Jam (19 page)

A man up ahead was windmilling his arms in the air. At first she thought he was in some kind of trouble, but then he gave a final stretch and disappeared back into his car. Everybody was contained within their little pods, unable to look beyond the tiny
fragments of their lives. She had thought that Londoners would step up in times like these, start banding together and sharing resources. That was what was supposed to happen, wasn't it? Like when there's a power cut or a flood or a strike. Had the human spark been finally obliterated? The spirit of the Blitz? Was all that was left an endless system of machines and concrete, populated by bodies, not people? Either way, she knew that shortly after the camaraderie came the time when people would start eating each other. She was growing maudlin, she knew that, and she knew it was the hangover. She was a fool. Still, she wished that someone would dash off and get her supplies, her paracetamol and water, and perhaps a nice box of chocolates, and come back and make her feel as if everything was going to be all right. They would stay in touch, fall in love, build a life; they would have babies, and together, eventually, grow old.

The strongest possibility, she thought to herself at length, is that the low hill beside the road, bobbled with tufty trees, hid behind it some village or hamlet; and that within that village or hamlet lay an all-night pharmacy, or something similar, that sold paracetamol and water. And perhaps some prawn crackers. Failing that, some prawn cocktail crisps. Or a bacon roll. Or olives – still she was craving olives. Yes, there was a faint glow behind the ridge that suggested some inhabitancy or other. But how could she get up there and over the other side? There was no visible path, and she wasn't confident that she was able to ascend at such an incline in her current state. And, ultimately, would it be worth the effort? Or would it simply be a facsimile of the sort of experience she had doing cross-country at school, where there would always be one more hill behind the one she had hoped would be the last? If that were to happen – if she were to haul her sorry arse up that steep slope, through the mud and the puddles (inevitably there would be puddles) in her inappropriate shoes, which would almost certainly be ruined beyond repair, only to find that all her efforts had been wholly in vain, well, she would literally sit down and die.

It was while Shauna was looking up at the ridge, weighing her options, that she got the feeling that she was not alone. She turned to see a man in a faded T-shirt approaching along the line of traffic, between the middle and fast lanes. Before she knew it she had caught his eye, and he smiled and raised his hand as if he knew her; automatically she raised hers in return. She waited awkwardly as he got closer, and then he was standing before her, smiling.

‘Nice evening,' the man said, in, Shauna guessed, a Polish accent.

‘Glad you think so,' Shauna replied guardedly. ‘We'll never get home the way things are going. Or rather, not going. Ha.'

‘Any idea what hold-up is?' said the man.

‘How would I know that?' said Shauna.

‘Don't know. People know things.'

‘Sorry, I don't know anything.'

‘Strange things could have happened. Fog.'

‘Whatever it is, it's bound to be something horrid.'

There was a pause. How could she get rid of him? She couldn't think straight.

The man squinted. ‘What's your name?' he said abruptly.

‘Jane,' said Shauna. ‘You?'

‘I am Tomasz,' he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘Likewise,' said Shauna, searching for inspiration. ‘Well,' she said at last, ‘I'll let you go.'

Her words rang flatly in the darkness. She nodded, smiled, bolstering their impact. Still Tomasz did not move. Blitz spirit, she thought. Fuck.

As if in answer to her prayers, she saw a familiar figure moving amongst the cars.

‘Popper!' called Shauna. ‘Over here, Popper! Popper?'

Popper finally located her and waved. At the sight of this intruder, Tomasz withdrew into himself and moved towards Shauna, triangulating her as if they were on intimate terms. Shauna shuffled backwards towards the car, clipping herself in with the car door.

‘What's up?' said Popper.

‘I just . . . I just thought I'd say hello,' Shauna replied pleadingly.

‘Who's this?' said Popper.

‘I am Tomasz,' said Tomasz. ‘I was just speaking with Jane.'

At this Popper looked quizzically at Shauna, then a look of understanding came into his eyes.

‘Where you from, mate?' he said convivially; only Shauna picked up that Popper's tone of voice had become adversarial.

‘I am lorry driver.'

‘Oh, right. What are you carrying?'

‘Supplies for supermarket.'

‘I see,' said Popper. ‘Any idea what's going on?'

‘I have heard some rumours,' said Tomasz, brightening up. ‘Maybe attack.'

‘A duck?'

‘No, attack. Attack.'

‘Oh, I see. Attack. Sorry, it's the accent.'

‘Terrorists.'

A cloud passed across Popper's face, followed immediately by an expression of good humour. ‘Not sure if there wouldn't be more sirens and so on for a terrorist attack. Not sure if there wouldn't be rather more fuss. What do you think?'

‘Yes,' said Tomasz. ‘There would be more police. And army.'

There was a pause.

‘To tell you the truth,' said Popper, ‘I am actually in search of a light. I don't suppose . . .'

‘I've got one,' said Shauna. ‘I don't smoke, but I do have a lighter in the car. For special occasions.'

Popper laughed loudly. ‘The ceremonial lighter,' he said. ‘This is very good of you. Sorry to put you out. I wouldn't dream of asking normally, it's just that I'm desperate. Mine's on the blink.'

Shauna leaned into her car, the tilt making the taste of alcohol rise in her throat, and located the lighter. It seemed to be in
working order. Then she was in the night air again. Popper lit his cigarette, head cocked to the side, eyes slitted. Then he gave a cigarette to Tomasz and puffed, scanning the country like a landowner surveying his estate.

‘Nasty business this,' he said, ‘that's for sure.' He looked at Shauna and gave her a tiny nod, as if to suggest that he'd sort this out now. ‘Where are you parked, mate?' he said to Tomasz.

‘Down that way,' said Tomasz. ‘You can see my lorry from here, just about.'

‘That big black one?'

‘Is blue. In daylight, is blue.'

‘How long did it take you to walk all the way over here?'

‘About five minutes.'

‘Five minutes? You're a bit of a mover, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' said Tomasz.

‘Don't think you'd get stranded, do you?' said Popper.

‘Stranded?'

‘You know, if this traffic began to move.'

‘Will be fine. The traffic is not going to move, man. Never.'

‘Why did you walk down here, anyway?'

‘I'm gathering information,' said Tomasz.

‘The terrorist attack theory?'

‘That and other things.'

‘It would be good to know the truth. The only way to do it is to make your way to the obstruction and see it with your own eyes, I suppose.' Popper sucked his cigarette. ‘But the question is, how far do you go? Beyond a certain point you run the risk of being stranded.'

‘I think . . . perhaps I should get back.'

‘Oh, I wasn't suggesting that,' said Popper. ‘Just that if I were you I'd make a choice. Either head for the obstruction, or head for your lorry. Either way, stick at it. Keep going till you get there. Otherwise you'll get caught with your pants down. So to speak.'

Tomasz furrowed his brow. Then he said a cursory farewell and disappeared along the line of cars.

‘God, thanks so much,' said Shauna when he was gone. ‘I'd been trying to get rid of that man for ages. Bloody creep.'

‘Ah, he was all right. Struck me as something of a lost soul.'

‘I haven't much time for lost souls these days.'

‘Why not?'

‘Had enough of them.'

Popper cleared his throat. ‘What are you going to do now?' he said.

‘Now? Oh, I was about to go for a walk.'

‘I'll come with you if you like.'

‘Thanks, but . . . I'm fine. I need a bit of space after that.'

‘Of course you do, of course you do,' said Popper. ‘Anyway, it's getting rather nippy out here. Can I just light one more ciggy before I go? To take to the car?'

Shauna obliged. He thanked her courteously, then bid her goodbye. She was alone.

She tried to gather her thoughts. Why on earth had she rejected Popper? On paper he would certainly be a potential Hubster, and the story of their meeting like this, quite by chance in the midst of a hellish jam on the equally hellish M25, would make the perfect wedding speech. Yet she had felt not one iota of attraction stir within her. It was as if she was in a bell jar, at a remove from the world. What was happening to her?

Decisively, she locked the car. Then she stepped awkwardly over the barrier and picked her way through the longish grass towards the hill. For a moment she wavered; then, driven by thirst, she went on. The wet grass clutched at her ankles. What a night. Behind her, a door slammed. She turned, and at first could see nothing. Then a figure appeared from behind a white van, heading in her direction. As he came closer, she took a breath. Him again!

The test

Monty was pacing though the shadows around the copse, speaking on his phone. ‘Fine,' he said. ‘But I'm not happy about the way this is going. It's a fucking farce. I'm going to get myself killed. I just wanted to tell you that.' He ended the call with a thumb-hook, deleted the number from his history and slipped his phone back into his pocket. A fine, misty rain was descending; this, he thought, was a sign that he could put off his return to the van no longer. He took a deep breath and approached it quietly, from an oblique angle. It was past one in the morning now.

When Monty reached the door he felt certain that Rhys and Chris hadn't detected his approach. He lowered his ear gently against the elephantine flank of the vehicle, hoping to overhear them talking about him, but there was no sound. For a moment he wondered if they had sloped off somewhere. They wouldn't have, would they? But then there was a loud burp. He waited a while longer, the breeze skating around the van and over him, and gripped the cool, curved handle. Then he counted to three – don't rise to the bait – opened the door and hoisted himself up and in.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the stuffiness of two men breathing. He climbed into his seat, slammed the door and was once again part of their world. Rhys, who had been asleep, looked up groggily. At first, nobody spoke.

‘Thought you'd fucked off,' said Rhys at last.

‘I had.'

‘And then?'

‘Then I thought about the boys.'

‘What did you think about them?'

Monty took a breath. ‘Rhys, this ain't no good, all this shit,' he said.

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. All this shit between us. It ain't good for the boys.'

‘But you are?'

‘What?'

‘Good for the boys?'

‘Look, Rhys. Everything I do pisses you off, and that's just the way it is. I can't do nothing about that. But if the boys are going to be strong, this shit's got to stop.'

‘I agree, bruv.'

‘You agree?'

‘Yeah. This shit has got to stop. It'll stop when you do.'

‘Come on, Rhys. You know I make the boys stronger.'

‘No, mate, no. I don't know that. Monty, mate, your heart ain't right. You ain't right. I saw you with them fucking Pakis out there. There was no real hatred in you, mate. I can smell proper hatred, and it ain't in you.'

There was a pause. Chris was rubbing his eyes, befuddled. Don't rise to the bait, Monty thought. Just don't.

‘Look,' he said, ‘what would it take to convince you? I work my arse off for the boys. I bankroll half the movement. Without me, we'd be nothing. And still that's not enough for you. So what the fuck can I do?'

‘What would it take?' said Rhys. ‘You serious, bruv? Well, you can help me storm that fucking van for one thing. Get us some proper food and stuff. Booze.'

‘That's not what the boys are about, mate, you know that. The van driver's one of us. Even if he wasn't, it would just be stupid. We'd get arrested and all. We can't escape in this traffic. Gaz would have a fucking fit.'

‘All right,' said Rhys quietly. ‘I'll think of something else.'

Monty looked up sharply. Rhys' face was half hidden by
darkness, and he couldn't see his eyes. Beside him Chris picked up an almost empty packet of M&Ms, plucked it taut and tipped the final cluster into his mouth. His jaw moved with bovine regularity.

Rhys shook a cigarette from the packet, took it in his teeth and lit up. Then he tossed the packet onto the dashboard. Chris reached forward to retrieve it and lit a cigarette for himself. Neither of them offered one to Monty.

‘Way I see it,' said Rhys through the smoke, ‘you're all fucking talk, innit? Always giving it that.'

‘I know the way you see it,' said Monty. ‘And I know how fucking paranoid you are. I know what a fuck-up you are.'

Rhys smiled as if he had heard something sad. ‘What I want to see,' he said, ‘is you taking a hit for what you believe in. Chris wants to see it too. Innit, Chris?'

His brother nodded, uncertainly.

‘I take hits every fucking day,' said Monty.

‘That right?'

‘All the money, for one thing.'

‘Money don't mean the same thing for you as it do for us, Monty. For you it don't mean fuck-all. There's always more where that came from.'

‘That's bollocks.'