Gridlock (27 page)

However, once relieved of his responsibilities by two old blokes in peaked caps, Bruce quickly tracked Sam down, learning over the car phone from Sam's chauffeur that the car was stuck in traffic but that Sam had disappeared on foot up Frognal. Bruce had given chase.

And there he was, unnoticed by all but Sam, standing behind Deborah. Sam was attempting to keep Deborah's attention because he far preferred Bruce to have the engine than her. If Bruce had it then Sam might yet, at least, be part of things.

'I'll take these then,' said Bruce, gently leaning in and plucking the plans from under Deborah's broken arm.

'Watch out for the axe!!' cried Sam, as a shocked Deborah squirmed round on the bonnet and lashed behind her with the hatchet. This time, however, her extraordinary combative powers deserted her, and she missed.

'Oooh,' gasped the crowd.

'If you ever manage to get out of this fix, Sam,' said Bruce, 'write and tell me how you managed it, I'll be interested. You'll find me in Detroit making engines.'

'Bruce,' pleaded Sam, 'get me a lawyer, a doctor, a drink! For God's sake, you can't leave me!'

But Bruce could and he did. Without another word he turned on his heel. Although, actually, he did not get very far. Not even one step in fact, because he got smacked in the face by one of the little flashing lanterns surrounding the British Telecom tent which Deborah had avoided earlier.

'Oooh,' gasped the crowd again.

Toss leant down and grabbed at the plans.

'I got 'em, Debbo,' he shouted. The crowd was too riveted even to gasp. Once Toss had recovered from the shock of being shot in the shoulder, he had naturally set off after his friend. As he ran down the hill he saw the crash, and he saw a man creeping up behind the prostrate Deborah, which was why he had picked up the lantern, the only weapon that was available. It had been a good idea.

'Run, Toss, run,' shouted Deborah. 'Put them in a bank, the post office, Xerox them, stitch them to your body, but run.'

'What about you?' Toss shouted.

'Please, Toss, not again, just
save Geoffrey's engine.
' The appeal in Deborah's voice was sufficiently poignant to spur Toss to action. He turned around and legged it.

Suddenly a huge beating noise filled the air, there were shouts and a rush of wind. Up from the Finchley Road came uniformed police. The man with the car phone at the top of the hill had done his job. He had reported gunfire on Church Row and
that
the police took seriously.

Beat bobbies had run along from Swiss Cottage station and a helicopter of the Tactical Arms Group had been scrambled.

Since Toss was running up the hill he did not see the coppers behind him, and he had no time to stare at helicopters.

What the coppers saw, of course, was a bleeding man running away from what appeared to be a slaughter, carrying a parcel. Clearly he was worth having a chat with.

Toss was brought down with a neat rugby tackle and the engine plans leapt from his hand, bursting open on the pavement. The helicopter descended to hover only feet above Toss and the copper.

'No!' shouted Toss.

'No!' agreed Sam, Bruce and Deborah.

But it was no use, the winds from the blades scattered the precious plans for Geoffrey Spasmo's hydrogen engine up and away over the vast traffic jam that used to be London. Up over the rooftops, fluttering hither and thither across the paralysed city, landing in puddles, blown into drifts of sodden leaves, stuck to the windscreens of helpless, stranded cars, until very soon there was not a word nor a single figure of Geoffrey's designs left anywhere.

It was the day of the State Opening of Parliament, with all its inane pomp and ludicrous majesty. The strange man in the black tights had bashed on the door. The procession of the bewigged living dead (also in tights) had passed without incontinence or cardiac arrest from the Lords to the Commons – or perhaps it is the other way round. The Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition had walked up the aisle together conducting their one private conversation per year.

'Go fuck yourself.'

'No,
you
go fuck yourself.'

'No,
you
go fuck yourself.'

All was ready for the Queen's speech. Except her that is, the Queen was far from ready. There were no circumstances under which she would be ready, because this speech was, without doubt, the foulest and most horrible that she had ever been required by duty to utter. Prince Philip, loyal and supportive as always, reminded her that she felt this way every year. Each time she was called upon to announce some vicious, petty cut in benefits and welfare, or some further dismantling of the resources of the state, she swore that she could not do it. Each year, as the prince reminded her, the Queen wondered if it was worth provoking a constitutional crisis by simply refusing to recite the nauseating drivel, but the Queen knew she couldn't,
noblesse oblige
and all that. The State Opening of Parliament is the time when a constitutional monarch gets real.

'This year it's different, Philip,' she whispered backstage as they inserted the huge metal support spike in the back of her dress to hold up the great big stupid-looking crown. 'I really cannot say it.'

But she knew she would, she would have to. The public outcry after the great gridlock had been horrendous. Hundreds of thousands of Londoners had been left stranded in their cars for up to three days while the jam was cleared from the outside in. The knock-on effect had shot up the motorways and down to the Channel Tunnel, causing more horrendous delays. The complete shut-down of the capital for over half a week had affected business and commerce all over the country and into Europe. Countless deals had been lost, food had rotted, looting had occurred. The whole country had been absolutely astonished to discover what Chief Superintendent Ross had known for years, which was: that we are completely and utterly helpless in the face of motor cars, they can cripple us, any day, any time. They are a monster that we have created, we worship them, sacrifice the riches of the earth to them and we will die for them, the moment it is demanded of us.

'Something must be done,' the people cried. 'We need more roads,' many added. It was this charged atmosphere of national disaster that had forced the Prime Minister to request Mrs McCorkadale, the Minister for Transport, to produce a radical, new, emergency road plan for Britain. By an extraordinary coincidence, the Ministry for Transport had one all ready. Digby's models were dusted off and presented to the nation. In the near hysteria that followed the gridlock, environmental objections were set aside, the country wanted roads and the Government was ready to rise to the challenge.

'My government,' the Queen said, a lump rising in her throat as big as her hat, 'will begin the total rebuilding of all our major cities so that they may better accommodate the needs of the private motorist . . . This will involve the widening of all motorways . . . All B roads to become A roads . . .'

The list went on and on, and it broke the Queen's heart to read it.

Afterwards, in the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister spoke to Ingmar Bresslaw.

'Terrible thing that gridlock, wasn't it, Ingmar?'

'Terrible, Prime Minister.'

'Bit of luck for us, in a way, though, wasn't it?'

'Not really, Prime Minister, statistically it was bound to happen in the end. Ross had been warning us for years.'

'Yes,' agreed the PM, 'but it was a bit of luck, it happening right now, just when we needed to regain the transport initiative.'

'Yes, Prime Minister,' Ingmar conceded. That was a bit of luck. It couldn't have happened at a better time really. Almost as if it was planned.'

'How absurd,' said the Prime Minister.

'Yes,' Ingmar agreed, 'how absurd.'

'Thank you, Ingmar,' said the Prime Minister. 'Thank you very much.'

THE END