Jam (5 page)

‘And you got him, did you?'

Monty nodded. ‘Sorted him out something proper. Didn't even need to go back to the van for the toys.'

‘Probably still there, the cunt,' said Rhys. ‘Scum on our fucking English streets.'

A cloud came over Monty's face. ‘It were self-defence, though,' he said. ‘The bloke had this bit of piping, innit? Like an iron bar.'

‘You're talking bollocks now.'

‘Bollocks, bollocks,' said Monty. ‘I sort of got it under my arm and smacked him like that. You know, over the top. Nobody came back for him, neither. Least, I didn't see no one. He were just left there, fucked, on the pavement.'

‘Let's see the knuckles then,' said Rhys.

Monty eyed him warily, then held up his hands.

‘Them are old, them grazes,' said Rhys. ‘From the site and all.'

‘Bollocks they are.'

‘Yeah, look. That's a scab, innit? That's a scab and all.'

‘I scab over quick, all right?'

‘I'll say you fucking do.'

There was a pause.

‘We could sort it out here and now,' said Rhys, dreamily. ‘You and me. Nobody's about. Nobody would know. We could go up into the woods up there and sort it out.'

‘What?'

‘Man to man,' said Rhys. ‘Queen's fisticuffs. Pass the fucking time.'

‘Don't take the piss,' said Monty.

Rhys lit another cigarette. He didn't offer Monty one, and Monty didn't ask.

‘Looks like we'll be here for a bit,' said Rhys. ‘There's still time. If you change your mind.'

Monty looked out of the window. Outside, darkness had unfurled like a shroud. Cars were everywhere, dull and unmoving. There were lots of expensive vehicles on the road, no doubt about that. The one next to them, a Chrysler, probably cost a packet. Wouldn't look at it twice, but what – twenty grand? At least. A family in there, probably. What wouldn't he give to have a family like that? To drive your kids around in a twenty-grand Chrysler? Normal, that's what it was. Not for him. He rested his forehead on the glacier-cool glass. He saw his own reflection, his own eyes looking sadly back at him, windows into his soul. I'm fucked, he thought. Fucked.

‘Fuck me,' said Rhys. ‘Look. That black bastard's going back to the van now. Loads of people are there now, innit? That toff van.'

‘Go on then,' said Monty. ‘Nothing's stopping you.'

‘I will,' said Rhys. ‘Once I've finished this fag.'

Monty turned his face away. He couldn't hear properly, as if he were underwater; Rhys's voice sounded muffled and remote; the world seemed eerily fuzzy. What would his father say if he could see him now? Through the window he could see a woman
in one of those microcars, the ones that could be parked sideways. He could see her shoulder, blanched by the dull glare of the motorway lights, and a cascading mass of blonde hair. He felt a stab of pain. The darkness was deepening, he noticed that, growing like a fungus, like someone changing the contrast on a telly. Must be the exhaustion. He closed his eyes.

Stevie, Dave and Natalie

After Max had gone, Jim sat for a few minutes in the cab of the van, looking through the windscreen at the darkness, thinking about nothing at all. A breeze passed into the cab through the open door. He was tired; it had been a long shift, and the traffic just compounded the exhaustion. If this lasted all night, he thought, and he didn't return home until daybreak, who would notice? Answer: nobody. Next Thursday he was supposed to be playing chess with Warren, and the following weekend he had promised to visit his mother. Apart from those two social engagements, his days stretched out before him in a chessboard of work – spent mainly on the road – and leisure time, which he passed by himself.

But he was not unhappy, or he did not think he was. He had grown used to it. The job appealed to him because it was simple; he was not one of those delivery men who built up, over time, relationships with the customers. He did his job, delivered the groceries, and left. On the road it was just him, his van and his thoughts. All the normal things – intimacy, marriage, friends – had passed him by almost without him noticing. He had expected these things to just happen, as they seemed to just happen to everybody else; only they never just happened to him. It has always been just his work and his home, a static routine. One day he had looked about him and found that he had fallen into that twilight land of the disenfranchised, the shadow people. And now, gazing out at the thousands of individual cars sitting nose-to-tail all along the motorway, he was reminded acutely of this.

He levered himself up from his seat and positioned himself on the step, with his legs stretching out of the van and the soles of his trainers on the tarmac. It was uncomfortable, but sometimes one needed discomfort, a contrast with the soft stuffiness of the van. He reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a small Waitrose bag, folded to form a rough oblong. This he unfurled, and a packet of cheap cigars and a lighter gleamed in his hand. He didn't smoke as a regular habit, but he kept the equipment on standby for times like these. Carefully he unsheathed a single cigar and put the rest away. Then he lit up, closing his eyes to savour the instant hit, the musky, bitter-sweet fumes brushing the taut skin of his face. I could get the sack for this, he thought, as he always did.

It was when the cigar had burned down to half its size, and Jim was contemplating going for a piss, that he noticed three figures coming towards him, weaving their way around the vehicles. He drew his legs into the van, huddled into the cover of the open door, drew secretively on the cigar. But it was him they were after. They stepped awkwardly into view and hailed him with wavering smiles. They looked like students: two young men with remarkably messy hair and teenage slouches, accompanied by a black girl with plaits. Had they singled him out?

‘Hey, man,' said one of the boys in a loud voice. ‘What's up?' He peered forward excitably, his eyes like marbles in the half-light.

‘Nothing,' said Jim. ‘Just sitting it out. Same as everyone else, like.'

‘Yeah,' said the boy. ‘Shit, isn't it? Shitty shit shit.' He was smiling stupidly.

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

‘No. We've just been chilling.'

‘I asked Twitter,' said his friend. He had a fringe that was swept diagonally across his forehead, obscuring one eye; he kept tossing it to the side like a colt.

‘Twitter?' repeated Jim.

‘Yeah.'

‘Find out anything?'

‘Apparently it's floods.'

‘Weird it isn't raining, like,' said Jim.

‘Someone else reckoned it's an accident,' said the boy with the fringe, ‘though that could have been a joke.'

‘A joke?'

‘Yeah. You know.'

Jim didn't. He took a long drag on his cigar. Beneath the smell of the smoke was another, barely perceptible aroma that these kids had brought with them. He couldn't put his finger on it. A smell from another time.

‘Where are you from?' he said.

‘Mars,' said the lanky, glazed-eyed boy. ‘No, Uranus. Uranus.' He giggled. ‘No, man, we're students. Sheffield.'

‘Right,' said Jim.

‘I'm Stevie,' the boy said, ‘and this is Dave.' The other boy tossed his hair.

‘Is the girl with you?' said Jim.

‘Oh yeah,' said Stevie. ‘That's the sket.'

‘Sket?'

‘Just joking around. That's Natalie. She's from the year below.'

The girl gave a small, self-conscious wave.

‘Want a cigar?' said Jim, despite himself.

‘A what?' said Stevie.

‘A cigar, like. This, look.'

‘Is that a real cigar?'

‘Course. Only a cheap one, mind.'

‘I thought they were proper fat and shit.'

‘Don't have to be. Though I'm not an expert.'

‘We don't smoke,' said Dave, pinning his fringe back, briefly, with his hand.

‘Not tobacco, anyway,' said Stevie, and they both laughed. And Jim recognised the smell.

‘I'll try one,' said the girl.

‘She's up for anything, she is,' said Stevie.

Natalie leaned into the cab to receive the cigar, and Jim lit it for her.

‘Don't inhale, love,' he said.

‘Don't inhale?' she said. ‘What's, like, the point in that?' Behind her, Stevie was making little mocking noises.

‘If you inhale, you'll know about it,' said Jim. ‘Just hold it in your mouth, like, and just puff it out.'

They caught each other's eyes for a brief moment.

‘You all right, love?' said Jim.

She nodded and stood back. ‘It's like . . . it's like burnt chocolate?'

Stevie made a grunting noise that seemed to embarrass her, and fell about laughing. Dave joined in, uncertainly.

‘Talking of that,' said Stevie, ‘we were wondering. You're a delivery van, right? For Waitrose. Waitrose.'

‘That's right,' said Jim, pulling on his cigar.

‘Is that cigar thing from Waitrose?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What about them crisps and shit?'

‘What crisps?'

‘Over there.'

‘Where, here? Oh, they're just empty packets, like.'

‘But they're from Waitrose, are they?'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose you get all free shit from Waitrose, eh?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘OK, cool. Christ, I've got terrible munchies.'

Before Jim could reply, his attention was stolen by another figure appearing out of the gloom.

‘Sorry,' said Max.

‘That was quick,' said Jim.

‘Yeah. The missus has conked out now – she gets terrible insomnia, so it's best to let her sleep when she can – and I couldn't face
sitting in that car any longer. I saw these guys here, and I thought I might ask them . . .'

‘Ask us what?' said Stevie.

Max avoided their eyes. ‘It's just,' he began, ‘Christ, this doesn't get any easier. Look, I've got someone else's kid in the car.'

‘A kid?' said Stevie.

‘She's a friend of my daughter. Look, it's all totally above board.'

‘I thought you meant a goat and shit,' said Stevie, and laughed.

‘So what I really need to do is call her parents and let them know she's safe. Right? Only my phone has bugger-all signal. Fucking piece of shit.'

There was a pause while everyone waited for somebody else to fill the silence. In the end, Max passed a hand across his face and, though he knew there was no hope, took the plunge. ‘OK, can I borrow someone's phone? I'll give you some money for the call.' He looked from one to the other.

‘Not mine,' said Stevie cheerfully, with a strange contortion of his gangly frame. ‘Mine's in the car. Probably got no signal, either,' he added. ‘Black spot.'

Jim glanced warily at Max.

Dave shrugged. ‘Likewise,' he said. ‘Plus my battery's dead.'

Natalie rummaged in her pockets and pulled out a battered phone with a crack across the screen. She turned it on, and her face was up-lit by a white glow. Then it went dark again.

‘Sorry, mate,' she said. ‘Nothing.'

‘Are you all right?' said Max. ‘You're shivering.'

‘It's nothing,' she replied. ‘I just, like, feel the cold.'

Max felt that odd pang of identification. He never normally felt black. Not with a capital B, anyway. ‘Would you like my jacket?' he offered.

‘No, no, I'm all right.'

‘You're shivering. Here.'

He glanced back at his car – Ursula could just be seen in the passenger seat, still asleep – and swung his jacket across Natalie's shoulders. Dwarfed, she wrapped it around her body like a dressing gown; he saw her, then, as a child, trying on the clothes of a parent. She hasn't got a father, he thought.

She sniffed. ‘Think I might be getting a cold or something.'

‘Oh, I've got the munchies sooo bad,' said Stevie.

‘Me too,' said Dave, tossing his hair. ‘I could munch my way through a whole supermarket.'

Jim finished his cigar and scuffed it into the motorway. The boys were watching his every move.

‘Look,' said Max decisively. ‘This man can't open the van. He can't get anything out of it.'

‘Why not?' said Dave.

‘He just can't,' said Max.

‘That's right,' said Jim.

‘But it is full of stuff and shit?'

‘I don't know,' said Jim.

‘What do you mean, you don't know?' said Stevie. ‘It's your van, isn't it?'

‘Look,' said Max, ‘just drop it, OK? You're not getting anything out of this van, and that's final.'

‘Don't see what it's got to do with you,' muttered Dave.

‘What's that?' said Max.

‘Nothing,' said Dave, adjusting his fringe. ‘It was nothing, OK?'

Natalie sneezed. ‘I'm going back to the car,' she said. ‘I'm, like, frozen solid.' She took off the jacket and handed it back to Max.

‘Come on,' said Stevie. ‘Let's get back for another toke and shit.'

He walked off along the line of cars, prancing and laughing. Without a word, Dave went after him. Natalie gave Max a halfwave and followed them into the darkness.

Max shook his head. ‘I never thought I'd say this,' he said, ‘but young people today. Makes you worry for your own kids.'

‘There was something . . . going on with them,' said Jim. ‘Something wasn't right, like.'

‘They were off their heads, that's what. One of them was, anyway.'

‘I know,' said Jim. ‘But there was something else.'

‘Do you have kids, mate?'

‘Not me. Would have liked to. That's life.'

Max put his hands on his hips and stretched his back. ‘What a night. What . . . a . . . night. This traffic really is the absolute limit.'