Jam (11 page)

Shauna accepted the hand that was stretched amicably in her direction. It was large, spade-like, rough as sandstone. The man's smile lingered, as did his eyes.

‘Popper,' he said. ‘Tom Popper. They call me Popper, or Pops. Sometimes Poppy. How do you do?'

‘Shauna Williams,' said Shauna, holding his gaze. But etiquette demanded that he turn his attention to the other members of the group.

‘Tom Popper.'

‘Max King, pleased to meet you.'

‘A great pleasure . . . Tom Popper.'

‘Shahid Anwar.'

‘A pleasure.'

‘Yeah.'

Jim lumbered into view, the lighter cupped in his hand. In response to the newcomer's request, he introduced himself; then he struck the flame and offered it. Popper's face was, for an instant, illuminated by a whitish glow as he brought his cigarette to life; then the clouds of darkness passed across it again, punctured by the cigarette's orange tip. Jim sat once again on the motorway barrier, and Popper sucked gratefully on the tobacco.

‘Thanks so much,' he said. ‘You've absolutely saved my life.'

‘Where are you from, Popper?' said Shauna.

‘I live in Pimlico,' he replied. ‘But my parents live in Oxfordshire. You?'

‘Fulham.'

‘Ah, yes. Lovely part of the world.'

‘Can't compare to Oxfordshire.'

‘True. But then if you lived in Oxfordshire you'd have a bugger of a journey to work, I'd have thought.'

‘Of course. Sorry. I'm feeling a bit worse for wear. I've just come back from a wedding.'

‘Enough said.'

She laughed, and it sounded new in her ears. Popper looked at her strangely for a moment, and she stopped laughing. Then he drew on his cigarette and said, ‘This is a really random question, so apologies in advance. But you don't happen to know someone called Hodgy, do you? Harry Hodgkinson?'

Shauna's face went hot, then cold, then hot again. ‘Hodgy? Foreign Office?'

‘That's the man.'

‘Yes. I mean, no. We met at the wedding. Briefly. God, what made you say that?'

‘Just that he was at a wedding this weekend as well. I had a hunch.'

‘That is a weird coincidence.'

‘It is, isn't it? Degrees of separation and all that.'

‘This is uncanny.'

They looked at each other as if trying to untangle some obscure conundrum of the universe. Then Shauna noticed something about Popper that she hadn't seen before. A darkness about the eyes, a slight rheuminess, an exhaustion. Not just the tiredness of a late night or a hangover; an existential tiredness, a tiredness of the spirit, as if something was draining him.

‘So,' he said, sucking hard on his cigarette, ‘anybody know what the bloody hell's going on here?'

‘I have no idea,' said Max, with feeling.

‘I heard it was something to do with a herd of deer attempting to run across the carriageway,' said Popper.

‘That's a new one,' said Jim, a mocking tinge to his voice.

‘It was flooding,' volunteered Shahid. ‘Or a pile-up. Or both.'

‘Well, whatever it is,' said Popper, ‘I predict that we're in it for the long haul.'

‘What do you mean?' said Shauna.

‘You know, the long haul. The night.'

‘No. Surely not.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just can't. I need water. I need paracetamol. I need my bath and I need my bed.'

‘Well put,' said Popper. ‘You never know, it might move sooner. I tend to have a rather pessimistic outlook.'

‘I don't know what we'll do if we're here all night,' said Jim.

‘It would be easy if you just opened that fucking van,' said Shahid. ‘You're bound to have all sorts in there. It'd make spending the night easy, innit? With all the kit.'

‘Who knows what's in there, anyway?' Max interjected. ‘Jim's probably at the end of his delivery round, this time of night. The van's probably empty. Isn't it, Jim?'

The hesitation in Jim's response was all that was needed to reveal the truth.

‘Well,' said Popper diplomatically, ‘at least we know it's there if push comes to shove.'

‘It's not there if push comes to nothing,' said Max. ‘It's off-limits, OK?'

‘Of course, of course,' said Popper. ‘I completely agree with you. I think we'd all agree with you there, actually. I was just talking . . . in extremis.'

‘In extremis?' said Max.

‘Yes,' said Popper. ‘I'm sure that in cases of emergency, his employers would permit him to distribute the necessary supplies.'

‘I was stuck in the snow once at Golders Green Station,' said Shauna. ‘A few years ago. It was late at night, and I'll always remember that the Costa Coffee shop stayed open and gave everybody free drinks.'

There was a pause. Popper extinguished his cigarette butt on the ground. ‘Anyway,' he said, ‘let's not think about the worst-case scenario. We might all be home within the hour. Two hours, perhaps.'

‘The problem is,' mused Jim, ‘that if I gave out a couple of things to people in crisis – and kept a record of everything, of course – then everybody else in the traffic jam would see it happen and demand handouts too, like.'

‘That is a problem,' said Popper. ‘I wonder if a solution might be found? Can you access it from the inside?'

Jim thought for a moment. ‘I've never used it,' he said, ‘but there is a little hatch thing, like.'

‘And people could carry things away . . . subtly.'

‘Suppose so.'

‘Well, then,' said Popper. ‘There we are. Now let's say no more about it.' While the other members of the group gradually digested this game-changer, Popper turned the conversation to other things. ‘Funny how groups of people are thrown together at times like these,' he said. ‘People who'd never normally mix together.'

‘Tell me about it,' said Shauna. ‘Did you see the guy who came over here earlier? Nutter. If it wasn't for his friend there might have been trouble.'

‘It has been a weird night,' said Max. ‘Really weird. We had three students over here just before you guys arrived. They were wasted.'

‘Really?' said Shauna. ‘Wasted? In a traffic jam like this? That would do your head in.'

‘I keep thinking about them,' said Max. ‘There was a girl with them, a black girl. Can't remember her name. I got the feeling she was in well over her head.'

‘How do you mean?' said Popper.

‘Couldn't put my finger on it, really,' said Max. ‘Just seemed out of her depth.'

‘Wait,' said Shauna suddenly. ‘What was that?'

The group looked around them. Out of the orange-washed gloom came a tall figure.

‘All right?' he said.

They all nodded warily.

‘Popper,' said Popper. ‘Tom Popper.'

‘I'm Monty,' said Monty, giving his outstretched hand a cursory shake.

Monty, thought Shauna. So that's his name. Monty.

‘Know what the hold-up is?' said Popper.

‘No idea, mate,' Monty replied. ‘Look, I can't stay and chat. I just wondered if I could borrow a fag. We've run out, and Rhys is desperate for one. I thought it would be better . . . well, you know, better if I come over. Rather than him.'

‘I have some cigars . . .' said Jim tentatively.

‘He's welcome to one of mine,' said Popper. ‘I've got lots of duty free in the car.'

‘Are you sure?' said Monty.

‘No problem. I know what it's like to be desperate.'

‘You'd be saving us all a lot of grief.' Monty's gaze fell on Shauna, and as it did so, they both felt something surge within them. ‘You all right?' he said.

‘Fine, thanks,' said Shauna. ‘You?'

He nodded. ‘Shame about the circumstances,' he said.

‘My car's just down there,' Popper interjected. ‘Come with me.' The order was authoritative, as if there could be no other option.

Monty allowed himself to be led off along the line of cars. As they went, Popper turned back and shared a knowing glance with the group; they all understood what he meant. Monty may have been protecting them from Rhys, but Popper was protecting them from Monty.

Hsiao May and Harold

‘Well?' said Shauna, as Popper returned and sat on the barrier next to her. ‘What did you make of him?'

‘Who? That chap there? Monty?'

‘Yes, him. Monty.'

‘Decent enough.'

‘Yes, I thought so.'

‘But I'd say he's got his own problems. Debt problems, probably. Or a divorce. With kids.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘I don't know. Something in his general outlook, I suppose. His demeanour. You get to know how to read men like those.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. Oh, sorry, I didn't mention. I'm an army officer.'

‘So you're in charge of men like that?'

‘Known shedloads of them,' said Popper, sliding a cigarette from the packet and placing it between his lips. ‘A good sort, really. Seemed like he was thinking of the wider good, you know, the way he came to get some cigarettes for his mate. He'd probably make a good soldier.' He looked her in the eye, and Shauna, certain that he could see into her soul, blushed. And then he had taken a light from Jim and was smoking, and she looked at him again, and once again was struck by the feeling that something deep inside Popper wasn't right. Something in the way he hunched around the cigarette, the way he pulled so aggressively on it and let the smoke leak out in front of his face. Something in his preoccupied eyes. There was a silence.

‘Look up there,' said Shauna. ‘Do you think anything's watching us?'

‘You mean God?'

‘No, not God. Not a creator – more of an observer. Not like an astronaut, or an alien, or anything. Something with a completely different perspective, who can see everything and everybody equally. Something that might care enough about us to notice our existence, but not enough to have it eclipse the importance of everybody else. Something who can see us in proportion, in the context of the world at large.'

Popper looked up into the blackness for a while.

‘No,' he said. ‘Can't say I do.'

Max had all but forgotten about his wife, his daughter, his daughter's friend. So it was with a start that he looked up and saw Ursula sitting up in the passenger seat, rubbing her eyes, and looking bewilderedly around. He got to his feet.

‘I'd better go,' he said. ‘The wife's woken up again.'

‘Bring her over,' said Jim. ‘It's not like you've got anything better to do.'

‘Thanks, but my daughter's asleep in the car. And that other monstrous child. Anyway, my wife wouldn't . . . she wouldn't get this.' He lumbered off, opened the door and disappeared into his vehicle.

‘Good bloke, that,' said Jim.

‘I thought he was a bit of a prick,' mumbled Shahid.

‘We all have our moments, mate,' said Jim.

‘This fucking jam,' said Shahid. ‘On and on and on. We've been here for what, four hours? Five? Feels like a fucking week.'

‘Yeah,' said Jim. ‘I've just about forgotten what normal life is like.'

Just when it seemed like nothing would ever happen again, a man could be seen walking casually along the hard shoulder towards them. He was of late middle age, with a round belly
tautening his shirt and a pair of slacks that flapped as he walked. The lower part of his face was covered in a bearish beard; it was perhaps this, combined with his manner of walking, which gave him the impression of a pilgrim.

‘Evening,' he called in a light Scottish burr, raising a hand. ‘Just thought I'd come and see if anybody knew what's going on.'

‘Not a clue, mate,' said Jim, as if to spare him the inconvenience of continuing. ‘I don't think anybody knows anything, to be honest.' But the pilgrim went on undeterred, and comfortably entered the circle of the group.

‘I have to admit, I'm struggling,' he said. ‘I'm gasping for a pint. And I've got a camper van. I don't know how you folks are surviving at all.'

‘No way – a camper van?' said Shahid.

‘Aye,' said the man, eyeing him levelly. ‘A camper van.' He turned and pointed into the distance. ‘That greenish one there.'

‘I'm not opening the van,' said Jim. ‘Let's get that clear from the start, like.'

‘Mine?' said the pilgrim.

‘No, my one. That one. There.'

‘That delivery van?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's yours? But why . . . oh, I see,' said the pilgrim with a chuckle. ‘You're afraid I'm trying to get at the groceries. Times like these do make people predisposed to suspicion.'

‘Right,' said Jim. And then, after a pause: ‘Sorry.'

‘The traffic is horrendous,' said the pilgrim, ‘but just look at this wonderful piece of engineering. We never get the opportunity to appreciate it normally. Not up close like this.'

‘What do you mean, engineering?' said Jim.

‘This. You know. This. Spectacular, isn't it?'

‘What?'

‘The M25.'

This was met with silence.

Popper, who had been watching the newcomer, got to his
feet. ‘Tom Popper,' he said, extending his hand. ‘They call me Popper, or Pops. Occasionally Poppy.'

‘Harold,' said the pilgrim, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘They call me . . . well, Harold.'

‘Far more sensible,' said Popper. ‘Allow me to introduce Shauna, Jim and Shahid. Those two chaps over there are his friends, but I'm afraid I can't remember their names.'

‘Kabir and Mo,' said Shahid sharply.

‘Quite.'

‘Have you heard anything about the hold-up?' said Shauna.

‘Not a sausage,' said Harold. He breathed in deeply, as if savouring the air, and breathed out again. Suddenly he caught sight of something behind them. He craned his neck, nodded, and gave a little wave. ‘Well, well,' he said.