Jam (23 page)

‘Calm down. I sent them an email.'

‘And we know how well that went last time.'

‘No, I sent it properly. I went back to the 3G spot, brought up the email, and sent it with my own hands. I'm telling you. I checked.'

‘Let me see.'

‘What?'

‘Let me see your phone. I want to see it in Sent with my own eyes.'

‘I'm not having you check up on me like a child.'

‘Max, after your performance earlier on you can't very well complain.'

Reluctantly he handed over his phone, hoping that it was clean of messages from Nicole. There was a tense silence while Ursula scrolled through.

‘There's no email in the sent items, Max.'

‘What? There must be.'

‘There isn't. Have a look for yourself.'

‘Must be because it hasn't been able to download it. Check the outbox. I promise you it won't be in there.'

There was a tense pause. Then Ursula blew out a stream of air, tossed the phone on to Max's lap and sunk back into her seat, her hands over her face. He looked at the phone. There was the outbox. And there, still unsent, was the email to James and Becky.

‘I don't . . . I don't get it,' he said. ‘I just don't fucking get it. Ursula, it . . . maybe it sent a duplicate.'

‘Max,' said Ursula, her voice strained and repressed, ‘Max . . .'

‘It's not my fault.'

‘Whose fault is it, then, Max? Whose fucking fault is it?'

‘There's so little signal . . .'

‘Can't you apologise? Can't you at least fucking apologise? Do you always have to be right about everything?'

‘Look, I'm sorry, OK?'

‘They'll have called the police! They'll be frantic! Are you out of your fucking mind?'

‘Calm down. They'll have heard about it on the radio or something.'

‘For crying out loud. You're taking the piss. I give you one thing to do and you couldn't be bothered to do it.'

‘It wasn't that I couldn't be bothered. I told you, there was no bloody signal.'

‘Well,
use your fucking initiative!
' said Ursula. She turned suddenly away to the window, not wanting her husband to see her tears. From the back seat came the sound of toddlers stirring.

‘Right,' said Ursula suddenly, groping for her bag. ‘I'll go and find a signal myself.'

‘Don't be stupid,' said Max, ‘it's the middle of the night. James and Becky will be asleep.'

‘They bloody won't. Not with their daughter missing, Max. They're not like you.'

‘You're just using this as an excuse to have a go at me.'

‘Max! You just don't get it, do you? You just don't fucking get it. I don't know if you're stupid, or insensitive, or arrogant, or just a fucking man.'

‘Maybe all at the same time.'

‘Yes,' said Ursula. ‘That's the first sensible thing I've heard you say.'

‘Look,' said Max, ‘I'm not letting you go out into the dark by yourself.'

‘What do you fucking care? Where's my phone? Where's my fucking phone?'

‘The kids are waking up, anyway.'

‘So, you deal with it, Max! You deal with it. I don't know why it's always got to be me who does all the fucking childcare.'

Max flung open the door and got out.

‘Oh, no, no, no,' said Ursula. ‘You're not going anywhere, my friend.'

‘I'm going to find a signal,' said Max. ‘I'll walk to the top of that hill.' He slammed the door and jogged off out of sight.

A fog had descended, thickening all around, clinging in a great translucent blanket to the earth. His head was spinning, his upper back hurt as if it had been clenched in a vice, and his wet clothes were cold against his skin. I need to damage something, he thought, I need to do some serious damage. That's the only thing that will help me now.

He felt as if his mouth was filling with unspoken words, the secrets he had been keeping from Ursula, the darkness that was gradually corroding his marriage. His life. Despairingly, he checked his phone again: still no signal, and the battery was starting to run low. Out of the mist, a man in a faded T-shirt appeared like some Arctic explorer, making his way carefully
along the line of cars. He didn't see Max watching him, and vanished in the swirls of white fog. Max turned up his collar, clenched his fists, and strode off in the direction of the escarpment.

Good sport

For a while neither of the brothers spoke. Rhys kept smoking cigarettes, and every time he lit one, Chris did the same; he noticed that and it annoyed him. After the cider he was buzzing, not yet drunk, and his mind was fixing vividly on one old memory. Something he had not recalled for years and years, decades even. From before his dad moved out, one of the final days. How old must he have been? Fourteen perhaps? And Chris, then, would have been twelve. Something like that. It was late at night, and he had been awoken by some ruckus downstairs. Chris, in the bunk below, was still asleep, making not a single sound. Rhys, in his pyjama trousers, crept out of his room. He remembered the long shadows stretching up the wall. At the end of the hall he squatted down, not daring to go any further. Something was going on in the kitchen, now his father roaring drunkenly, now his mother talking, also drunkenly. He couldn't move. He could hear them lurching around, colliding with things, the sound, he thought, of the table scraping across the lino. He waited, for he could do nothing else; he couldn't move, it was as if his body no longer belonged to him. And then there they were, lurching like stage wrestlers down the hall. Now all he could see was their four legs, some pantomime horse, tottering back and forth, the occasional jolt as blows were struck; the sounds were incoherent now, two interweaving notes from either end of a scale. His father pivoted, leaning back, dragged his mother in a swerving crescent until her head hit the wall. Rhys could see her face lolling to one side. He ran silently back to bed.

*

‘You going to make him do it, then?' said Chris.

‘Who?'

‘Monty. When he gets back.'

‘If he fucking gets back.'

‘You reckon he won't come back?'

‘Would you?'

‘Like fuck I would. But Monty's hard, innit?'

‘He ain't hard. He's a posh fucking poof.'

‘He'll be back.'

‘We'll see. Probably come back pissed. Won't do it even then, I reckon. Fucking poof.'

‘I reckon he'll do it.'

‘Are you his fucking boyfriend or what?'

‘Just saying.'

‘Well, just don't. OK?'

They returned to their silence. Rhys was getting thirsty, but there was not a drop of Coke in the van. All these cigarettes were burning the back of his throat, yet still he could not stop. At this rate he would run out of fags in another ten minutes. Without knowing why, he felt a broad smile spread across his face and he began to laugh.

‘What?' said Chris.

‘Nothing. Nothing.'

‘What's so funny?'

‘Nothing. I'm telling you, bruv, nothing.'

Coming all at once to a decision, he opened the van door and stepped out, thigh-deep into the fog.

‘Where you off to?' said Chris.

‘Just going for a slash, mate,' said Rhys.

He walked across the hard shoulder, hurdled the barrier, tested the wind with his hand and relieved himself luxuriantly into the grass, watching the urine penetrate the fog like a spear. For what felt like a long time he watched the blades of glass bending under the force of his flow. Then he was spent. One shake, two shakes, three; he zipped himself up and made his way back.

On a whim, he took a detour to the Waitrose van and peered through the window. The driver was stretched out in the shadows with his arm over his face. Rhys tapped softly on the window. No response. He tried the handle: locked. He tapped again, a little harder this time, and the man propped himself up on an elbow. When he saw Rhys's face, his mouth worked like a fish.

Rhys made the gesture of a window rolling down. The man hesitated, then reached over and lowered it by just two inches.

‘You all right, bruv?' said Rhys. ‘Having a nice traffic jam?'

‘What are you after, mate?'

‘What's your name?' said Rhys.

‘What does it matter?'

‘Just being friendly, mate, that's all.'

‘Jim.'

‘Right. Jim, I'm Rhys. Now, I want to ask you something, yeah?'

‘OK.'

‘But you can't say no, right? You can't just say, like, no, Rhys, fuck off. Nothing like that, yeah?'

‘Just tell me.'

‘Look, I want two things from you, Jim. Booze and fags. I know you got them in the back. I can smell them, bruv. That's what I want.'

‘I can't do it, mate. I just can't. More than my job's worth, like.'

‘You don't get me, Jim. I said you can't say no, innit?'

‘If it was up to me, mate, I'd give you whatever you want. But it's not mine to give.'

‘Jim,' said Rhys, ‘you got a choice. Either you give me some booze and fags, or I come in there and take them. And if you make me come in there, I'll be taking a lot more than that and all.'

‘But it's not my stuff,' said Jim. ‘I can't give you something that's not mine.'

Rhys rattled the handle and booted the door with his foot.

‘How much do you want?' said Jim.

‘I dunno, bruv. Three packets of fags. Bottle of vodka. Something like that.'

Jim cupped his hand over his forehead and moved it slowly back and forth. At long last, he spoke. ‘I don't suppose I could get you to give me some money?' he said. ‘I can use my staff discount. It'll be cheap. Or sign an IOU?'

‘I don't fucking owe you nothing, bruv,' said Rhys. He gave the door another shake. ‘Come on. Before I lose my fucking rag.'

‘Look mate,' said Jim. ‘We're both working men, right? My dad was a brickie. My mum was a dinner lady. We're both in the same boat. If you do this to me, I'll lose my job. Jobs ain't easy to some by these days, like. Have a heart, eh?'

Rhys, without a word, walked away from the window. Jim waited five, ten seconds, then slumped back into his seat. Thank God for that. Thank God. He held his hands up in front of his face: they were shaking. Then something caught his eye outside the other window. There, with all the whiteness of an apparition, stood Rhys, a half-smile playing across his lips.

‘Get me my fucking stuff,' said Rhys, ‘now.' He began to shake and kick the door. This time, Jim knew he had lost. He struggled to his feet and opened the hatch that allowed him to access the groceries. He knelt on the seat and reached deep inside. For a moment Rhys suspected that this was part of some elaborate escape plan. But then a pale hand snaked out and dropped the cigarettes, followed by a bottle of brandy, on the passenger seat. Then he opened the window and passed them out, apologising for the substitution of vodka for brandy. Rhys snatched the goods and left without a word, bubbles of triumph rising through him.

‘Ever had brandy before, Chrissie boy?' said Rhys as he jumped into the van and slammed the door.

‘What?' said Chris.

‘And I got us some fags.'

‘No snacks?'

‘No, Chris. No fucking snacks. I'm playing it clever, innit? Enough to keep us going, not enough for him to call the fucking pigs. And I can go back and get a bit of fucking grub later. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, bruv.'

They both took a swig of brandy.

‘Tastes like chocolate,' said Chris.

‘Bollocks it does,' said Rhys, lighting a cigarette. ‘More like . . . I dunno . . . orange peel. Fag?'

Something moved outside. Rhys shifted in his seat and peered out. The fog was obscuring his vision. He squinted. There, on the other side of the M25, where not a single car could be seen, three – no, five – figures were moving about, breaking into the occasional sprint, weaving, jostling.

‘Look at that, mate. They're playing footy, innit?'

‘What?'

‘There, mate, there. They're playing footy. Been doing it for ages. On our fucking English streets.'

‘Not all Pakis, innit,' said Chris.

‘Nah. Three of them. Fuck knows who the other lot are. UAF probably.'

‘Reckon they've come from the demo?'

‘Reckon so.'

The two men drank their brandy and watched. The figures drifted away, almost disappeared in the slow moving mist; then they could be seen again.

‘In the back of the van,' Rhys said.

‘What?'

‘We got our toys in there, innit? What we didn't get the chance to use today.'

‘Yeah.'

Chris stubbed out his cigarette. He had been smoking too much; his throat felt like sandpaper. But he had to match Rhys
fag-for-fag; it had always been that way, ever since they were at school. Not to match him fag-for-fag would be to arouse Rhys's disrespect; he wouldn't show it, but Chris knew it was true. He needed to keep up. Otherwise he might as well give up.

He was hungry. There was not a single snack left in the car, he knew that. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhys reaching for the packet of fags. Inwardly he groaned; but his brother simply tapped it on his knee, revolving it from end to end, rhythmically, methodically, leaving it closed. Despite himself, Chris let out an audible sigh of relief; his brother glared at him, then turned to look out the window. Chris pulled out his mobile again.

He was sick of Angry Birds. He had completed the game the day after he had downloaded it, and had gone through Angry Birds Seasons, Angry Birds Rio, Angry Birds Space and Angry Birds Star Wars in a similar length of time. Then he had gone back and done them all again, focusing on getting three gold stars on each level; this had taken a little longer, and sometimes he had been stuck on the same level for days. But he never resorted to the Mighty Eagle or other cheats, as he knew it would take the fun out of the game. If it were there, he wouldn't be able to stop using it, and then where would it end? Might as well just Mighty Eagle the entire game; there wouldn't be any point any more.