Jam (7 page)

‘It can't,' said Max.

‘Why not?'

‘It's not logical. Look at the opposite lane. See?'

‘It's deserted.'

‘Exactly. That means that up ahead there's an obstruction that's crossing both sides of the motorway.'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Think about it. If the traffic was solid all the way round, it would be solid on the other side as well.'

‘I'm too hungover for this,' said Shauna, passing her hand across her brow. ‘My head's killing me . . . and I'm totally out of supplies. No water, no painkillers, no olives . . .'

‘Olives?' said Max.

‘Don't you find they help? I always have a craving for olives after I've been drinking. I fantasise about them. Oh, olives!'

‘It's the salt,' said Shahid. ‘That's what your body needs. The salt.'

‘You know what the best hangover cure is?' said Max. ‘Watermelon juice and milk.'

‘Not mixed together, surely,' said Shauna.

‘Yeah, mixed together. It's great.'

‘Oh god, that makes me feel ill,' said Shauna. ‘Doesn't it curdle? Ugh.'

‘I'm telling you,' said Max. ‘The milk lines your stomach and the watermelon juice takes the heat away. Everything you need.'

‘That's nasty,' said Shahid. ‘What you need with a hangover is salt.'

‘I agree,' said Shauna. ‘Crisps would do, if olives weren't available. Oh for some crisps! And some olives! And some water!' Her eyes wandered to Jim's van.

‘Before you ask,' said Max, ‘He can't open the van for anybody. For any reason.'

‘Sorry?'

‘The van. It's a no-no.'

‘Oh god, sorry. I wasn't even suggesting that,' said Shauna. ‘I was just prattling on. Making conversation. Jesus.'

‘No, no, no, I didn't mean it that way,' said Max. ‘Sorry. I was just pre-empting any embarrassment.'

‘You've done a good job of that,' said Jim. ‘Christ, go on then. I've got a few things. Emergency rations, like.' He reached under the seat, pulled out several packets of crisps and a few bottles of Coke. They were received with cries of delight.

For a few moments nobody spoke, and the crunching of crisps and the hiss of Coke bottles opening filled the air. Then there was the sound of a door slamming nearby, followed by footsteps. All four looked up, mouths full: a wiry man in faded jeans and a rumpled T-shirt was swaggering towards them. One
of his hands was running across the shaven dome of his head, and he was grinning. He was being doubled, trebled, stretched, warped by the car windows around him.

‘Oi-oi,' said Rhys, fixing his eyes on the group. ‘What we got here, then?'

Coke and crisps

Jim cleared his throat. ‘Can we help?'

‘You can, bruv,' said Rhys, a smile on his face. ‘I want a packet of crisps for starters. A few packets. And a Coke.'

‘Sorry, you're out of luck.'

‘You what?'

‘They were all I had. I'm all out.'

‘Well, get some more, then.'

‘Where from?'

‘You got a whole van load there, innit?'

‘I can't open it.'

‘Bollocks. Where did you get this lot from then?'

‘Look, mate,' said Max, in a voice not dissimilar from that he used with his daughter, ‘this traffic is shit. We're all pissed off. But there's no reason . . .'

‘I'm fucking starving, bruv,' said Rhys. ‘You had a job lot earlier on and all. I saw you. Come on, relax. Spread the love.'

‘Fine,' said Max. ‘If you want some crisps, have mine.'

‘No, mate,' said Rhys, ‘I'm not touching your dirty, fucking, infected crisps. Or yours,' he said, jabbing a finger at Shahid. ‘But I wouldn't mind hers.'

Before Shauna could react, he had scooped the contents out of her crisp packet and filled his mouth. She backed away several paces.

‘Mate,' said Max, ‘that was out of order.'

‘Come on, bruv,' said Rhys, swallowing with some effort. ‘It's only crisps, innit? We're all human. Now, what about your Coke, love? I'm thirsty now.'

The van door slammed again, and a man appeared through the gloom: tall, sinewy, vulpine face. Jumpily, he took up a position beside Rhys.

‘Ah, Monty,' said Rhys, ‘nice one. You didn't pussy out after all. Look, we're fair and square now.' As one, their eyes locked on to Shahid.

‘Nobody wants any trouble, brah,' said Shahid.

‘Who said anything about trouble?' said Rhys. ‘I never said nothing about trouble. All we want is some food, yeah? You got a sense of humour, mate.'

‘Rhys,' said Monty in a low voice. ‘This ain't the time, mate. Let's get back to the van, yeah? It's been a long day. I don't want trouble.'

Before Rhys could reply, two hooded figures emerged from the night and flanked Shahid.

‘What have we here?' said Rhys. ‘Called for reinforcements?'

‘They're not reinforcements,' said Shahid. ‘They're my mates, innit.'

‘Where've they been?' said Rhys. ‘Having a fucking bacon sandwich?'

The Asian boys bristled. Monty placed both hands on Rhys's shoulders, as if giving him a massage. ‘Come on, mate,' he said into his ear. ‘Let it go. Save it.'

Nobody moved. Black shapes in the orange light, like insects locked in amber, they had nowhere to go; the jam had enforced a strange stasis on the world. Here was a place that could be accessed only by car, and only by car could one escape.

Shahid and Rhys both started to speak at the same time, and, strangely, each gave way to the other, leaving a fraction of a second of silence; and at that moment came the sound of a man calling ‘Rhys? Monty? Rhys?' Monty, without taking his eyes off Shahid, yelled, ‘Chris? Chris, mate. We're over here.' And through the gulley between the lines of stationary cars, carrier bags rustling, came Chris, a faithful hound, laden with burgers and chips and onion rings and apple pies and ketchups and Cokes.

‘Fucking nice one,' said Rhys excitedly, ‘fucking nice one.'

‘Course, mate,' puffed his brother, wiping his brow with his wrist. ‘Got the lot. And more. I was the last one in before they closed. Fuck-all else for miles.'

‘And you been burning some calories and all, by the looks of it.'

‘Come on,' said Monty, ‘let's get back to the van. While it's hot.'

Like a child, Rhys abandoned his game in favour of food. He seized Chris's bags and returned to the van, one arm slung across his brother's shoulders. Chris was carrying his hoodie under his arm, and something was bulging underneath it. Monty hung back.

‘Look,' he said, quietly, to the group. ‘I'm sorry about him. He's pretty, well, excitable. And he has a weird sense of humour. Just don't provoke him, OK?'

‘We didn't provoke him,' said Shahid in a thin voice.

Monty glanced around. ‘Shit way to spend a Sunday evening, eh? Wonder what the hold-up is. Anybody know?' There was no response. He caught a glance from Shauna. ‘You all right?' he said.

‘I'm OK,' she said. ‘That man's a nutter.'

‘He's just . . . like that. Let me give you some money for the crisps.'

‘No, no, honestly. Don't worry.'

‘I'd like to. Here, a quid. Is that enough?'

‘You should give it to Jim, really. The crisps all came from him.'

‘You're shaking.'

‘Sorry, it's . . . I'm a bit freaked out, that's all.'

‘I'll keep an eye on him, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘I'm sure the traffic'll be moving soon, anyway.'

Monty looked around the loose semi-circle of faces, from face to silent face, seeing matching expressions of fear and disgust. He didn't want to go back to the van.

‘Monty?' came the call. ‘Monty! We're going to eat yours and all, you cunt.'

‘I'd better go,' said Monty. ‘You're sure you're all right?'

‘I'm fine,' said Shauna. ‘Thanks.'

He turned and disappeared into the darkness, a fish into the depths of the sea.

There was a universal exhalation of breath. Each of them put their crisps and Cokes together on the tarmac, as if making a pyre, as if they had become infected with some plague. Jim made way for Shauna and she sat on the step of the van, trying to suppress the trembling.

‘Fuck me,' said Max. ‘What is going on with this country?'

‘You're not surprised, mate, are you?' said Shahid.

‘I would have called the police,' said Jim, ‘if I could.'

‘The police couldn't have got through the traffic,' said Mo.

‘Hard shoulder,' said Jim. ‘But those blokes could come back any time. We'd better watch ourselves.'

‘The emergency phones down there are dead too, by the way,' said Kabir.

‘The whole system's down, innit?' said Shahid morbidly.

Shauna was sitting with her head in her hands, massaging her temples. Max glanced at Ursula; still asleep. He removed his jacket and slipped it over Shauna's shoulders.

‘I'm fine, I'm fine,' she said. ‘It's only a packet of crisps.' She drew the jacket around her.

‘We'd have had a good chance,' said Shahid. ‘That fat bastard wasn't worth nothing. And there's more of us than them.'

‘It was only a packet of crisps,' said Shauna.

‘You're all mouth now,' remarked Max. ‘After the event.'

‘Christ sake,' said Shauna. ‘I keep saying, it was only a packet of crisps. That other one was all right, anyway. The tall one.'

‘You're joking,' said Jim. ‘He was worse. Sinister, like.'

‘Oh,' said Max, ‘looks like my wife's stirring. I'd better go.' He looked at the people around him, as if unsure of what to say; then, with awkward apologies, he removed his jacket from Shauna's shoulders and hurried back to his car.

Shauna

Half an hour earlier, before plucking up the courage to approach the little group by the Waitrose van, Shauna was sitting in her Smart car, in the middle lane of the endless lines of traffic, prodding out an email on an iPhone. She was still getting the hang of it; she was used to her old BlackBerry, which she would hold up to her face like a goblet, thumbs racing; but when she tried the same technique with the iPhone, the result was unintelligible. Even now, working slowly and methodically, her shoulders gibbous with tension, she was inputting error after error. It was like typing on a mirror.

‘Dear Chloe and Seedie,' she typed, ‘congratuoariojd on your wedding, which was Li dog. Have a super iknetmokn. I do hope to see you so on, when you get bCk to blights. I'll biby you both a oint. With all my liver, S x.' With all my liver? Biby you both a oint? Despite herself, she smiled. With all my bile, more like. For a moment she sat, the screen glowing in her palm like that piece of radioactive material in the opening sequence of
The Simpsons
that ends up in the collar of Homer's shirt by mistake, classic. She should just send it as it was, she thought, without correcting the typos. That would be true to form. Absurd. From now on, she thought, all of her actions would inevitably be seen as absurd. What a fool she had made of herself at the wedding. What a fucking fool.

Nevertheless, she went through the typos laboriously. And when finally it said, ‘Dear Chloe and Seedie, congratulations on your wedding, which was lovely. Have a super honeymoon. I do hope to see you soon, when you get back to blighty. I'll buy you
both a pint. With all my love, S x' she sent it. A mock aeroplane sound-effect accompanied it into the darkness. Or at least, into her Outbox. There was not a glimmer of signal to be had.

The worst thing was a hangover after a wasted night. Understatement. And she was cold. She removed her seatbelt – it sprang back with the enthusiasm of a puppy – and wrapped her caramel-coloured jumper around her body, snuggling into its folds. She had bought it on the King's Road last week, and it had become an indispensable companion. Generally, when other people felt hot, she was merely warm; when they were warm, she would be cold; and when they were cold, she was downright hypothermic. Her mother, her sister, certain of her friends, were always telling her to eat more, to ‘pad out' and then she wouldn't be so cold all the time. But her friends didn't count. Her mother didn't count either.

Who did count though? Him.
He
counted, and his opinions. Who? Him. Hubster. She knew not what he would look like exactly, but she knew very well the feel of him. He would wear good quality shirts with crisp creases, shirts that smelled of a traditional cologne, not too musky, not too sweet; his chest would be hairy, but not his back, and the hair would form dark crescents along the contours of his muscles. His personality, she knew that too: he would be quick to laughter, quick to anger, quick to forgive and forget; he would be impulsive, the sort of man who on a dull Saturday morning would whisk you off to Venice; yet he would be dependable, the foundation stone on which a family could be built. He would be into cars but not too deeply, into his job but not too deeply. He would be a small-c conservative (she was willing to negotiate on this). He would be a lover of the great outdoors, and nights at home on the sofa with a bottle of wine, and non-fiction. He would be a reasonable dancer, not a babe-magnet. His voice would be booming and well-trained. This was Hubster. She could see his silhouette in her mind, though his face was always dark. He had to be out there somewhere. When he made his appearance finally, she
would recognise him. There would be an instant connection. And his opinion on her figure would count.

And now this traffic! This was all she needed, a reminder of life in this accursed city. If she lived in a nice village in the countryside, or even a town or something, this traffic would be a thing of the past, only to be negotiated on her own terms, whenever she chose to take a trip to the Big Smoke to see friends or a play or a concert. The truth was, she was split down the middle, black and white, like an Othello counter. Could you still get Othello? Could you play it online now? Was there an app? She took out her iPhone but, not being able to face that fucking skiddy keyboard yet again, she put it back in her pocket.