Zero History

instinctively, and leaned into her back. Hard automotive protrusions, some chromed,
were zipping past his knees, either side.
He had no idea where they’d emerged from the station, what street they were on, or
which direction they might be going. The hairspray smell was giving him a headache.
When she stopped for a light, he kept his feet on the pegs, dubious about finding them
again.
Pentonville Road, on a sign, though he didn’t know whether they were on it or near it.
Midmorning traffic, though he’d never seen it from a motorcycle. His jacket, unbuttoned,
flapped energetically in the wind, making him glad of the Faraday pouch. His money,
what was left of it, was in his right front pocket, the memory card with the photographs
of Foley tucked down into his right sock.
More signs, blurry through the plastic: King’s Cross Road, Farringdon Road. He
thought the hairspray fumes were making his eyes sting now, but no way to rub them. He
blinked repeatedly.
Eventually, a bridge, low railings, red and white paint. Blackfriars, he guessed,
remembering the colors. Yes, there were the tops of the very formal iron columns that
had once supported another bridge, beside it, their red paint slightly faded. He’d come
this way once with Sleight, to meet Bigend in an archaic diner, for one of those big greasy
breakfasts. He’d asked Sleight about the columns. Sleight hadn’t been interested, but
Bigend had told him about the railway bridge that had stood beside Blackfriars. When
Bigend talked about London, it felt to Milgrim that he was describing some intricate
antique toy he’d bought at auction.
Leaving the bridge, she turned, deftly negotiating smaller streets. Then she slowed,
turned again, and they rode up on oil-stained concrete, into a workyard full of
motorcycles, big ugly ones, their fairings patched with tape. Almost stopping, she
dropped her booted feet to the ground and supported the motorcycle with her legs,
walking with it as she crept it forward, between the others, past a man in a filthy onepiece
orange suit and a backward baseball cap, a gleaming socket wrench in his hand.
Through a wide opening and into an interior littered with tools, disassembled cycles and
their engines, white foam cups, crumpled food wrappers.
She cut the engine, put down the kickstand, and swatted at Milgrim’s hands, which he
quickly withdrew. The sudden silence was disorienting. He struggled off, knees stiff, and
removed the helmet. “Where are we?” He looked up at the high, soot-blackened ceiling,
hung with shattered fiberglass fairings.
Now she dismounted, swinging one multibuckled boot over the seat. “Suthuk,” she
said, after removing the scarred yellow helmet.
“What?”
“South-wark. South of the river. Suth-uk.” She set the helmet on a cluttered tool cart,
and began to undo the elastic net that held Milgrim’s bag atop her gas tank.
“What is this place?”