The Fork in the Road

“ So I wonder what happens now?” he said with a calmness uncharacteristic of the man and in a measure certainly not matched to the situation Tom found himself in.

In the beginning well to be precise a micro second after that moment in time a big bang in the personal universe of an ordinary man, he could only feel pensive. But as he approached the event horizon of the black hole to his destiny or oblivion, he was touched with a new emotion. He so so wanted to resist to push back against the uncontrollable force that was alluring life from his broken body.

Warming adrenaline flowed, his soul welcomed it with cupped hands like warm honey and wine that bolstered a cold winters day.

“ So what happens now?’ he murmured over shaky breath.

The dispiriting silence was punctured by the rustle of some small animal leaving the security of a dusty bush as it ventured into the late night ambience in search of food. A barking of wild dogs in the distance a reminder that despite Man’s failings nature prevailed.

He stared into the dusky landscape, pain confusion and the simmering melancholy that a full life could be leaching away through a membrane of an armistice of warmth and into a restful abyss, a secure darkness, eventual peace. The cooling of the night air in the semi desert, solitude, the onset of chill but he did not feel scared or alone.

To him this was a surreal state he felt as though he was in a video game a player on a virtual stage on which he did not belong.

Pensive again and an unconscious communion of tongue and dry dusty lip. But it was no longer dry, pain furrowed eyes narrowed as he detected that familiar taste of rusty iron. This was the unsavoury piquancy of trauma, the unwanted and unexpected contact with the bully’s fist, collision with wets rocks, hard ground tough verification of a narrow riding prowess.

This time it would be different, no teacher to arrest the violence, no dad to pick him up and provide comfort and encouragement. In this very moment the space time fabric of the life of this man was slowly being parted by the shears of an existential presence in the ether, not grim but a reaper none the less.

The remnants of blood caked with khaki dust on his lips troubled him more than the life sapping flow from a shattered right arm. The former normally connected with the familiar comfort of caring and loving intervention, an intervention he knew this time that would be vacuous. For the mild trickle unlike the terminal wound resonated ‘ no one is coming’ no one will mop the suffering from those bloody lips and hold them tight to their breast in safety and reassurance.

He shuffled with difficulty toward the edge of the dirt covered road, veins in the light brown powder on the black cracked road top, the temporary evidence of his struggle. Then he stopped, what is the purpose of moving to the protection of the bushes? he reasoned. If there was help on the way it would surely come from a passing motorist. He was not thinking straight, he was being seduced by the warm safe soft darkness, eternal remedy, no more grief devoid of hurting a tortured soul put to rest. He decided to risk staying where he was.

But there was no sign of help a moon less night cast a blanket shadow over the bleak vista. The road mirrored the cloudless starry sky. Random small stones glittered and reflected the low illumination, the celestial flickering punctuated the blackness of the road. Emptiness above and below he was sat on a seamless universe of black, an unending cosmos .A precursor to an eternity with no boundary, an endless journey into time. Onwards into oblivion.

He recoiled in agony as a burning sensation shot down his battered arm. It was like an intravenous insurgence of boiling mercury ripping through his veins, snuffing out the pleasurable immunity of adrenaline. Had the pain always been there ? only be to be masked by a mind-altering experience a preview into the painless never ending permeant state of death. A warm journey into peace, no more suffering, no more torture. Now pain and the swift return to reality and an option to fight to live or bend a knee to peace.

Another fork in the road in a packed but often contorted journey through a stormy life. But this was a fork like no other, two routes with the same inevitable outcomes, one however that would cut out the middle man, do not pass go.

His was a life well lived, little tragedy, well no more than the average man. His state of mind was his only real tragedy, a tortured soul, shunned love, a runner, tired of life. This was the opportunity he craved, let it go, let the Godly and precious gift slip away. In the cold hours of the past his mind would wrestle with how and when. It had to be painless and vitally be effective, permanent. He reasoned that the gun would be the best, one squeeze of cold clamour on metal and the mechanism of release would be set in motion. The irreversible mechanical biology of the weapon would offer no margin of time to change. Time would almost stand still as steel on steel rotated , hammer on pin, pin on metal and activate chemical energy into the kinetics of death. A new dawn each day would provide reprieve, not today, not that day, some new toy or activity would distract from the realty.

Well here was the chance no need for mess no legacy of destruction, minimal distress and a hero’s death.

He pondered, he was not afraid to die alone, he had always been vocal on the matter.

‘We are born alone, we suffer alone and inevitably die alone even if we are in the company of so called loved ones’

With dwindling acuity he stared along the un lit straight narrow and crater peppered tarmac . stillness no traffic, no rescue, was the vacant black expanse a symbol of the end?

The pain subsided. The warming adrenaline flowed or was it a brain delivering an excursion across the demarcation lines of two states. The physical and mental agony of life pitched against an alluring cosy and temptingly restful pathway.

Again he looked down the forkless road there was no sign of help, was it on hold ? until he made his choice he wondered. The random world of quantum mechanics would possibly determine the outcome of a related action. This would provide a fitting ending to a life where lows eclipsed the highs, a solution to a recent fall from grace, a typical unconventional ending, he would be remembered. A life of playing the fool, a continuing foil to the long-gone alter ego of the fat child. A character that had to play to the crowd to gain acceptance. And when not, the fool he would engage in bigger better faster or court shallow and fanciful comradery supported by the anaesthetic of pursuits in alcohol. At least that is what he thought, he could never accept himself for who he was the core person, the real Tom. This was the chance, the final act, the fool the latent entertainer, but sadly to a crowd who did not really care for the antics. And who did ? Would they engage a smirk at this last scene were they unworthy of his friendship, his loyalty and un remunerated kindness?

And there was the irony is his life , he never excepted kindness without reciprocal remuneration, from that early age kindness would be earned by tomfoolery. He was never good enough he always saw himself as the second place man never content with just being. A burden from observing an intelligent but uneducated father work had and die young. He decided at an early age that he would play the safe bet and get an education. But on achieving a degree he still felt that he was in the wings no longer the fat kid but the comprehensive kid with a northern accent fighting for prominence in an Oxbridge world. He was neither hardnosed entrepreneur nor highflying white collar middle class achiever. Again he felt compelled to act out unreality to gain favour. Act the clown and this fat kid would not be bullied. He could never accept or reason the worth from others without a trade. This morphed into a need to give, as the only enactor to receive. Give his skill, his money, gifts, share his expensive trophies. Pass on the thin gain of superficial acts or the expensive gems of perceived success. Such falseness, especially in reply from the hired benefactor. Friends by the hour, coin powered spouses, credit card operated insanity. He could never accept love without exchange, the genuine warmth of others, even the love from his mother, the calming embrace was a perverse reward to curtailing a tantrum. No face value exchange, vicious perpetuations of omni dimensional transactions, shallow and with finite and flaky reward. And as time progressed he wearied with the inequality of the trade. A joker playing harder, falling further, piles of coins so high te could not see to which courtiers they were tossed. And as a receptive audience demanded more from the clown, he shunned reality. How could he be loved without badges medals, shields against true emotional engagement. ? The jeers of the vultures raised to fury and the clown became the gladiator, to be honoured in death, but there was no war to fight. Ghostly battlefields offered no glorious moment for Tom. He never saw the crash, aware it was coming, he pulled down the shutters and rewarded himself with the gifts of a meaningless god. Then the collapse, the loss of home, companionship, the much-vaunted badge of office, only the smouldering embers of credibility remained. He had come to India not to find himself but escape hide his broken head under the cloak of the mysterious continent. To resist a retrospective fork in the road, this time shun the entrapment of success avoid the hook that reeled men into the corporate world. An exchange where they wrestle with the master, appeased with compensatory micro wealth. Locked into a spiral of working to pay for belongings that only serve the purpose as make weight to the stress of the toils. False gods. And when the corporate hunter has wrangled with its quarry they toss it back when it is of no use. Thrown alive back into the reservoir of confusion discarded into the deep dark chasm of the unwanted.

This time he would take the other route the route to freedom, no caring, solitude, the cowboy riding off into the sunset. But no love no closeness not even procured friendship. Running away. The route taken he ventured off at breakneck pace. A crazy agenda when one was not needed. There was no time limit, no prize for coming first in fact there was no top step on the rostrum. No rostrum.

So as the adventurer progressed a new emptiness unfolded in front of him, and he filled the void by re-enacting his youth. A motorcycle, Levi 501s, white tee shirt and the obligatory black boots crowned the uniform of teenage rebellion. But he was no teenager and the rebellion had passed him by. A faux passport leading nowhere.

It was on that July night whilst charging along the dark dusty, unlit poorly surfaced highway he had been presented with a fork in the road. A metaphorical or even spiritual junction as this was a straight road ahead. He was proud of his prowess behind the handlebars of a motorcycle, only once has he fallen by his own hand. And 7600 km of treacherous riding under his belt further underpinned his myth of invincibility on two wheels. He has survived craters the size of houses, tank like lorries turning unannounced into his path, and the endless assault of mopeds on a reciprocal trajectory down the carriageway.

It took the physical manifestation of that most sacred animal that roamed freely across the subcontinent. At approx. 2130 hours that evening whilst riding alone in the subdued light of late evening down a poorly surfaced bi way, he was hurdled sideways down the peripheral track. An unforeseen passage down a flesh biting gravel track and through dry bushes. With no means of rider intervention the laden sled slowly decelerated aided by cracking and bending foliage until it reached an immovable terminal moraine. The bike tumbled into a deep ditch, Newtons laws’ of motion ensured that Tom under inertia kept travelling.

And there he was sat in the road, right hand dangling like a lifeless but crammed paper bag hanging motionless from a from a shattered arm.

Alone, undiscovered an in pain bleeding heavily he had been lifted from his whirlwind and delivered at the junction of the two pathways. Ultimately a peaceful place one with tempting immediacy the competition an inevitable delay. A delay that would involve leading a new life, one possibly without a right upper limb, or disability. No trinkets, gold or false platitudes. This would be a painful route, a torturous journey, fight with pains anxiety and an intense feeling of helplessness. For that first time he would have no monetary support system he would be vulnerable like never before. Would it be worth it ? he pondered.

Could he allow himself to be accept himself for who he was and not what he had done and what the dollar could procure. Then there was Sarah,

Since they had met it had been a rocky road. He had fallen in love with her there was no doubt about that. When they met he had a sense of an ending , his fortunes were about to change, his Company failing and although he could have intervened he was tired of it. So he fiddled whilst Rome burned, spent time on the shoot as his business faltered. He courted her , country retreats, good food, he put on the full dog and pony show. Ostensibly she was a high flyer big earner but this had not been her intended destiny. She pushed back on life’s excess and saw through Tom the showman and loved him for the person .He could not understand this.

A sharp stabbing sensation, burning pain awoke him from his daydream, he rubbed the dirt grained fingers of his left hand across his blood sodden broken limb. A warm and sticky feeling, palm down on the building pool of blood next to his leg. A reminder that soon he would have no option on the matter. Still no rescue, was time on hold until he made his decision? He placed his blood covered hand against his face closed his eyes and prayed.

His decision was made.

Chapter 2

The third week in October was a frantic time in the normally passive town of Cheltenham in the heart of Gloucestershire. In the weeks leading up to the festival marquees and purpose built displays sprung up just as the flowers disappeared in the town’s parks. The taught white waterproof fabric pitches provided a pleasurable juxtaposition of old and modern against stucco 19 th century terraces. The Literary Festival was well attended by the public and established authors and budding writers. And for a modest fee book lover or just followers of ghost-written celebrity life encounters could get up close to their idols.

It also provided the perfect venue for a new writer to launch his or her works and a hopefully a much vaunted and successful career.

This year was no exception with a welter of new up and coming artisans of the written word hoping to fill the lecture theatres and melt away the piles of signed copies stacked up in the makeshift bookshops.

This was not the case however for Robert Bousefield although a Cheltenham rookie he was already on the ascent a writer of commercial fiction. The beauty of the festival, although literary in its DNA, it is a platform for all genres and an author did not have to be the next Hemingway, Auden or Austen to qualify. Bousefield’s works in particular were low on character high in plot adventures, but always with a twist. Not totally fiction, ‘ this is really happening’ he would proffer with his trademark cheeky grin. His latest work a conspiracy based around Brexit had been a smash hit and topped the best sellers list, but to Bousefield’s agent the very commercial Bernard ‘call me Bernie” Foley, his works occupied 1,3 and 9 on the top row at most supermarkets and airport newsagents. The aggressive Foley who learned his craft as an east end London cloth trader was despised by the literary fraternity but the perfect agent for Bob, ‘commercial wins the day’ he would taunt. Adding that ‘Bern the earn’ is the only man to have on your side.

Like Foley, Bousefield had appeared from nowhere, shunned by London agents he initially self-published. He achieved some success and was championed by Foley who took his second work to new heights. Bousefield was a man who kept his personal life a secret, it as if he had no history until 3 years ago. There were rumours abound that he was ex British Intelligence his veil of mystery even led some commentators to postulate that he had been in prison for many years.

Bob Bousefield, was unaffected by the range ad depth of public speculation as to his past and present. He was not a celebrity and shunned the camera, he left that to the ebullient Foley. Bob however knew who he was, privately he often reflected on a tortured past and a time when the price of a suit or the vintage of a claret was his only measure of success and faux happiness. Yes, he enjoyed the income from his work, but he led a reasonably modest life now. Settled by the sea in Norfolk he lived most of the time with his real love who he had met at a pivotal time in his life. They had had their struggles mainly due to his past insecurities but today they had an idyllic life. A second home in Kerala South West India provided the solitude that Bob often sought. He loved the climate, food spiritualty and most importantly the people.

His second love over his girl as he called her was writing or not so much composing works of literary genius but telling stories, creating. He had found happiness and contentment in his work for the first time. It had taken over sixty years for him to believe that he was good enough

‘Five minutes Bob’

Bousefield downed the cooling green tea raised his head and waived his left hand in acknowledgement towards Carol the stage manager. Her elevated clipboard masked smiling eyes. In the relative darkness of the backstage area he cautiously made his way to the white line on the floor in the wings. He smiled at Carol , leaned forward towards the large TV camera and caught his reflection in the lens of the sleeping apparatus. He smiled at the image and ran his fingers through long dark hair.

‘Ladies and gentleman please welcome to Cheltenham Mr Robert Bousefield.’

Bob in his trademark black suit and white tee shirt smiled and waived in presidential style at the packed house. His glistening eyes evidence that the arousing welcome had connected with this caring man.

Over the next forty minutes the interviewer critiqued the two new thrillers but his skills were extended to their limit when he tried to pry in to Bob’s past. Bousefield would not yield, an agile mind and strong sense of humour a robust foil to the interrogation.

‘It is if you have no history Bob ?’ questioned his adversary.

‘Today is my history, the only one that matters’ he rebounded.

‘But why do you say that Bob?’

‘Simple what came before was just noise it was not enjoyable it does not deserve committing to words, I have neither the time nor inclination to dwell’

Sensing that he had retained the high ground Bousefield grinned and sat forward. Not a grin of arrogance but more of relief.

‘Let’s say there was a forty-year delay in me getting to the start point and on that I will say no more , now ask me a question about today that is what matters’

‘Ok Bob I get the message so tell me about India why are you attracted to the sub-continent?’

Bousefield facial expression opened, his eyes lit up, as if he had touched the warm sun he liked the question he liked India,

‘It is my spiritual home but more importantly I love the authentic curries’ he grinned

‘ Seriously unless you have been it is difficult to make others understand’

‘I have never been Bob but a good friend of mine toured the place back in the eighties.”

Bousefield raised an eye flicked hair from his face.

‘Where did he go ?’

‘All over but he came back in a bit of a state’

‘Oh so what happened to him ?’

‘Like many a young man in the eighties he wanted to see India using an old Royal Enfield as a trusty steed’

‘Sounded fun how far did he get?’ His enquiring tone resonated more than general interest.

‘Well after two weeks he hit an immovable object, a sacred cow no less, on a road in the North West nearly dying on the road was discovered by some locals and he woke up in the public hospital’

Bousefield shuffled uneasily in the black leather chair, he rubbed the palms of his hands together, he seemed a little unnerved by the account. Or was it an uncanny familiarity. Sweat beaded on his brow, was it the stage lights or something deeper?

‘Did he get home OK ?’

‘Well eventually but here is the interesting bit and almost a story in itself, some Indian man, spoke good English, came to visit him in hospital. A Mr Anjani Patel a local accountant. He brought food and clean clothes and stayed by his bedside’

‘The poor fella had no insurance but his mother got his air ticket home from Delhi’

‘Was he badly injured ?’

‘Broken arm and collar bone few scratches and yes a bit knocked about, but what they did not know he had contracted a very dangerous infection and would have certainly died had he not got back to UK’

‘Did he get back ?’ Bousefield asked intently, the seriousness of his face paraded a more than passing enquiry in the story.

‘Yes Mr Patel accompanied him on the two-day trip to Delhi and cared for him until he boarded the plane.’

‘Is he Ok today and what happened to Mr Patel’

‘Yes he is ok today thanks to Mr Patel but there is a well unexplainable element to this story.’

‘Go on’ asked Bousefield, the darkness of auditorium sat well with the silence of the audience.

‘Well my friend tried to find Patel and write and thank him and for many years but he had no success. Then he contacted the local newspaper in the State town and well erm that is when he discovered err. the slightly odd and well let’s say ghoulish truth’

Bousefield pursed his lips he was uneasy and sat back in his chair. As he settled the right arm of his black jacket rode up revealing a heavily scarred forearm. White tracks prominent on tanned skin, like rain streaks on dirty glass

The interviewer looked around and sensed the banality of a now transfixed audience somewhere in the darkness, their outline blocked by the glare of the lights. He stared at Bob.

‘The thing is that the reporter said that Patel had died on that same road in 1979 he had collided with a cow in the night and was catapulted into a ditch and bled to death.”

What seemed an eternal silence fell on the gathering. The interviewer shook his head hoping to break from an illusionary dimension. Taking a sharp intake of breath, eyes welling up he announced with a hint of a quiver in an normally controlled voice.

‘Seems that there are stories of the mystifying Mr Patel having saved many travellers on that road. Many years after his own reported death’

He shuddered and pushed his shoulders up in an enforced shiver.

‘So let’s move on Bob’

Bousefield appeared withdrawn, aloof, distant, his eyes pitched into an oblivion or was he reliving something in his mind. He ground his teeth gently then slowly partially opened his mouth. His eyes flickered closed to open several times, and his head gently rolled to one side. He was in another dimension looking into a past world, small movements of his lips mimicked speech, the pink moist tip of his tongue protruded through a momentary grimace.

Sensing Bousefield wanted to say something maybe about his past, the interviewer went in for the kill.

‘So Bob you have no history but what made you start writing when was the road to Damascus the fork in the road ?’

Bousefield shuffled his left hand on his lover right forearm cautiously pushed back the Italian cloth of his jacket sleeve. He transferred his focus to an exposed right arm heavily scarred, real-time illustration of some large trauma, his vacant eyes glistened. In a graceful calm movement he looked up at the audience his lips appeared not to move as he whispered.

‘It all happened when I was in India that is the moment my history started one night on a blackened road I collided with a cow. I lay in the road on my own seriously injured, dying I had to decide I had reached my fork in the road ’

Holding back tears Thomas Robert Bousefield , known as Tom to friends and family rose from his chair and walked off stage to the warm embrace of his girl his lovely Sarah. He knew that he had chosen the right road, he was at peace.

The End