TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

John Saul

variousmasks back and forth, hoping for an implosionelsewhere, anywhere but this one place he would call his home, a modest apartment preferably surrounded by trees, where squirrels and foxes would keep the immediate area tidy, which come to that they did already, matters had reached that far. By now deep and alone in the underpass, at the mid-point under the disaster zone known as the A4, otherwise the Great West Road, looking up at the peeling ceiling of the tunnel with its strew of leaves, bags and cartons, his lungs reckoned the ceiling could well contain asbestos, his eyes told himwalking here was a bad idea, they told his legs to get a move on, which they did, smartly up the ramp, up to another bad idea, said his eyes, to where in both directions the lines of cars and vans and trucks and buses were battering their way on; great tonnes of moving metal, which one day would be turned to landfill, to build more roads. In conjunction with these movements and messages to himself he held his breath; when he finally had to breathe he tried to breathe as little as possible while not at the same time passing out, Come on shape up, he had done this before, he went regularly to the hot tub behind Arlington Park Mansions, so he ought to manage it again, and now his ears protested, his mouth too as it opened; alone among his body parts his legs acted gladly, like a dog out for a walk, his legs were the star turn, without his legs where would he be, his trusty legs, trusty so far, they would remain trusty, at least until the day they too would fail. The route too had legs, it occurred to him, stages: having scurried beneath the cacophony of roars, snarls and blares, the whole stinking rumble, and yearning to squeeze down the narrow roadwaybetween thesteel andglass buildingsat thecarriage-side, he sped again, again trying not to breathe inairuntil heeventually 224