Lost In The City By David Smith

He took the usual route, down Chamberlain Street, past the lights and just kept going. After about 15 minutes he realised he was in a part of the city he did not recognize. No matter, one could always get home; there were always signs pointing to the different areas of London, and if he followed these he would come to an area he would recognize. But first he needed a break; he had been on the road since around 6 that morning. He scanned down the road for somewhere where he could get a bite to eat and a cup of tea. The shops were of the usual mix: a grocers and convenience stores, a recruitment agency, launderette, some sort of depot with half a dozen white vans in the parking bay. Then he saw what he was looking for. Ann’s Café - a drab brown sign above the large window and slightly steamed up glass. He parked the car and opened the door to the premises. A few worn looking tables and chairs spread neatly, well used but clean and tidy. An older man with his coat still on sat at one of them, looking vacantly out of the window, newspaper well-read rolled up on the table. There was no one behind the counter and the other man showed no flicker of response to the new patron. He walked up to the counter looked at the menu board, beginning to salivate at the prospect of some greasy fried food and a hot mug of tea. A minute or two went by, but still no one came. A few cars swished up and down the street outside – the man continued to look out of the window, his mug now empty. “What can I get you?” – a woman’s voice at last. He turned to see a young women in her mid twenties, who was looking, it seemed, some way into the distance, as though he was not really there. “Two sausages, egg, chips and beans, please” as he reached for his wallet. She turned without a word, or even taking a note of his order, leaving him alone again, apart from the other man, still staring out of the window. He took a seat, supposing his order was in hand despite the rather strange reception. The café was very quiet, the street sounds outside seemed very distant and muffled. In fact there was no sound at all within, not that you would expect much with only two people present, but the room seemed to somehow suck out even the slightest decibel: no paper rustling, no foot scraping, no throat clearing or coughing – nothing. Just the sound of his heart, quietly thumping in his chest, perhaps now increasing in rate slightly, a sliver of panic or alarm irrationally flitted across his mind. For a second all of life seemed to come to a standstill, no movement, no traffic or pedestrians or any sound, without, or within. The other man was now a statue, unmoving, fixed and frozen in time. He felt himself glazing over, petrifying into stone, and with a conscious effort turned his head back to break the spell, to reach for normality. It seemed to work. As he turned his head, she emerged from the back, almost as though this was her cue, a tray held in front of her, walking to his table. The food was all there as ordered, steam rising reassuringly from the beans. She transferred the plate and the tea onto the table in front of him, looked into his eyes for a second, a hint of a smile, then retreated to where she had come from. He ate hungrily, looking up and out of the window onto the street between mouthfuls. The late autumn sun streamed into the café, illuminating the room and accentuating its yellowed hues. He began to think of home in the southern suburb of Streatham. He was still a bachelor and lived alone, so there would be no one to greet him, but it was home, familiar and welcoming. He would unwind, slump on the couch and watch the box. Perhaps put a meal in the

microwave or order a takeaway, or even go out. No, stay in, it was feeling like a long day already and besides, he was out dining now, such as it was. As he finished his last mouthful and placed the implements on the plate, she appeared, on cue again, silently arriving with his change, which he scooped off the tray. “Thank you” he said glancing up at her. “Thank you” she echoed – there was a note of mimic in her voice he thought, and a glint in her eye, not hostile, but rather confident, as of a job well done. Then she was gone. The other diner was also gone, though he did not see or hear him move. He must have made his exit whilst his mind was on his meal, and other things. But it was still surprising that he had slipped away unnoticed, in fact, a little odd he thought. The café was all his now. As he put the change in his pocket he glanced at the coins to check if it was correct. It seemed to be: £3.50 for the food, £1.50 change, which she had given in 3 50p coins. The familiar queen’s head looked back at him from two of the coins, and an unfamiliar star on the third. He picked it up and read the inscription around the edge ‘Republic of Englandia’ – must be a novelty coin. Elizabeth’s profile was safely stamped on the reverse side. It was probably not valid currency, and he would have mentioned it to the proprietor on his way out, but she was nowhere to be seen. He stepped out into the mid afternoon, the sun low in the sky but pleasantly warm. The engine fired up and he switched the radio on, already tuned to a country music station. Not everyone’s cup of tea and a little incongruous in downtown London. But the sounds of Memphis Tennessee soon washed over him, soothing and familiar. Country music was a pleasant mix; it was exotic, pretentious, soulful and mournful at times, magnifying the minutiae of life with operatic drama, twanging guitars and lively fiddles in place of the orchestra. Some saw it as the music of rednecks and country hicks, but he felt they were missing out on a valid and insightful commentary on a wide range of subjects, mostly relational but tractors and prisons and alien invasions got their fair share of coverage, and after all it did not take itself too seriously. These musings left his motoring mind on auto pilot. He was comfortable behind the wheel spending many hours each day driving in and around London as a rep for his company, his car was a home from home. Knowing he had finished for the day and could head for home lightened his mood and distracted him from his purpose for some minutes. He had driven two or three blocks when he refocused and as he did so looked around and realised he was in a part of the city he had never seen. He began to look for directional signs to head him back to the south. He had an A to Z in the back, and had not yet acquired GPS, he felt it was cheating and would usurp all that knowledge he had built up over the years - the GPS would be like the smart new kid who made him feel past it, obsolete. There was more honour and pride in navigating by sense, experience and instinct, he reasoned. Signs - where were they? Should he turn around, or take the next left, or next right? The sun was lower in the sky, to the west of course, he could use that to find south and just head in that direction. Not a sensible option, it may take him to some dead end, or onto a dual carriageway, carrying him as a river in flood miles from his route. The roads of London are not orderly, but have grown like a bramble of confusion over the centuries. He may start heading south but could as well be heading north in a matter of minutes. Just as he was considering slowing to look at the map book, he saw the sign ahead.

‘Blackwall Tunnel Northbound’, in one direction ‘Bermondsey and Elephant and Castle’ in the other. ‘Verdant Hills’ was a third option. Verdant Hills? Never heard of that, sounds like a country park, or a funeral parlour. He thought he knew London pretty well, so was puzzled by this. Could it be a new housing estate, or Business Park? The sign looked fairly weathered so whatever, or wherever it was, it could not be that new. Anyway, he wasn’t going there, Bermondsey and the Elephant were the directions he knew. He turned the car towards familiar territory. The rush hour traffic was building now, red single and double-decker and the new long ‘bendy’ buses clogged the bus lanes. Diesel and petrol fumes belched out of hundreds of exhausts, ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ filled the car. Johnny Cash, what a great performer, you could feel his heart bleed in his voice. He got even better in his last years he reflected; he will be greatly missed. The traffic lurched along and he looked out for more signs to lead him home. There was one ahead, not quite legible in the deepening gloom of evening. As he got nearer he made out a sign to ‘Elephant or Castle’. He looked again – that should be ‘and Castle’ not ‘or’. He had seen in developing countries misspellings of signs in awkward English, which could be quite amusing and quaintly appealing, but in the great metropolis of London this should not happen. How could such a glaring error remain displayed for all to see, surely the civic minded folk of the borough would have reported it in their hundreds, and the sign replaced post haste. Or how could the workmen have erected it in the first place without noticing? ‘Elephant and’ or ‘Elephant or’ was not important, so long as it showed the way. He turned in the direction of the sign and should by now have been in very familiar territory. But he did not recognize the road, or the shops, or the people. Of course the pedestrians of London were always anonymous, but they were real people, with homes and families and complaints and shopping and designer clothes….. But he could not quite focus on the people on the pavements, they were real enough, but their faces seemed indistinct, a little blurred, rather like characters in a video game. A shudder ran involuntarily through his chest, he felt as he had in Anne’s Café for those moments when the world seemed to stop. It must just be his imagination, it had been along day, he must be over tired, and it was getting darker. Elephant and Castle here I come. The road led into a large roundabout, as he expected. Now he knew where he was and just needed to select the right exit. He thought of home, he pictured himself leaving the car, briefcase in hand as he locked the car door and looked towards his flat door. He entered the roundabout and was about to take the next exit out but a large van appeared on his left, blocking the way. He was swept around by the traffic. A little annoyed he manoeuvred to the outside lane to ensure exiting the next time around. He completed a full circuit, but did not see the exit, there were 3 or 4 roads off the roundabout, but none now seemed familiar. Round and around again, and again. What am I doing? What is happening? he asked himself. Was this really the Elephant and Castle roundabout? He began to feel foolish and sensed that onlookers were laughing at this obviously lost motorist. He then took the next available exit, planning to stop as soon as he could and get his bearings, maybe even look at the A to Z, ridiculous, pathetic and defeatist as it seemed to the veteran

London driver. But he had to regain control, the evening and the roads and signs of London Town seemed to be getting the better of him. He indicated, slowed and drew to a stop a short way down one of the roads off the roundabout. He left the engine running, the Dixie Chicks were wailing in unison out of the car speakers, but they seemed far off, from another time, another place. He stared through the windscreen in front of him for probably a few minutes; allowing his system to settle, to return to its usual relaxed equilibrium, mind in neutral gear. Then he looked around him. He was outside a bank, closed for the night, and anonymous but official looking buildings opposite. The traffic was light and pedestrians few. He knew each road off the round about; he should have recognized where he was but did not. The word, and the feeling ‘Lost’ began to creep up on him, unfamiliar and unsettling. There were often times he did not know exactly where he was, but that had always dissipated as familiar landmarks, or road signs helped him along; he was never actually lost, until tonight. Mechanically he reached onto the back seat for the street atlas. What was the name of this road? It should have been Newington Causeway, or Newington Butts, but he sensed it was not. He looked back down the road for the street name and strained to read it in the darkness. “New Cause Way”. He could just make it out by squinting. He turned to the index in the back of the book, fearing what he would find, or would not find. He scanned down the list of ‘Ns’ . New Change, New Close, New Cres, New Cross, but no New Cause Way. He looked up and down the list again, definitely not there. He looked up and around again, book lying open in his hands and began to feel a numbness stealing over him. Not panic, that would have been better, that was a positive force, but he felt as if he was slowly sinking, fading away, disappearing from view, from all that was real. The fact was he could think of no more options, to drive on he sensed would be to go further into the unknown, not that he knew where he was, and even who he was now. Just then a pedestrian passed by, a life line, he had to reach for it, but as in a dream when one cries out but vocal chords sleep on his body was unresponsive, limbs and torso heavy and sluggish. With a sudden suffusion of adrenalin he forced the door open, leapt out and half trotted after the man. “Excuse Me” he managed to call, in strained tones. “Excuse Me”, louder and more urgent. The man stopped and turned. “Yes, Mate” he said helpfully, normally, calmingly. Familiarity seemed to flood back, this was a typical friendly local Londoner, he seemed in that moment like his lifelong friend. He half laughed with relief, and drew in a breath or two to quieten his pounding heart. “I think I am a bit lost” he started, “I thought I was at the Elephant and Castle and I need to get down to Streatham, can you help?” The man looked back, coolly, just a second or two longer than was comfortable. “Yes, Mate” he said again, “I think you are a bit lost, this is the Elephant and the Castle, now, Streatham….” He tailed off, rubbed his chin and looked around him. “What you’ll need to do is ask at the Kebab shop across the road, ask in there, he knows that part of the world”. The man smiled, turned and left him standing alone on the pavement. He felt as though that should have been helpful, but it wasn’t. So near, so nearly back on course, but in fact no better off. Almost involuntarily he looked across the road to the kebab shop he had somehow missed when he first stopped. He crossed over the dimly lit road towards the patch of yellow light spilling out of

the shop. He walked in to the empty premises, empty but for the Turkish or Greek looking man behind the glass counter, large knife in hand as he sliced meat off the slowly rotating cone of nondescript meat. He could have sworn that the man was a statue as he stepped in, only coming to life monetarily after he entered, but he was not sure if he could trust his own senses now. “I need to get Streatham” he blurted out. “Streatham… Streatham” the man repeated in accented tones, as though recalling some long lost memory. “Streatham, yes, I can tell you how to get there”. Thank goodness, lets get on with this, get the car home and get this day over with. “What you must do is go back to the roundabout”. His heart sank, not that roundabout again. “When you get there, go around, and go around again, you must go around three times”, what was he talking about? “Then put your car into the reverse overdrive gear and press bonnet release...”. He did not wait to hear any more; either he was going insane or the Kebab man was. With growing alarm he ran back to his car, or where it should have been. But there was no car, the darkness seemed to draw closer and heavier, he stood for second, looking and peering in every direction, then started to walk, then faster, then broke into a run and then fled into the night, limbs flailing, panic, fright and despair strewn in his wake. They found his car two weeks later. He had not called into the office for a few days and his boss had been concerned. It was not like Pete, he was very rarely ill, and although he did not to call everyday, he would keep in touch and report back, either by phone or e-mail, regularly. He had not responded to emails and not returned messages left on his home phone. His mobile appeared to be turned off. The boss had even visited his flat in Streatham, but got no answer, and noticed with some concern bottles of milk uncollected at the door. It was then that he called the police and reported him as missing. The car was parked on Chamberlain Street. It had by then acquired a small collection of parking tickets, accumulating under one of the windscreen wipers. The two policemen who spotted it had checked on their data base and matched it with a missing person report. They parked their patrol car and came over to look over the silver Ford Mondeo, a popular fleet car. The car was locked, a briefcase visible on the passenger seat, everything looked normal. They walked back to their car to radio in the find and arrange for removal to the car pound. It was well past lunchtime, the morning has been busy for them, but the car find marked the beginning of a lull. They seized the chance for a break. “That should do” the police driver said to his colleague, nodding towards a café on the other side of the road. “Anne’s Café” said the other out loud as he read the sign above the window. They crossed the road and removed their caps as they entered and surveyed the interior. It appeared empty, no one at the counter then they saw him. He was an older man seated at one of the tables, still wearing his coat, seemingly unaware of the two officers as he looked vacantly out of the window, an empty mug and rolled up paper on the otherwise bare table.