Gridlock (14 page)

Bob was a great driver. He had had numerous prangs and near misses in his motoring life and
not one
of them had been his fault. It was an extraordinary thing but whenever he was forced to swerve, or the other bloke was forced to swerve, or brakes were jammed on, or horns were beeped, not once, ever, had it been Bob's fault.

'Did you see that stupid bastard?' Bob would say to his long-suffering girlfriend, 'Chelle.

As Bob often said to his mates, he was content to drive at high speeds because he knew that he could handle a motor. What did worry him, however, was that some stupid bastard who should not be allowed on the road might cause an accident in which Bob was involved. Bob's mates all agreed wholeheartedly with this fear, it haunted them too.

Another aspect of Bob's extraordinary powers behind the wheel was that drink did not affect them. Bob
strongly
disapproved of drinking and driving. He detested it, after all, a kiddie might be involved. Yes, he felt it was a disgusting practice,
for those who could not handle it.
If you couldn't handle your booze then you were a bloody idiot to drink and drive, that was not negotiable. Bob, however, could handle his booze, obviously not to ridiculous excess, although he would admit that he had driven completely legless on more than one occasion, but he conceded that that was naughty and he certainly did not do it any more. But two or three pints, maybe four, followed by just a half, 'because he's driving', did not affect Bob. No, if he, or his mates, watched their drinking when they had the car it was simply to avoid being nicked.
No way
were they unfit to drive. In fact, Bob reckoned that he was a considerably better driver when pissed than most of the wankers on the road when sober.

Anyway Bob did the Mark III Moritz up a picture and slammed it straight into Deborah. The Sinclairs' dear old car, which had only had one scratch in twelve years, suddenly, out of the blue, crippled a young woman for life.

Of course, it wasn't Bob's fault,
no way
was it Bob's fault. This arsehole in front slammed on his anchors at a crossing, right? Even though it was green, Bob swerved to avoid him and hit this American bird who shouldn't even have been there!

In fact, what had happened was that Bob was approaching a pelican crossing which he guessed would be green by the time he arrived at it. There was a car in front stopped at the crossing, but Bob presumed that this car would be under way at any moment, thus relieving Bob of the necessity of actually stopping. Bob was hoping to do the whole thing without having to drop lower than third gear.

However, as he approached the lights, the car in front failed to move. Despite the fact that the orange signal was now flashing it remained stationary. Bob had not seen anybody step onto the crossing so why was the wanker not moving off? It was of course the old explanation, thought Bob, people were such terrible bloody drivers.

The reason Bob had seen no-one start onto the crossing was that Deborah had actually begun to cross a few moments previously and she was struggling with eight new books which she had just bought. One of the great student thrills at the beginning of the first term is buying all the important-looking books on the reading list. Most of the books remain unread for ever of course. All ex-students have a few books on their shelves that are basically brand new, except the price on the back is 35p. None the less, it is a great buzz to buy them and feel like a real intellectual, just for a moment. Deborah, having had great fun in the shop acting terribly earnest and brainy, was trying to get her haul home when she dropped one of the books on the crossing and was forced to try and pick it up without upsetting all of her other purchases. This process, of course, took a few moments and by the time she had finished the little green walking man had changed to the little red standing man. However, of course, Deborah had no choice but to proceed.

Bob couldn't believe it as he neared the lights. The yellow had stopped flashing and the light was actually
green,
why did the stupid bastard not pull away? Well one thing was for certain, Bob was not going to stop just because some other wanker did not know how to drive. So he slammed the Moritz down into second, accelerated round the stationary car, just as Deborah emerged from in front of it, and broke Deborah's spine. Bob of course tried to brake but, perhaps due to the absence of an anti-lock system, only succeeded in skidding.

Deborah had only been in England for a fortnight.

Sam Turk took Concorde to New York and then a private Lear jet to Detroit.

'Welcome to Motor City' a sign said, and some wag had sprayed 'Greetings honorable colleague' over the word 'welcome' in a reference to the manner in which the once mighty US motor industry now found itself desperately aping the Japanese.

Industrial dominance was a hard thing to fathom, Sam thought to himself as he took the chopper to the Global building. Why, it wasn't thirty years since the USA was such an economic power it didn't seem as if it could ever end. How do these things happen? A hundred years before, the British had been the Japanese, so to speak. After them, in the middle of the century, the people of the United States were unquestionably the Japanese. These days, perhaps rather ironically, the Japanese themselves were the Japanese. Who would be the Japanese next, thought Sam? Probably the Germans, but you can never tell.

From the helipad, Sam went directly to the palatial office of his boss, Bruce Tungsten, 'Mr Automobile', the president of Global Motors.

Sam had not been expecting to be greeted with open arms and nor was he. 'Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,' he said affably, striding across the huge office to greet his long-time colleague and boss. 'Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,' he added as he continued to cross the huge office until finally, exhausted, he stood before the great oak desk that Doug Global himself had once used.

'Good to see ya, old pal,' Sam added and, leaning across the huge desk, offered his hand. Bruce did not accept it. He stared hard at Sam for a few moments through eyes that gave nothing away, and then said:

'I hear that you have allowed the first car out of Global UK since you took over to be called the Shitty.'

Sam was disappointed, he had not seen Bruce for many months and they were, after all, old friends.

'The Crappee, Bruce. If you put the emphasis on the last syllable it sounds kind of Italian.'

'Sam, you couldn't make that name sound Italian if you stuck it in a gondola with a plate of spaghetti.'

Bruce was very tired. He had been boss of Global Motors for two years, having been appointed to head the dying giant by a board of receivers after old Doug Global's dissolute grandson, Karl, had brought the company to the edge of extinction. Karl's last act as president had been to insist that the wing mirrors on Global cars be fitted parallel to the road so that people could snort drugs off them.

Since that time, Bruce had been fighting to turn round the company, and indeed, since Global Motors was so big and so important, turn round the whole US motor industry. He had been banking on Sam to penetrate the European market, where import quotas still kept the Japanese vaguely at bay.

'Sam, for two years I've been working sixteen-hour days to make this company, which you and I love, a viable institution,' said Bruce wearily. 'Europe is fantastically important to us. It's a market we're already established in, with an independent British firm. We've finally sorted out our industrial trouble there and you bring me a car called Shitty.'

'Crappee, Bruce, Crappee,' Sam corrected rather defensively. 'We're hoping to get that fat opera singing guy to do the voice-overs,' and Sam attempted an exuberant Italian accent, 'You will be so ha-
pee
in a Cra-
pee
.'

Bruce Tungsten repeated the phrase, as if not quite able to believe what he was hearing. 'You will be so happy in a Crappy, Sam?'

'No, Bruce,' asserted Sam. 'Ha-
pee
in a Cra-
pee
. The Global Motors Crappee.'

'Global Motors,' said Bruce sadly, and clapped his hands. Instantly a little doll that he had on his desk burst into electronic laughter.

'Cute,' said Sam, 'maybe later we can have a game of Twister.'

'This isn't a toy, Sam,' said Bruce Tungsten. 'It's a challenge.'

'Yeah, I guess it must be,' Sam replied. 'Can you keep the little sucker on your desk a whole day without smashing it to pieces?'

'Did you ever hear about Henry V, Sam?' asked Bruce.

'One of the Ford boys was he?' enquired Sam. 'Let me see, there was Hank II, and Edsel, they named the car with the grid like a snatch after that loser—'

'Henry V of England, Sam,' corrected Bruce.

'Dagenham?'

'He didn't make cars, some people don't, you know. He was an English king, and his great rival was France, and, in order to taunt King Henry, the Dauphin of France sent him a bucket of tennis balls.'

'Nice taunt, that would have taunted the hell outa me,' said Sam.

'It was apt, because Henry was new to the crown but he was already talking big, talking about taking out France altogether, busting up the whole operation. The Dauphin was showing Henry that he was just a stupid kid who should still be playing games. Do you see, Sam?' enquired Bruce.

'Sure, I know history stuff,' said Sam rather huffily, 'although I ain't too sure where the dolphin fits in.'

'Dauphin, Sam, it means crown prince in French. The prince sent Henry tennis balls because he was laughing at him, Sam, you understand? He was laughing at him. Well the same thing has happened to me.'

Sam was astonished.

'A French dolphin has sent you sports equipment because he finds you funny?'

Sam suddenly felt sorry for his old friend, he had clearly flipped under the pressure.

'Listen, Bruce, I ain't no analyst, I'm a car man, grease and steel. Maybe you should see a shrink or something.'

'Two years ago I received this, Sam,' and Bruce indicated the laughing doll. 'Take a good look at it, old friend, and try to think of it as my balls.'

Fortunately for Sam he was not expected to answer this one for Bruce ploughed straight on with his explanation.

'It is made by the Tintandu computer game people, who, as I am sure you are aware, are part of the Hirohato group – Japan's biggest car manufacturer.'

'Those fucks don't make cars, they make toys,' Sam sneered vehemently, happy to be back on a subject he understood. 'I'd like to see a guy fence a ranch and bring home a steer in the back of a "Hirohato".' Sam put huge and contemptuous inverted commas round the very name.

'People don't want to bring home steers, they want to bring home groceries, Sam, and Hirohato outsell us even here at home in the States by three to one.' Bruce was angry.

'When I took over at Global I announced to the world that one day I would humble the great Hirohato giant. I said that the United States still had a great industry and, like a phoenix, it would rise again.'

'The Phoenix was a General Motors machine, wasn't it? Had three tail fins I recall.'

'The phoenix I am referring to is an allegorical fucking myth, Sam. It was a bird that got barbecued but walked away from the griddle, shook off the seasoning and flew ever higher. That, Sam, is what I said I would do for Global, that I would make it rise again.'

'I remember, Bruce, we were all damn proud. Some of the showroom girls cried so hard they nearly slid off the bonnets of the cars.'

'Well,' continued Bruce, 'after I said that, the next day, the Hirohato people sent me this.' Bruce indicated the little doll. 'They sent it with instructions for me to say "Global Motors" and to clap my hands.'

'Little slimes. We should have dropped more bombs,' said Sam sympathetically.

'Global Motors,' said Bruce, and clapped his hands. The doll began to laugh. 'Global Motors,' said Bruce clapping his hands again and the doll laughed louder, at a third clap it laughed louder still.

'And now!' said Bruce, rising to his feet, his voice quivering with emotion whilst the doll, still laughing, added a macabre weight to his words. 'And now! My top man in Europe, a guy who goes back with Global as far as I do, brings me a car called a Shitty!!!'

'I brought you something else, Bruce,' said Sam with a big smile.

'Stop grinning like that,' snapped Bruce, 'you look like the damn Jap puppet.'

'You're going to be grinning too in just a minute here, Bruce. I got something that is about to turn you and me into billionaires.'

And Sam Turk explained to Bruce that he had in his possession the plans for a hydrogen engine.

Bruce scarcely dared hope that what he was listening to was true. It was too extraordinary, too wonderful. It was, without doubt, the biggest thing he had ever heard. Could it be true? An engine that did not require petrol? He knew that Sam was extremely unlikely to joke about something as important as a motor engine, after all there were some things about which you just simply did not joke. None the less, there must be a catch, it was just too wonderful.

'It's true all right, Bruce. I had it stolen from the British Office of Patents,' said Sam, proudly lighting a cigar.

'You stole it!' enquired Bruce. 'Was that strictly necessary?'

'Sure it was necessary. I hate to negotiate, it's demeaning.' Sam was enjoying the manner in which power had switched in the conversation.

'But what about the team who invented it?' asked Bruce. 'Have you started an industrial war here?'

'There's no team, Bruce, no industrial combines. This thing was invented by one mad professor guy, like Eddison,' said Sam. 'There ain't gonna be no war.'

'One guy! That is incredible: one guy changing the course of US industrial history. One guy.' Bruce, who was used to vast research teams, consuming even vaster budgets in order to come up with a new hubcap, could hardly believe it. 'One wonderful guy. I want to kiss him. I want to leave Maureen and marry him. Where is he?'

'He's dead, Bruce,' said Sam, 'but I'm sure he would have been touched by the offer.'

'Dead?'

'Dead or nearly dead, Bruce,' Sam assured him. 'European contractors ain't quite as efficient as the boys in Detroit, but if he's
only
nearly dead, he's
very
nearly dead.' Bruce's face was such a picture of shock and horror that Sam felt perhaps some further explanation was required. 'We stole his engine, Bruce, no way was the guy going to take that lying down. What was I supposed to do?'

'Buy it off him for God's sake,' snapped Bruce. 'Couldn't you have just bought it off him like a human being? You say the guy may not have got it yet . . .?' Bruce grabbed a phone and thrust it at Sam . . . 'Phone them, phone them now, call it off.'

'Bruce, this is the biggest thing ever, we do not need complications. Better to just take the guy's work and bump him off.'

Bruce was astounded at his old friend's coldness, but then he did not yet know the half of Sam's plan.

'Besides,' Sam continued, 'the guy would never have sold, Bruce. We checked him out, he's a public transport nut.'

Sam was trying to soothe Bruce and he had hit the right spot. Bruce was no more a lover of public transport than Sam.

'What, you mean a tram freak?' asked Bruce, relieved to hear that the condemned man was at least an evil person. 'One of those guys who wants half the damn freeway reserved for buses?'

'Exactly,' said Sam. 'Can you believe the sickos God put on the earth? When I get to heaven I'm gonna ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.'

'Sam, can you imagine it?' said a very worried Bruce. The kind of damage a man like that could do, with all that evil engineering genius combined with his perverted communistic politics?'

'That's why I had to kill him, Bruce,' said Sam sanctimoniously. 'The guy didn't deserve to live.'

'A guy like that would have us all doing the same thing; going to the same places; looking the same; acting the same – like some kind of Chinese farm collective.'

'Exactly, and I ain't wearing no boiler suit for nobody,' replied Sam triumphantly.

Bruce was trying to convince himself that murder was justified. He did not really manage it, but the deed was done, he told himself, or almost done. Besides, there was the man's legacy, his engine: the saviour of Global Motors. He would live on through his work.

'All right,' he said, 'let's forget the egghead for the moment, when can I see the engine?'

'We don't have an actual engine as such, just the plans,' replied Sam, 'and I have to tell you, they are kind of complex.'

'Then get them over here, to Detroit, right now,' said an increasingly excited Bruce. 'The sooner we get a secure lab working on producing a prototype the better.'

'A prototype?' asked Sam, rather surprised.

'Sure, a prototype,' replied Bruce. 'You don't think we can build an engine without a prototype, do you? Everything needs a little test. Remember when we tried to rush the Cossack? Nobody noticed the design team had drawn the wheels oval shaped to make it look slicker.'

'I was just wondering why we need to build an engine at all,' said Sam.

'What, you mean franchise it?' Bruce asked, astonished. 'Let some other company produce it? What are you turning into, Sam, some kind of fruit? Am I going to have to buy you a handbag here? You gonna start wearing lipstick? Franchising is the first step to wanting to go to bed with guys, Sam. We make our own fucking cars. Global Motors build 'em and Global drivers fill 'em . . .'

Sam was staring hard at his boss. 'I don't think you've grasped the full potential of this thing, Bruce,' he said quietly.

'Grasped it, Sam? I can taste it!' Bruce was nearly dancing with glee, all qualms about the inventor's well-being having disappeared. 'If this engine performs the way you promise, fifteen years from now it will be the
only
engine! It will take the Japs and the Krauts easily that long to catch up. Global and the US will be on top again, and we'll be environmental heroes too! Oh my God! I love you, Sam, once we've got this engine on line I'll be able to take this doll to Hirohato and tell him to stick the head in a pencil sharpener then commit
hara-kiri
with the damn thing. Laugh at us, will they? I'll make them laugh!! Global Motors, ha ha,' and he clapped his hands with glee. The doll began to laugh with him . . . 'Global Motors' hydrogen engine! Ha ha.' Bruce clapped his hands again and the doll laughed louder. 'The Global Motors hydrogen engine, which rubbed every Japanese, every German and French nose in the mud. Yes, and Ford, and GM. Sam! Sam, this is the beginning of the second age of private transport, and we'll be it!'