Jam (9 page)

‘She's out cold and shit,' said Stevie. ‘The piece of meat is out stone cold.' He nudged her knee. ‘She's a proper lightweight.'

‘This traffic,' said Dave, updating his status as he spoke. ‘This fucking traffic. Do you think there's been a prang?'

‘More than a prang,' said Stevie, ‘to have been completely shut down like this. It must have been shut down. Completely.'

There was a pause.

‘Do you think we could get the piece of meat to perform?' said Stevie. ‘Pass the time?'

Dave giggled. ‘You dick. We'd get properly arrested. People can see through the window, you dick.'

‘Look,' said Stevie, pulling a blanket off the back seat. ‘We could get her under here, couldn't we? Bish, bash, bosh. '

‘You're a nutter,' said Dave, ‘as I've said many times before.'

‘Come on, live a little,' said Stevie extravagantly. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Who dares wins. She loves it, anyway. And a man could do with a bit of relief. Fucking bored. Captive audience.'

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his Nokia and cursed.

‘What?' said Dave, smiling.

‘Who you with?'

‘Vodafone.'

‘Cunts, the lot of them.'

There was a pause while Stevie, smiling conspiratorially, pressed some buttons. Then he held the device up, showing the screen to Dave, waggling it from side to side.

‘That's a new one,' said Dave. ‘You didn't text me that one. When did you take it?'

‘Just last night, mate. Not bad, eh? I'm going to make it my wallpaper.'

‘I thought you said you weren't going to take any more.'

‘Not in so many words. Anyway, I couldn't resist. Make hay when the sun shines. Look at her there. Sexy as fuck.'

‘Did she know you were taking it?'

‘Course she knew.'

‘Doesn't look like it.'

‘It's not her phone, anyway. It's mine. It's up to me what I put on it. And I think she looks fucking hot in this one. Butters, but hot. What she got to complain about?'

Dave tried to piece this logic together, but his brain had lost its agility. For no reason he laughed, the noise peaking and then dying away. Then he gazed out of the window, unaware of the minutes as they passed. The world was muffled and spinning slightly, which he found amusing. It had been a strange trip, that was for sure. A strange, strange trip. Neither of them had expected to have Natalie land on their plate, so to speak – she had been up for anything, at least at first – and Stevie was picking up the ball and running with it. Dave, at times, found himself feeling sorry for the skinny little black girl with the oversized breasts. For all
her posturing, she was unsure of herself. Still, they were nearly home. If this traffic would only clear.

Stevie wasn't a bad lad, just boisterous. They'd known each other since they were eight, but it was only at university that they had become friends. At school, it had been dangerous to be friends with Stevie. There's always one kid who attracts attention of a negative sort; Stevie was that kid. From the very beginning he was branded gay, teased mercilessly, often ended up bruised and sore on the floor of the toilet. One day the principal bully was caught in the act and expelled. Then the physical attacks diminished, but the best he could hope for was to be allowed to be on the outside looking in; often he was unable to do even that. And the names, of course, never stopped. Gaylord, Bumboy, Lord Anal. Refuses to talk about it now.

Dave rested his head back against the soft, soft headrest and felt as if he was sinking into a pool of feathers. He could see the driver of the car next door tilting back her seat. He could see a figure emerging from a car, stretching, craning his neck, getting back in. He began to wonder about something, but he couldn't take anything seriously. Piece of meat.

For some minutes his mind soared above the earth, images and thoughts passing through quickly, leaving no trace. Before the festival he hadn't smoked much, but now he felt like a pro. Life had another dimension to it: getting stoned. It was lovely. He loved it, it made him feel good. How could he have gone for so long without it? Like living without the ability to see. And this skunk was really something else. Slowly but surely, he fell into a fuzz.

‘All right?' said Stevie.

Natalie heard his voice from far away. ‘Fine,' she said, after a time. ‘You?'

‘You look pretty wasted. That shit must be good. You're a lucky sket.'

Natalie heard a girl's laugh, and realised it was her own. How strange. Nothing within her felt like laughing.

‘You're a hot sket, you know that?' Stevie was saying. ‘Have I told you that before? A hot sket.'

‘Piece of meat?' she replied. But then she realised that she hadn't replied, she had just intended to, and she was unable to make her mouth speak.

‘We've got some good times ahead,' said Stevie. ‘Trust me, this has only been the beginning.'

Natalie's eyes were closed now, but she could nevertheless see Stevie in great detail; his tightly curling hair, waspish face, amber-coloured eyes; his white, white hands stained with a thicket of freckles; the quick way that his lips pulled back from his teeth into a grin; the Puck-like sense of mischief that surrounded him like a scent; the way that everything, every conversation, every gesture would turn out to be smacking of sex.

She was spiralling downwards in a velvety loop, falling into dead unconsciousness. Her parents were there, as well; her dad – a clammy-browed mechanic perpetually on the verge of collapse – and her mum, glamorous in a way that made up for her age. She saw them sitting at the kitchen table at home, arguing about the amount her mother was spending on shoes, about the hours her father was working. Both were second-generation immigrants from Barbados. Their fathers had both come to England to work for British Rail. Their families were intertwined almost inextricably; they were bound together by more than their personal affections; and such bonds, which were created as much by community as by love, were both profound and stifling. They were immensely proud that she had gone to university, but at the same time suspicious. This was the context in which she grew up. She still did not know who she was. The kitchen table vanished; the argument and its particulars vanished; her parents, too, spiralled off into the darkness. And she knew nothing more.

*

After a few minutes, Dave's power of hearing began to return, and he remembered where he was, and rose to the surface again. He wanted to tweet about being biffed, but was too biffed to do so. There was a strange sort of rhythm, a regular scraping noise. More than just a noise; the body of the car was moving gently to it. His head felt like a potato. He heaved it up and revolved it until his eyes were pointing at Stevie's seat. There was no sign of him. He instructed his neck to turn his head back and rest once again on the headrest, and for a moment he thought it had happened. But then his head was turning the other way instead – a movement on the back seat had caught his attention – and his arms were pushing his body up in his seat, and his spine was twisting, the muscles working like worms.

Stevie was sitting beside Natalie on the back seat. For a moment Dave saw only a scattering of colours, then things gradually became clear. The rhythmic scraping sound was coming from Stevie. His trousers were gaping like a gutted whale, and his penis was standing straight up. Dave could see it pale against his body even though he had made an effort to protect it from prying eyes by a blanket gathered around his waist. In his hand was Natalie's hand, which he was pressing palm-down against it, rubbing in a serious way, as if he was trying to get something done. Her arm was contorted awkwardly. Dave traced it up to the elbow and from there to her body. One of her breasts was clamped in Stevie's other fist. She was not moving at all. Stevie looked up and met Dave's eyes; he gazed at him levelly, but did not break his rhythm. He was breathing hard now. Dave looked back at Natalie. A strip of light lay across her face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were slightly apart. Dave wheeled around and sank heavily back into his seat. The world was falling around him, falling, falling. He closed his eyes.

Outbox

‘Can't you just put a sock in it?' said Max. ‘You've been humming that same fucking ditty ever since you woke up.'

‘What?' said Ursula.

‘That ditty.'

‘Ditty? What is this, the nineteen forties?'

‘Ditty, jingle, whatever. That MP3 you've got loaded in your brain. That doo-doo-doo-doo tune. It's driving me out of my mind.'

‘What bollocks you talk.'

‘Surely you must know you're doing it.'

‘Doing what? Humming?'

‘Yes, humming.'

‘I'm not humming, Max.'

‘You are. You're doing it again and again. You've been doing it since you woke up. Ad fucking nauseam.'

‘I'm probably just trying to get back to sleep. After you woke me up.'

‘I didn't wake you up. You were stirring.'

‘I woke up, Max, when you got back into the car. Like an elephant.'

‘I'd had a stressful time out there, OK?'

‘Stressful? Why?'

‘Oh, it doesn't matter.'

‘Fine.'

‘Whatever. I just want you to stop that humming.'

‘OK. I'll stop whatever it is you think I'm doing, if it'll make you happy. OK?'

‘Fine.'

‘But I think you should try and relax.'

There was a pause.

‘And you're sure you emailed James and Becky?' said Ursula. ‘You're sure? Because they'll be going frantic otherwise.'

‘Of course I'm sure. I'm not an idiot.'

‘They'll be frantic if they don't check their emails.'

‘I copied them both in. You know what James is like with his phone.'

‘Couldn't you have found a way of giving them a call?'

‘There's no signal, I'm telling you.'

‘Have they replied?'

‘Not yet. I haven't got 3G in here, anyway.'

‘But you're sure the email went?'

‘Of . . . course . . . I'm . . . sure.'

A lava pool of rage welled within him. He tried to repress it like a cough, but it proved more than he could bear. He slammed his fist against the dashboard three, four times, then sat motionless.

‘Shit, Max, get a grip. You're not going to turn violent, are you?'

For a long time he didn't move. Then, by increments, the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the wheel subsided into the palest of browns, then to a more normal colour. He raised his head, heavy on his neck, and looked at her as if she was a stranger. ‘When did I ever hurt you?'

‘You're out of control, Max. What's wrong? Just tell me.'

‘Nothing's wrong. It's just this fucking traffic.'

‘I know when something's wrong, Max. And something is seriously wrong. Why can't you just tell me?'

‘Nothing's wrong. I told you.'

‘Are you having an affair?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘Then why can't you tell me?'

‘I have told you. It's nothing, OK? Nothing.'

‘Jesus. You're such a fucking man.'

‘Just leave me be, OK? I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine.'

She shook her head. ‘I can't tell you how hollow that sounds.'

‘How what?'

‘Hollow.'

‘Hollow.'

‘Yeah.'

‘I hurt my hand.'

‘I'm not surprised. Are you over it now?'

‘Don't patronise me, Ursula.'

A pause.

‘How did we get like this?' she said.

‘Like what?'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘I don't know.'

‘At first I thought it was just the stress of having Carly,' said Ursula. ‘On Mumsnet it seemed like everyone went through it. But then . . . I don't know. Things have changed.'

‘So you're going to leave me,' said Max.

‘I didn't say that.'

‘But you are.'

She reached over and touched his arm once, with fluttering fingers, the way a mourner touches a gravestone. Then she looked away. ‘Let's carry on talking about this another time,' she said, ‘when we're not in a fucking pressure cooker. This traffic's enough to make anyone lose it.'

As one, they sat back. A pair of ambulances approached along the hard shoulder, their wails spiking then abruptly lowering in tone as they whipped past and rumbled into the distance. There was something absurd about them, Max thought. Penguin waiters on wheels. Weird image.

He drew breath as if he was about to say something, but then his sore hand slid off the steering wheel and he fell into a grim silence. A memory of Nicole slipped unbidden into his mind. They were in a deserted ante-room at the Basingstoke
Conference Centre; people could be heard passing by in the corridor outside; towers of metal and fabric chairs were stacked on either side of them. She was saying, how quickly do you think you could come in my mouth? Pretty quickly, he was replying, thinking it was a hypothetical question. And then she was on her knees, and her fingers were inside his trousers, and there was something in the act of a near-total stranger broaching his privacy, in this obscure corner of a public place, that turned him on unbearably. And something about the sight of her there, on her knees before him; and the way she never once broke eye contact, even as she was slipping him into her mouth, her eyes filled with faux innocence; this was the memory. It came into his mind like some delicious and evil gas, and he found rising through his body something he had never experienced before: a fiery hatred of Nicole, a hatred of Ursula, a hatred of every woman, and every man, every child, that had ever drawn breath and ever would. A hatred of himself.

From the back seat, movement could be heard. Ursula looked in the mirror. Carly was motionless and pure in the way that only sleeping children can be, a freshly minted child. Bonnie, however, was stirring, rubbing her eyes with fists covered in orange dye and granules of salt. Ursula leaned over.