CHAPTER 5
Over the next few days I realised that Ginny’s presence was doing a lot to ease my sleep.

It was a simple thing, at first sight; the presence of a warm body in the darkness that I knew cared about me. When I thought it through, though, I realised that there was more to it. For a start, her snoring did disrupt the sort of thought patterns that I think led the nightcrawlers to my bed, but I believe it was also a form of self-discipline. I didn’t want to disturb her, spoil my friend’s sleep, and that resulted in my jerking awake rather than being pulled into the depths.

The drawback to her ladylike night breathing was that each time I tried to drift into the fantasy, I’d get to the bit about waking up, and seeing, and her nose or throat would strangle some unspecified cetacean and I would lose my place.

I was on schemed rest days over that weekend, so I packed the basics I would need into two panniers and left the mat and tent for the rack. As soon as Ginny was on the train from Brighton, this time with her Surly, I set off for Three Bridges to catch up with her. The train was a faster one, stopping only at the airport, East Croydon and Clapham before we pulled into Victoria. I was almost feeling excited, but over it all I was terrified. I had avoided these people for so long, hidden away from anyone who might criticise my actions, and they might not take kindly to that. I also suspected that dear Virginia might have dropped some hints.

We got through the barriers and worked our way through the lemmings to the front of the station, pushing over the pedestrian crossing till we could start up the gentle rise to the Wellington Arch at Hyde Park Corner. There were a few riders already there, with panniers and tents in evidence, and a few musical instruments. Eric had his banjo, and Ginny started to laugh.

“You not seen Zombieland, Eric?”

“Yes, indeed, so don’t even think about it!”

In the film, the lead actor, some Yank called Woody something or other, does for a large number of the undead with a variety of implements, one of which is a banjo. I could see why Eric was worried. We were setting off on a practice run, a sort of piss-take of survivalism, where we would ride out of the capital to escape an imagined outbreak of brain-eaters, camp the night, do silly things and then ride home the next day. I hadn’t been doing silly things for a long time, just, as Ginny advised, bloody stupid ones. I wasn’t sure I could let go enough to be silly, and I imagined either stilted reticence or going completely over the top. I decided just to concentrate on the ride and see how it went. Ginny came over to me, and whispered a question.

“Brought your flute, or sold it for fucking booze?”

“Brought it.”

“Where’s Tabby?”

“House sitting”

“You left your best girl to be eaten by zombies? Shame on you!”

Dead right. Shame.

I am really, really unfamiliar with West London. We worked our way out as a chain gang of fifteen to start with, and as we passed to the North of the wasteland that is Heathrow we were picking up odds and sods who were waiting at bus shelters and other comfortable spots. We were on the old A4, and while the motorway had sucked most of the tin boxes onto its tarmac, there were still enough idiots around to make life fun. We were pulling a double line, and the pace was hurting me, but Ginny kept an eye on me, and I made damned sure I never took a turn at the front.

“Get in fucking single file you fucking cunts!”

“Go away or get nicked”

“You a fucking copper, then?”

“Yes. Go away now”

The delightful London motorist, always happy to share their advice. I just had to remember not to shout out the words that would have come more naturally. And then we hit John Betjeman’s favourite town. “Come friendly bombs, and fall on Slough”

We stopped at an all night café for a brew and for my lungs to come back into my chest, and I noticed a couple of glances, and a few head shakes.

“What’s up, Ginny?”

“You. You’re fucking fat, and slow, and unfit, and they care about you, and they remember the bloke who rode across Ventoux with a full fucking touring load”

She took a sip of her tea, and there was a sigh that seemed to collapse her shoulders.

“Adam, mate, love, please promise me you will let me keep sorting you out, cause otherwise you are not going to be sortable. It’s like that thing with climate change, you know, fucking tipping point. Your heart goes, or your liver, or diabetes, and then you can’t get back here from over there. You are enjoying this ride, aren’t you? Imagine a day when you can’t ride at all”

Oh, yes. Riding would be just one thing I wouldn’t do, amongst others such as working, or breathing, or existing. Yes, Ginny, I had thought that all out. I just hadn’t found the right exit route. Yet.

We finally escaped the shithole of Berks and stuck to the A4 as the drunks got more common, and through the more upmarket dip of Maidenhead, and finally we started a little bit of a slog that had me stopping every so often on the hill as my heart tried to burst. We finally got past the quarry, and Eric led us on a walk with our bikes down a path I would have missed to a small clearing in the trees, where he announced “Nous sommes arrivés!” And we scattered to find the best spot for our tents as he wandered off to some small house that apparently held the landowners.

We had just got ourselves sorted, bags lofted, a fire built, when there was a most uncharacteristic squeal from Ginny as a small figure appeared.

“Luvvy darling!”

It was Kate, her girlfriend, who had had to work late and then ridden solo and at speed through the arseholes we had faced as a group. After some toe curling displays of affection, they came over to my tent.

“Adam, love, you know you’re going to be on your own tonight. Will you be OK?”

Kate was looking unsettled, and I realised it was actually a dilemma for her. She wanted a night with her lover, but Ginny had clearly got her up to speed on things, and I had a small moment of revelation, that people actually did care about me, and the shame cut back round and swallowed my soul. I needed to sort things out, save them the grief.

My thought train derailed at that point, as Eric launched into his version of the John Kirkpatrick song, ‘Welcome to Hell’, but with banjo substituted for accordion. Ginny just gave me a nod.

“Get pissed tonight if you must, mate, but go and make some music first”

The Wilsons, John and Fee, had already started their fire eating and fire poi games, John weaving bright traceries with the burning tassels, and as the flames whooshed around his naked torso I got my flute out to jam with the eight or nine others who had brought their own axes. Now, for just a while, as I tongued and blew, I could almost forget my days and nights of awkwardness. We had a couple of guitars, two fiddles, Eric’s banjo. no less than three ukes, a harmonica and me, so we were just getting into a rather odd groove as the fire burned and I worked my way through the first of my bottles, when Kate called out to us.

“My Lords, Ladies and Estate Agents! We have escaped the hordes of cerebrophagic motons and taximetered wankney cab drivers! We have FIRE! We have CURRY INNA TIN! We can haz BOOZ! Now, there is only one thing that can improve the evening, apart from some seriously filthy and sweaty sex, and that is The Bard! I call upon you, one and all, to commune with me as we share n the worship of He Who Came From Harvard. It is hymn number 69 on your sheet. Well, they are all 69, of course, but that’s the way we like it. All together now…

“Spring is here, spring is here, life is skittles and life is beer…”

Eric dragged me up afterwards to do my own version of “I Hold Your Hand in Mine”, and Kate replied with “The Masochism Tango”, and I walked off a little way so my tears wouldn’t reflect too much of the firelight. Needless to say, Ginny was soon there, along with Kate, hand in hand.

“My darling here says that although she has used the soft pillows you still won’t talk. Adam, all I am going to say to you is not meant as any threat. We care about you, all of us here. You’ve hidden away, you are fucking your body to death, and we are worried. You don’t have to believe that, but it’s true”

I felt I was still sober enough. “Got a few issues, but ‘m OK”

Kate was as dismissive as all hell.

“Adam, just fuck off. My beautiful soon-to-be-cohabitee knows that you are talking bollocks., and so do I. I get paid to know such things. Now, I want this woman in my bed every night, but I can’t have that if you are playing twatty games, so here’s the deal. I have a colleague down your way, Sally Flint. You talk to her, please. She’s bloody good at PTSD, and for fuck’s sake I know that is what you have sleeping with you each night. Will you do that for me, for Ginny, for all these people here who love you, for yourself?”