Jam (31 page)

For her part, Shauna was feeling better. Throwing up earlier had cleared out her system. The painkillers had dealt with her headache and her thirst had been assuaged by the water. To cap it all, here was a man beside her. He was rather strange, rather cagey, she had to admit, and she knew that she should be wary of strangers. But this felt different – more substantial. Like muesli is to Cheerios, she thought. Though that was about the least romantic metaphor ever. Like gold is to fool's gold. How cheesy could you get? Like a good English Stilton to a Dairylea. Cheese? Her mind was spinning. The idea of Hubster seemed laughably inadequate now; inadequate, superficial and rather pathetic. She smiled at herself and shook her head. Here was some totally random labourer-cum-undercover-cop, a James Bond fantasist probably. Not her type at all. What would her friends say? Her parents? Yet her every instinct was telling her to grab him with both hands and never him let go.

He was probably sticking around out of pity. He was probably married or something. He was probably a nutter. An escaped convict. A highwayman. A frisson of excitement. She looked at Monty sidelong. Oh God, she thought. Oh God.

Then they arrived at the brow of the hill, with the nightish dawn above them and the undulating land spreading out all around. Monty commented that the traffic hadn't moved, and Shauna shrugged ironically. She sat on a low-hanging branch on the edge of the copse, her chin cupped in her hands, and Monty leaned against a tree. Then something caught their eye:
further down the hill a figure could be seen emerging from the woods and walking down the slope.

‘Wow, he's been in there all along,' said Monty.

‘Who?'

‘That guy down there. See him? I saw him coming up earlier.'

‘The black guy?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Weird. Wonder what he's been doing?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine.'

It was then that they heard the shouts.

‘Fuck,' said Monty. ‘Look down there.'

‘What? Where?'

‘Look. Look. Looks like it's getting hairy.'

‘Down there? Oh yeah, I see. Shit. They won't, will they?'

‘I should have known it. Rhys could never sit still for that long without getting into a fight. Jesus.'

‘How do you know those people?'

‘They're my friends. Well, not my friends. Not my friends at all, actually. I was giving them a lift in my van. Part of my work, you know. I hate the cunts really.'

‘And it's your van?'

‘Yes. Oh fuck, look. Shit.'

‘Oh God. Shouldn't you go and help?'

‘What can I do from here?' he said. ‘But I'd better make a phone call. A really quick one. OK?'

‘Don't leave me here. It's creepy as fuck.'

‘I'll just be over here. OK?'

‘Oh my God. What are they doing, what are they doing? Shit, I can't watch. Monty, call the police! Call the police!'

‘That's what I'm doing.'

‘I can't watch. God, Monty, I can't watch any more. I can't watch.'

Battle

Rhys, his blood quickening, with a hoarse cry of ‘cunts', drew back his arm and hurled the half-full bottle of brandy in the direction of the oncoming footballers. It rotated on its axis in the air then smashed on the tarmac. Shahid and his friends, disoriented, let out a volley of shouts.

‘Now,' said Rhys. ‘Fucking now!'

In their haste to get to the back of the van, Chris, who was still fastening his belt, stumbled. Rhys hauled him to his feet and dragged him round the side. They had lost precious seconds, but now the back door of the van was before them. Chris could almost see the weapons: the bats, the chains, the mace. He could almost feel the grain of the wooden handle in his palm; the cool, shifting links of the chain; the hiss of the mace gas as it spurted under his finger from the canister. He gripped the handle of the back door, pressed the button, pulled. In his mind's eye it opened. But the handle did not give. The back of the van regarded him blankly. In desperation, he gave it two hard yanks; a rattle; a kick. Then he butted it with his head.

‘Fuck!' he yelled. ‘What the fuck?'

‘Monty must've locked it,' said Chris.

‘That fucking cunt,' said Rhys. ‘Where are the keys?'

‘He's got 'em. Monty's got 'em.'

‘Cunt, I'll fucking kill him. Quick, round the front.'

Stones were falling from the sky around them now like oversized hailstones. The bastards were picking them up from the central reservation. Rhys cursed himself for not predicting that hurling the bottle would evoke this sort of response. One
glanced off the van roof and ricocheted onto the side of a camper van, making a clunk, leaving a scar. Another hit Rhys on the shoulder. Pushing Chris in front of him, he tried to make it back to the front door, hoping to get in and reach the weapons cache somehow from there, or at least grab the wheel-lock which lay in the passenger footwell. But immediately he saw it was too late.

Shahid stood fixed in time, his lips pulled back from his teeth and his fist at head height, watched by a hundred pairs of eyes on the motorway. Then the spell was broken. He let out the bellow of a maddened bull, and punched with all his strength. When his knuckles hit Chris's temple he was surprised; surprised when the head bobbed in a way that spoke of sleep. The fat face looked delicate to him then, that formation of nose, those eye sockets. It had taken on an expression of disappointment, as if realising how easily it could be crushed.

Rhys pushed in front of his brother, shoved Shahid back. There was blood on Chris's face, Rhys could see it out of the corner of his eye, and he was whining like a pig. Rhys reached into his pocket and brought out the object that he always carried with him.

When he thrusted, Shahid twisted instinctively. The blade passed through his T-shirt, sliced an L-shape in his chest, but the twisting motion entangled it in the fabric and the weapon sprang from Rhys's grasp. It fell, spinning, and bounced once, twice, on to the tarmac of the M25. Mo and Kabir, sensing a fleeting advantage, flew at Rhys. Disorientated, he defended himself from the blows however he could, throwing his arms out wildly. He stumbled backwards and slammed into the side of the Chrysler; there was a loud bang, followed by a pattering sound, as his elbow shattered the side window of Ursula and Max's car.

Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream: ‘My baby, my baby, my baby!'

Ursula burst from Popper's passenger seat and hurled herself
at the fighting men. As the bodies heaved and tussled she caught a glimpse of her daughter, crying as she had never cried before, eyes wide, hands agitating the air, covered in a constellation of glass.

Shahid found himself on the tarmac on his hands and knees. Dazed, his T-shirt sodden with blood, he blinked. There, between his hands, in parallel with the white dashes on the surface of the motorway, was Rhys's knife, its handle pointing towards him.

Hero

In the front seat of his silver Golf, Popper sat hunched over the steering wheel, every muscle in his body tensed, sweat glistening in the crevices of his face. His eyes were fixed on the spectacle that was unfolding before him. He watched the woman grappling with the men. He watched her receive a blow to the face, watched her stagger backwards, then push forward again. His breathing was shallow, he was trembling uncontrollably, and his legs felt hollow, as if they could never support his weight. What was happening to him? Where was his courage? His signet ring was making a ferocious tapping sound as his hands on the steering wheel shook. He groped around inside of himself for the old battle instinct, the fighting instinct, the bravery that was as much part of him as his ability to breathe. But he was clutching at water; it ran through his fingers, was sucked away in great lugs.

He saw the woman fall to the ground. Again she got to her feet, plunged back into the fray. Unable to bear it he averted his eyes, pressed his forehead into the top of the steering wheel, bile rising in his mouth.

Ursula tried again to pull the nearest man away from the Chrysler. Suddenly a hand gripped her shoulder and threw her aside. A youth, his T-shirt thick with blood, snaked his way between the bodies and she saw the flash of a blade as he struck. There was a godawful howl, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, from the motorway itself, from the landscape. Several more movements. Still she could not see Carly. Worse, she could no longer hear her cries.

She dashed back towards the seething knot of men, tried to break her way through to her baby. Then, by some unseen force, the group changed shape. Now between herself and Carly was a lean, short-haired man with wild eyes. Blood was streaked across his face, and blossoming on his shirt, and his lips were curled back from his teeth. With one hand he was brandishing the knife, creating a circle of space around himself with wicked little jabs; somehow he must have wrestled it back from his attacker. Without thinking, she stepped into the cavity, begging him to move aside; he thrust out his hand and gripped her by the throat.

And then a new figure approached from behind, pushing people aside, throwing blows wildly. Within seconds he had beaten his way through to her. Faced with the knife, he hesitated not for a moment. In another instant she was free and unharmed, leaning in through the window to Carly and the newcomer was wrestling ferociously with the knifeman. They swung round once, twice, in the constricted space between the cars; then there was a single, anguished bark. Ursula turned to protect the children. The knifeman lay on the ground, writhing slightly, losing blood. Several feet away from his hand lay the knife. In the background, the three footballers were running off into the night, one of them stumbling. And there in the centre was the man who had saved her life, clutching the side of his neck.

‘Max!' cried Ursula. ‘Max!'

Carpe diem

‘We should have done something,' said Shauna.

‘I did. I called the police,' said Monty. ‘Look, here they are now. You can't just step into these situations. Rule one. It's not safe.'

‘But they're your friends.'

‘I keep telling you, they're not my friends. They're, well, they're my enemies. I . . . I'll tell you about it. I promise I'll tell you about it. But now's not the time.'

‘That man. I can't believe how he stepped in.'

‘He was much further down the hill than us. By the time we arrived, it would have been all over. Anyway, he must be the woman's husband or something. Look, they're in a huddle. Those must be their daughters.'

‘What's he doing? He's kicking something away.'

‘The knife, I think. Yes, the knife.'

‘He's hurt. Look, he's holding his neck. We should get down there.'

‘Look, here comes the cavalry. Thank God nobody's blocking the hard shoulder.'

A little further along the motorway, a sudden movement caught their eye. A beaten-up, ancient Peugeot estate was trying to manoeuvre out of the queue. Forward and backward it went, jolting and jerking crazily; then at last, with a squeal of tyres, it broke free, sped down the hard shoulder and into the distance. Within seconds, a police car was giving chase, siren blaring. The motorway tapered round a bolt of land, and both vehicles disappeared from view.

‘Well, that was a bit stupid,' said Monty. ‘They're fucked now. Must've been in a right panic.'

‘Wouldn't you have been?' said Shauna.

‘Me?' said Monty, ‘I suppose I would.'

As a slit of sun appeared on the horizon, Shauna took another dose of paracetamol. A floodlight had been set up on the motorway below them, bathing the scene like a stage; after some discussion, the medics carried the injured men off the carriageway where they had more room to administer help.

‘The cops seem very interested in your van,' said Shauna. ‘They're all over it.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘Aren't you going to go down there and talk to them?'

Monty thought for a moment. ‘Do you know,' he said, ‘I don't think I am. To tell you the truth, I'm sick of it. I don't want to go down there and get myself involved with that shit. Do you know what I mean? Is that terrible?'

‘I don't know about that, but I don't want you to go either.'

They sat in silence on the edge of the copse, drinking water. Below them, Ursula could be seen frantically going from Max to Carly and back again, with the occasional gesture of concern for Bonnie; she seemed to not want the children to see Max in his current state, prostrate and cared for by medics, and yet she did not want to leave his side. A policewoman was trying to calm her. A few metres away, Rhys and Chris were receiving treatment under the gaze of two police officers. Statements were being solicited from the drivers of nearby vehicles. After a time a tow truck threaded its way along the hard shoulder. It came to a stop beside the white van, and the driver had a conversation with the policemen. Then, after some complicated manoeuvres involving five or six cars, the white van was hooked up to the tow truck and removed from the scene.

‘Isn't that your van they're taking?' said Shauna.

‘They're welcome to it,' Monty replied. ‘That's my old life they're towing away.'

‘So what will your new life consist of?'

‘I have no idea. But it will have nothing to do with Rhys and Chris Baker, or anybody associated with them. I've had it.'

Time passed. Another tow truck was on the scene now, and efforts were being made to hook it up to the Chrysler. Ursula was going through the boot, frantically packing a bag of essentials. A policewoman was looking after Carly and Bonnie, who were sitting by the side of the road and eating. They were both wrapped in silver hypothermia sheets. Max was being bundled up in a red blanket, in the glare of the open ambulance door. Rhys and Chris had already been loaded into another ambulance, and, in the company of two policemen, had been driven away. The scene looked strangely sad and desolate, like a disused children's playground.