Gridlock (18 page)

Deborah's laundry was, of course, equipped for a person who did things sitting down, a conventional ironing board was far too high for her, besides which she would have found it extremely difficult to set one up. She would, of course, not have been alone in this. Everybody finds ironing boards extremely difficult to set up. The reason for this is that they were designed by a mad octopus, the same mad octopus who designed deck chairs.

Anyway, Deborah's ironing board was set into the wall, and hinged at the bottom, so that, when it was required, it could be simply pulled down. The wall it was set into was the partition wall between the laundry and the kitchen, which had originally been a single width of reinforced hard-board. However, on Geoffrey's instructions, Toss had spent the previous Sunday morning adding a second hardboard face to the kitchen side of the wall, thus creating an eight-inch-wide cavity, access to which could be gained by lowering the ironing board and climbing through the ironing-board-shaped hole.

This Geoffrey did, and not a moment too soon, for the intruders had now dealt with the bars and also the glass at the rear of the house. As Geoffrey pulled up the board behind him, he could distinctly hear somebody climbing into the back bedroom, which belonged to Toss.

It was a brilliant hiding place, the two intruders missed it completely and were very soon satisfied that the flat was empty.

'So,' said Jurgen, a German employee of Euro Despatch. 'It is a pity, yes? No sign of our quarry.'

'I don't think he's home, Fritz,' replied Noddy, who wore a bobble hat and was from Wolverhampton. Noddy had named himself after the lead singer of Slade, Wolverhampton's contribution to the rock and roll hall of fame . . . 'What we going to do? Wait?' he enquired, leaning against the clothes drier in the laundry room.

'I think not,' said Fritz, who wore a black polo neck and wished he had a duelling scar. 'Possibly one of the other two might return first. Let me remind you that the spastic fellow is our only target. Our employers do not wish to attract any more interest than is necessary.'

'Well, let's piss off up the pub then,' said Noddy, shrugging his shoulders.

Geoffrey, in his hiding place, was of course delighted with the turn events were taking, although he knew that he would now have to find a new safe house, which would deprive him of the society of the girl he loved. Still, it might make him concentrate.

Unfortunately, Geoffrey was rejoicing too soon, for his cerebral palsy, which had saved his life on a previous encounter with the forces of evil, now let him down terribly. His head jerked and banged against the cavity wall, then it did it again and after that, a third time. Probably this rhythm solo would have gone on for some time, but at that point, Jurgen pulled down the ironing board to reveal Geoffrey twitching behind it.

'So what have we here?' said Jurgen, all icy and cool.

'I think it's the spastic bloke we're s'posed t'kill,' replied Noddy, not realizing that Jurgen had asked a rhetorical question.

Geoffrey climbed out immediately, without being told to, he knew that his chances of survival were small whatever he did, but trapped inside a wall cavity they were zero. His body was uncooperative enough without further restricting it.

The laundry was necessarily a cramped space and Noddy was leant against the drier, whilst Jurgen was in front of the washing machine. Between them and Geoffrey was the little stool Geoffrey had been sitting on while his computer sat on top of an upturned laundry basket.

Jurgen was a professional killer, and the first maxim of professional killing is not to talk about it, but to get it over with immediately. He knew the story of how this strange little twisted fellow had already got the better of his two colleagues. Looking at Geoffrey, he found the story difficult to believe, but he was taking no chances and intended to get his job over with at once. However, pose was also important to Jurgen. He reached inside his jacket for the silenced pistol with a languid hand, the other dangling casually down beside him, limply hanging inside the open lid of the top-loading clothes washer.

Geoffrey was one of the coolest people in London, he was brave as a lion, smarter than a rat and in his whole life he had never allowed himself to be beaten. If you're spastic you simply can't, because if you did you would be beaten the minute you tried to get out of bed in the morning.

Of course, nobody ever really understood just how cool Geoffrey was. Even Deborah and Toss, who knew him well and also something of his deeds, could never fully comprehend just what an extraordinary individual he was, because the social conditioning is simply too strong. No matter what Geoffrey achieved it would always be a spastic achieving it and his future potential would always be doubted because it was the future potential of a spastic. Spastics just don't look like they're up to much and when, as so often they do, they prove that they are, other people are still secretly suspicious.

Geoffrey had a matter of a second in which to act. The controls of Deborah's machinery were wall-mounted, it was Geoffrey himself who had designed this. It saved Deborah having to try to reach out of her chair and lean across the top of the machinery. Many people in wheelchairs employ concertinaed, extendable arms with grips on the end, but Deborah did not need too, she was fortunate enough to have an electronics wizard for an admirer.

Geoffrey dropped his hand down and turned on the tumble drier, it jerked and rumbled behind Noddy. For a split second both Noddy and Jurgen were distracted, it was the old 'look over there' routine, but done much more effectively with a remote-controlled clothes drier.

There was a cup of washing powder on a shelf attached to the wall in which Geoffrey had just been hiding and, in the split second he had earned himself, Geoffrey brought his good hand up to grab it. As his hand came up it flipped the washing machine onto heavy stain wash. Deborah's water heater was one of those over-enthusiastic ones that heat the water so effectively that you could virtually make tea from the hot tap. A jet of scalding water spurted over Jurgen's hand, he shouted in pain, Noddy turned to him, eyes wide with surprise, and Geoffrey flung the powder in Noddy's face.

That was it, Geoffrey had exhausted his armoury and in the momentary confusion that he had created, all he could do was run like hell, or as much like hell as his unruly body would allow him.

By the time Geoffrey was through the living room and into the hall, Noddy had recovered, and, despite streaming eyes, had drawn his gun and was in pursuit. Geoffrey wrenched open the front door, which set off the front alarm. The clanging made Noddy pause for a moment which allowed Geoffrey to get out into the front path. The cool air of freedom hit him, he was going to make it, the crowded street was only a few feet away. Toss was just turning in through the gate.

'Wicked, Spas, what's happening?' he enquired of the figure jerking towards him, with its head bobbing against its shoulder and one arm performing a strange modern ballet all of its own.

But then there was no head, and no arm. Both simply disappeared mid-jerk, each absorbing the terrible impact of a barrel of Noddy's double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun, which Noddy fired the moment he had reached the doorway. For a moment Geoffrey's poor twisted, now virtually headless, body remained standing. Then it collapsed.

Noddy was gone, Jurgen too, they were out of the back before Toss could even understand what had happened. He just stood there staring at the corpse of his ruined friend.

Geoffrey Spasmo was dead, and the secret of his great invention had died with him.

Now Sam Turk really did hold the only ace.

Springer had been desperate for a chance to talk to Sam ever since Sam had got back from Detroit, but he had had to wait almost a week because it had been agreed that any discussion of their secret project should take place very discreetly. There should be no chance of anyone following them or overhearing or even knowing that the meeting had taken place.

To this end, Sam had arranged that they should meet at the Jolly Griddle Family Restaurant on the A40 just south of Oxford. He judged this a sufficiently anonymous venue. Travelling salesmen stopped there all the time, two men deep in discussion would certainly not be noticed. Everyone was always too busy discussing how awful the food was.

Only in Britain could the Jolly Griddle chain not only survive but prosper. Only we could eat the stuff they dish up. On the road into hell there is a Jolly Griddle Family Restaurant, and even there, where the fires of Hades burn with a fearsome heat, the fish is still frozen in the middle when it arrives at your table.

They just can't cook
anything
at these places and one is forced to wonder whether they do it deliberately. Surely it must be as easy to microwave a portion of baked beans right, as it is to microwave it wrong, so why do the beans always arrive congealed and with a skin on them? One would have thought it would be as easy to put the bit of lemon on top of the fish
after
heating as it is to do it before, so why does the bit of lemon always arrive dried up and microwaved to death? It is
almost
as easy to shake the water out of a portion of peas before dumping them on a plate as it is not to bother, so why does one's food have to arrive floating in an eighth of an inch of water?

Is it a conspiracy? Is it a joke? Is Mr Jolly Griddle screaming with laughter in his mansion? Saying to his wife, 'I don't believe it, these people will eat
anything
!! What shall I try next? I know, ring the local shoe factory and ask them for a million individual lasagnes.'

'I don't believe this, the fish is still cold inside,' said Sam. 'Hey, kid, come here.' He motioned to a bored dispirited adolescent. 'Kid, the fish is frozen on the inside, it is hot on the outside, but frozen on the inside. Half done is not done at all. You want me to eat the breadcrumbs, is that it?'

It was absolutely clear from the lad's expression that he did not give a tiny toss what Sam did with his meal. At the end of the week he would take home less than sixty-five quid, if he hadn't still been living at his mum's he would have starved.

'I'll take it back then, shall I?' he said.

'It has already been back, kid, you took it back once, but it is still cold, how can that be? Did you forget what the problem was on the way or something? It is still cold.'

'Is it?' said the waiter. 'I'll take it back then, shall I?'

'Hey, Sam, why don't you just eat your French fries,' said Springer, who had been under the impression that the whole point was that they were not supposed to draw attention to themselves.

'French fries? These are not French fries, Springer, these are
English
fries, which is why they are white, bendy and soaking up water from the peas. OK, kid, forget it, life's too short.' Sam motioned the waiter away.

'Sam, you told me this was all hush-hush,' said Springer slightly reprovingly as the waiter retreated. 'Why did we drive fifty miles to eat garbage if we are putting up a sign saying we are here?'

'Springer,' said Sam, 'look at this stuff. That kid must get asked to take back every second piece of fish he serves. If I
hadn't
have complained, now that would have drawn attention.'

This of course showed how, despite his year in the country, Sam still knew very little about the British, because the British would rather die than cause a scene. Very little food was ever sent back at Jolly Griddles. Thousands of mums and dads sit in these family restaurants, seething with anger, swearing they will say something, but, unless the fish actually bites the children, they rarely do.

Sam and Springer's conversation turned to Sam's visit to Detroit.

'So you saw Tungsten? Gosh, I'll bet he freaked, I'll bet he did a backflip,' said Springer.

'Yeah, he was pretty excited,' conceded Sam.

'Excited, I'll bet he was excited. He is going to be the most important car maker since Henry Ford. The three of us are going to be American heroes! I guess even if they learnt we had to bump off the little professor they'd forgive us.'

Sam looked at Springer with the same quizzical look he had used on the beach in Brighton.

'Not that anyone's ever going to find out of course,' Springer quickly corrected himself.

'Bruce's reaction was kind of strange, Springer,' said Sam. 'He had a kind of different plan to ours. I don't know, it took me back a little I confess, but it sort of has its points.'

'What plan could there be other than to make the engine?' asked Springer, mystified.

'Well, to not make the engine of course. Bruce wants to suppress the whole thing and sell the designs to the oil people, to the Arabs. Get paid off in billions and pretend there never was a hydrogen engine.' Sam was watching Springer carefully. It took Springer a moment to reply, he was too surprised to speak.

'Why the dirty, rotten little bastard,' he said eventually. 'I can't believe this! Bruce Tungsten? Mr Automobile? I thought the guy was a car man! I thought the guy was an American! Jesus Christ, Sam, what is he? Some kind of drug addict? This engine means Global is back! It means the USA is back! Big beautiful babes rolling out of Detroit and across the world. It will be like the Japs never happened! . . . I don't believe this! Jesus . . .' Springer was lost for words.

'It would mean an unimaginable amount of money,' murmured Sam.

'We make our dough from making engines, besides you couldn't spend that much. Sam, you got to talk to him.'

'Yeah, I know,' conceded Sam. 'I just felt honour bound to give you his plan, and you're sure you're not interested?'

'Hey, what do you think? Get outta here! We've made cars together for twenty years. I'm a car man.'

'Good. OK,' said Sam. 'I'll talk to Bruce, I guess he'll come round.'

They paid the bill and walked out into the car park together.

'Nine, two, four,' said Springer, following a custom that they had observed for all their years as a team. It meant that, not including their own, there were nine cars parked, of which two were Globals and four were Japanese. Given something to stand on, Springer could do the trick almost instantly with up to a hundred cars.

'A few years from now, nine, nine, zero, huh?' said Springer, getting into his new Crappee.

'Sure thing, old pal,' said Sam. 'You got a pen?'

Springer wound down his window, Sam leant in and shot him dead.

Springer's car had been parked in the corner of the car park, it was four whole days before anyone even noticed something was wrong. No-one remembered a thing. Sam, who of course had arranged a watertight alibi, was not even questioned. What possible motive could he have for killing his old pal and trusted employee?

Sam had never meant this to happen. He cursed himself for having been so foolish as to let Springer in on the secret at all. Bruce he needed, Springer he did not. Of course, at the point he had taken Springer into his confidence, Sam had not yet fully worked out the enormity of his plan, it had just been instinct, he and Springer worked together on everything.

Sam's ruthlessness surprised even himself.

'Dough is strange stuff,' he mused to himself as he drove back to London.

Digby sat down in the driving seat of his beautiful Panther Chief Executive (Kevin Class). It was the last night he would have the car, back-bench MPs are not provided with ministerial limousines and Digby had received a curt note to return his to the Westminster car pool forthwith. The chauffeur had already gone. As he turned the key in the ignition he reflected on how quickly fate can lay a person low. Only a fortnight before he had been driven down to Brighton in this very car, rehearsing a speech which he hoped might lay the foundations of a leadership bid. Now he was a disgraced back-bencher, his career in ruins. That, however, as Digby well knew was not the half of it. His current situation would appear quite idyllic once the newspapers hit the doorsteps in the morning. What's more, Digby knew that he had only himself to blame. It wasn't just his appalling naivety in going to the press, for which he was chastising himself, it was the craven and cowardly attitude he had adopted to his whole bloody life. There was, he knew, no question that his imminent exposure in the
Sunday Word
as a homosexual (what's more a homosexual with rather camp theatrical tastes) would be rendered infinitely more cruel by the lifetime of denial which had gone before. It was not just that he had always portrayed himself as a jovially sexist rogue either, far worse was his utter failure to attempt in any way to change the prejudices of society, prejudices to which he was about to fall victim. He had not only denied the fact of his own body, he had actually conspired against it. Digby's party, despite harbouring many a closet gay, was rabidly homophobic and Digby had gone along with all the slurs and prejudices. He had snorted with laughter at the queer jokes that regularly delighted the members' bar and eagerly joined in campaigns of slander against local councils who sought more tolerant attitudes towards sexual minorities. All this was going to make Digby look pretty pathetic in the morning when four million newspapers appeared with the headline 'DIRTY DIGBY IS A RAVING WHOOPSIE'. You just don't mess with the press, that had always been the dictum. How could Digby have forgotten it?

He had learnt of the terrible consequences of his pact with the devil only that morning. Astonishingly, he had actually woken up feeling perkier than at any time since he had received the Prime Minister's acceptance of a resignation he had not then even proffered. The sun was shining, the toast was hot and as he indulged in the tiny sensual pleasure of pushing down the plunger in the coffee maker, Ingmar Bresslaw's terrible anger was beginning to fade from Digby's mind.

Contemplating life as a back-bencher again, Digby could see its good side. It wasn't a bad old life, if you had a decent-sized majority and your constituency party still supported you, which Digby's did (after all, they reasoned, better to have an ex-minister for your MP, than one who had never held real power at all). Digby sipped his coffee, and mused, almost eagerly, on the jolly, irresponsible lot of the back-bencher. He would be able to whoop and holler and shout 'shame' and flick ink pellets at the Opposition and cheek the new oiks, just as he had done before high office had dampened his high spirits. He would be able to get as drunk as he liked before debates without being in any danger of having to make a contribution, the only constraint imposed on a back-bencher's drinking being that he remains sufficiently sober to go through the right lobby at division. Yes, Digby could indulge in all the Boys' Own fun of the back of the House without that irritating anonymity which is the lot of most of the 600. He was an ex-minister, he would be able to strut and boast about the place posing as a rebel ('I play a lone hand, and I'm nobody's lapdog'). Having rubbed shoulders with power he would always be in demand as an after dinner speaker, people like hearing about power ('I recall once saying firmly to the Prime Minister, whilst I knew the Foreign Secretary to be listening . . .'). He was still young, he could become a socialite, dining out with celebrities, telling them what the Queen was really like ('two words: gracious lady').

Besides all this, he would be well off for the first time in his life. As an ex-minister there was no doubt he would be able to pick up numerous lucrative directorships. Already his name had been linked in the papers with Cornelius Brandt, and people were talking about him as a possible titular head of the British division of Imperial Oil. It is a curious thing, but when ministers resign there is much press speculation about what they will do for a job. This speculation continues until, after much horse trading, they emerge as a director of British Telecom or something similar. The fact that the ex-minister in question is still an MP and, hence, already has a job, representing the tens of thousands of people in his constituency, passes without comment. This was the case with Digby. Renowned git though he was, to those in the know, he was still considered to be eminently employable. As far as the party was concerned he had resigned in disgrace, but to the public at large he was the outspoken champion of the road who had been forced out of office. There would, no doubt, be numerous petrol pumpers, car manufacturers and motoring organizations eager to improve their profiles by giving the fiery and quixotic ex-Transport Minister a position on the board.

Then the doorbell rang, shattering Digby's happy reverie for ever.

Digby answered the door himself, his treasure who 'did' for him had not yet arrived ('She is
marvellous,
I would have been
submerged
long ago without her. Can't speak a word of English, of course').

'Mr Parkhurst,' said Galton, and despite the fact that the sun was shining strongly, he did not disintegrate into a pile of dust as blood-sucking vampires are supposed to do.

'Yes, Digby Parkhurst, can I help you?' replied Digby, rather stiffly.

'I see you don't remember me, sir, that's all right, I'm used to that, sir. We were introduced. Galton, of the
Sunday Word,
I attended the interview which you gave for Mr Christian Corbet, my editor.'

Thinking about it, Digby did recall a shadowy figure lurking in the shadows.

'Hmm, yes, well have you prepared your story?' Digby asked. 'I shall not hesitate to offer it to a rival publication.'

'Oh we've prepared it all right, sir. Out tomorrow in fact. I wonder if I might have a few words, Mr Parkhurst. Just to clear up one or two details?'

'I really cannot see why that should be necessary,' replied Digby. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I am an extremely busy man.'