I'll probably die.
    I am travelling at less that fifteen miles per hour, but it's fast enough to kill me if I land wrong.
    I hit the ground on my left side, skid, feel the bike go out from under me and slide on ahead, and then I begin to roll. I go over and over several times, taking the impacts on my elbows and knees, my back and hips. I come to a halt resting against the deflated tyres of a blue car, and I remain motionless. If it hurts when I move, I could be in big trouble .
    I hear the motorbike stall as it scrapes to a halt. I open my eyes and peer between my elbows, and of course the deer is gone.
    The sound of the Range Rovers' engines change and footsteps come toward me. I roll onto my back. Someone groans and I think, Is that them? Are they groaning at what they see of my face? But then I realise that the groan has come from me, and I let my arms drops away to my sides.
    Jacqueline is first by my side, eyes darting left and right as she looks for blood or the white of broken bones. Her face relaxes as she sees neither, and she leans in and touches my face. "Are you hurt?" The others are there then, crowding around with matching looks of concern.
    "Pride badly dented," I say.
    "Gave me a fucking heart attack," the Irishman says. He grins down at me, lights a cigarette and looks around, as though keeping watch.
    I sit up slowly, waiting for pain to kick in from cracked ribs or chipped elbows. But I've been lucky. I can feel the trickle of blood running down my left sleeve, and my trousers are torn at the knees, but I don't think there's any lasting damage. I should feel petrified, but I don't. I'm exhilarated. I'm like a speed junkie who's just had his first fix for a long time.
    Something calls out from the woods to the north, a long, low moan the likes of which I've never heard before. The Irishman frowns, looks down at me, and I shrug.
    "What was that?" Jessica asks.
    "Fox," the Irishman says. "They can sound like babies screaming when they mate."
    "Doesn't sound like a fox to me," Jessica says.
    "Did you see the deer?" I ask. "It was just standing in the middle of the road. Just stood there staring at me as I came toward it, as though it knew I'd fall off."
    "Didn't see a deer," Cordell says. He's gazing off across the fields, waiting for the fox—or whatever it is—to call again.
    Jacqueline looks at me, touching my face, holding my hand as I go to stand.
    "Is the bike okay?" the Irishman asks. It has skidded along the road, leaving white scratched streaks across the tarmac, and I sniff as we approach, expecting petrol. But it seems that the old motorbike is as hardy as me; apart from some bumps and scrapes it's in good working order. I mount it, roll forward a few feet, and smile when it kicks to life first time.
    "So let's go," I say.
    "But carefully," Jessica says. "We can't waste time having to bury you." She turns away without smiling and passes Cordell, where he still stands staring over the fields toward the woods.
    "Didn't sound like a fox to me," Cordell says.
     
    By the time we all gathered at the Manor there was nothing on TV or radio other than three automatic broadcasts. One radio channel played a warning to "Remain in your house with all doors and windows closed" on a continuous loop