Gridlock (5 page)

It was a delicious dream, to be immortal, to be set in concrete. One of Digby's recurrent fantasies was that he would be remembered as 'King of the Road', that schoolchildren would be taught of his great achievements . . .

'And this infrastructure,' Digby said to himself, assuming the personality of mythical teacher of the future, 'was set in place by Digby the Road Builder. Yes, class, Digby Parkhurst, the King of the Road.'

As Sam Turk angrily slammed the phone down on the French hit men, the object of his concern was still very much alive and the reason that the gerbil could not be sedated was that the gerbil was, at present, in the company of the police. This is a state of affairs likely to impede any murder. One of the first things they impress upon rookie hit men during their hit man basic training is that if you are contemplating perpetrating a homicide, it is advisable to avoid doing so whilst there are uniformed bobbies present.

Unfortunately for Geoffrey, his protector was on the point of departure. 'We'll be in touch if need be, sir,' said the copper, having looked at the forced window-pane and noted the absence of a television.

'Is that it?' said Geoffrey astonished.

He had perhaps not expected an immediate arrest but he wouldn't have minded some small indication that an arrest might one day be within the bounds of possibility. Geoffrey could not help feeling that he would have got more investigative vigour and commitment to law and order if he had called in the Brownies.

'That's it for the moment, sir,' said the policeman.

'But this is absurd,' Geoffrey stammered, struggling to keep his speech comprehensible. 'Where are the bloodhounds? The lines of dungareed cadets beating the undergrowth? Surely you'll need a sample of my semen so that you can rule me out when you start the genetic fingerprinting?'

Detective Constable Collingwood smiled his weary smile. He was used to outraged householders demanding action. It always comes as a great shock to people, perhaps second only to that of the actual burglary, to realize that there is virtually nothing the police can do about it.

A population raised in the comforting company of
Dixon of Dock Green
fondly imagine that the police have sufficient resources to do their job properly. George Dixon was a policeman who was not only happy to investigate minor crimes but also found the time to deliver lengthy philosophical monologues on the nature of the villainy he encountered. Sadly, the real police force, in the real world, were long ago forced to recognize that their chances of keeping up with the thousands of burglaries committed each week are non-existent.

'This mean city's a bubbling cauldron of sleaze and crime,' said DC Collingwood, who enjoyed the occasional Batman comic. 'Our job's to keep the lid on, sir. I have to ask myself what is more important: your telly, or some slimeball pushing crack onto a teenage girl to get her hooked and turn her into a piece of filthy human wreckage, so that she can be lured onto the game?'

Put that way, Geoffrey began to feel a bit guilty about having called the police at all. The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of a teenage girl becoming a piece of human wreckage. Geoffrey had been about to mention the two men who had visited him that afternoon but he decided to forget it.

'As I say, sir,' continued Collingwood, 'we'll call you if we find anything out,' but he knew that there was no chance. Much as they would like to, the police don't investigate burglaries any more. They write them down in a big book and then, at the end of each police year, they take the big book to their annual conference, show it to the Home Secretary and ask for more money, which they get, but only if they promise to spend it on riot gear.

Of course, if the young detective had had any idea as to where Geoffrey's small burglary was going to lead; if, for a moment, he could have seen into the future and caught a fleeting glimpse of the mayhem and destruction that would eventually stem from this one tiny entry in the big police burglary book; if DC Collingwood had glanced into a convenient crystal ball and seen the murder, mayhem and environmental catastrophe that lay at the end of the chain, which began with the theft of Geoffrey's telly – he would have had a look round for some fingerprints and stuff, he would have got down on his knees with some tweezers and started putting bits of fluff and fag ash into envelopes, he would probably have accepted Geoffrey's kind offer of some semen. But Constable Collingwood didn't know, so he went on his way. Leaving Geoffrey feeling rather rotten and depressed.

But Geoffrey's time of trouble had only just begun. He was destined, in a very short while, to feel a great deal more rotten and depressed. It was only, in fact, to be a matter of minutes before Geoffrey would be looking back on that vague sensation of feeling rotten and depressed as a positive high point of his day. He had not, as of yet, made any real and concrete connection between the theft of his television and his unpleasant experience with the two thugs at the lab. But he was about to.

Finishing his coffee, Geoffrey got up and wandered into his study. It was only then that Geoffrey noticed that the hard disk drive had been removed from underneath his computer. He had not noticed before, because the computer itself, which was by far the more valuable item, had not been stolen, neither had an extremely expensive laser printer borrowed from the lab. Only his hard disk had disappeared and also, he now noticed, all the back-up floppy disks as well.

Why on earth would any burglar wish to steal disks?

Geoffrey came to the rather worrying conclusion that they were after his research. The television had been either mere opportunism, or a blind to cover up the true purpose of the burglary. Geoffrey now understood that the two fellows he had encountered at the office were not acting under any misapprehension. They had mentioned Geoffrey's patent application, and now, on the same day, all his work, all his electronic files had been stolen. The conclusion was dawning on Geoffrey that somebody did not like his invention, and in fact, disliked it enough to steal it, and send thugs after its inventor. Geoffrey thanked his lucky stars that he had already submitted the project to the patents office. Whoever it was who had stolen his work would not be able to suppress his brilliant invention simply by pinching it.

Geoffrey returned to his armchair, pondering his predicament. Should he tell the police about the threatening men? About the theft of his work? He supposed so, but it was a tiring prospect. Long and bitter experience had taught him that it was extremely difficult for spastics to get themselves taken seriously. People often didn't even want to talk to them, let alone hear about their problems. The first thing to do, Geoffrey felt, was to get away from his house. Clearly something was very wrong and he needed peace to consider it. He had just decided to go and spend the night at a friend's place when he heard the unmistakable sound of his front door being kicked down.

Geoffrey's life had demanded from him a peculiar courage and strength: but it had not prepared him for having violent thugs kick down his front door – and he was shit scared. Years of being demeaned and patronized had caused Geoffrey to develop a very thick skin, but he knew it was not thick enough to withstand physical assault. Geoffrey shrank into his chair as he heard the sound of heavy feet in the corridor and, before he knew it, his two companions of earlier in the day were standing before him. Geoffrey could not believe his stupidity for hanging around in his house. Obviously, if they knew his workplace, they would know his home. He could have kicked himself. As it happens, he was kicking himself because the tension of the situation had caused him to lose a degree of control over his lower limbs.

'Stop fucking twitching,' said a thug, disgust in his voice.

'He can't, can he? Look at him,' said the other, adding, 'makes you wanna puke, dunnit?' thus dispelling any suspicion that his rough exterior might disguise a sympathetic soul.

'So you're the bleeding egghead then?' continued the thug (whose name was Frank). 'Who'd of bleeding thought it?'

'He looks like a total spastic, dun' 'e?' said the other.

'I am,' said Geoffrey, trying to keep his head still.

'Shut your face, you mongol,' barked Frank. 'We've wasted a whole bleeding afternoon looking for you. We followed that taxi all the way to Harlow.'

'Let's kill the pathetic little bastard and piss off,' said his colleague (whose name was Gary) as he produced a gun.

Geoffrey was slightly stunned. He had no idea that the stakes were quite so high. It appeared that these men were actually going to kill him.

'Probably doing you a favour, eh, Professor? Put you out of your misery, eh? Jesus, look at the state of it, eh?'

In truth, Geoffrey was in rather a state. Small and twisted in his armchair, he was jerking and dribbling and his voice was not working.

'Och och och,' he grunted for no apparent reason. Adding, 'uuuurrrrgh.' In fact, Geoffrey was pleading for his life, but this was somewhat lost in the translation.

'Come on, Frank, kill it and shut it up,' urged Gary unkindly. 'Makes me sick that noise does.'

Geoffrey had always been aware that many people found him distasteful, that their stomachs weakened at his twitches and grunts and they longed to be away from him – but no-one had ever been so upfront about it before. On another occasion, following his policy of confronting his cerebral palsy head on, Geoffrey might have applauded such honesty. However, on this occasion, he was too scared to applaud anything.

'Can't kill him, can we?' said Frank to Geoffrey's intense relief. 'Not until we've tortured him,' he added, which somewhat mitigated Geoffrey's enthusiasm.

'It won't need torturing, mate,' said Gary the death enthusiast. 'Look at it. It's shitting itself,' an observation which was not far from the truth. Gary crossed the room and, sweeping away the broken glass from the exploded wine bottle, perched himself against the sideboard. He addressed Geoffrey with exaggerated slowness, as if talking to an idiot . . . 'Here, spaso,' he said. 'Have you got any other work stuff stashed away, besides what we nicked before? . . . Dribble for yes, twitch for no . . . ha ha ha.'

Geoffrey was not in a position to answer, every ounce of his concentration was pinpointed on his good hand. It lay underneath his twitching body and in it was the remote control. Very slowly, and with all the dexterity gained through years of doing the work of ten, Geoffrey's five good fingers were gently teasing the tiny joystick.

With his chin, seemingly, attached to his collarbone and his small body rigid and jerking, rattling about in the stiff leather of his jacket, Geoffrey did not look dangerous. But he was.

The laughing man's bottom was perched next to the wine bottles, Geoffrey could see the big fold of flesh from the sideway's view that his tilted head allowed him. The man was still laughing at his brilliant dribble gag as the little hydraulic arm that Geoffrey had made silently came to life and hovered across the sideboard. The needle came to a halt above the fold of Gary's plump backside, squashed as it was against the polished wood.

Geoffrey flipped a switch, the shaft of steel plunged downwards and Gary's cruel laughter turned to a scream as the vicious needle buried itself in his flesh. The needle hissed like a snake and the man fell dying onto the floor. As luck would have it, the snake had found an artery, and ten cubic centimetres of compressed air had been pumped, at high pressure, into Gary's bloodstream.

Frank spun round, astonished.

'Jesus, Gazzer, this is no time to have a bleeding heart attack.'

Even at this moment, Frank could not get over his prejudices. He still could not quite believe that the small, twisted wreck in the armchair could have had anything to do with the besting of his tough, able-bodied colleague. Then Frank saw the jointed robotic arm hanging over the edge of the dresser. He saw its one finger, a long thin spike, crimson with blood, pointing down at the dying man. A stern, accusing finger calling Gary to book for his life of sin. Frank looked from the needle to Geoffrey; then at his now dead colleague – and he began to wonder.

'Did you do that, you little bastard?' he shouted at Geoffrey. 'You're supposed to be some sort of bleeding professor, ain't ya?'

Frank had drawn his gun and his face spelt murder. But Geoffrey wasn't looking at Frank's face, he was looking over Frank's shoulder to the space behind, where a pot of scalding coffee was slowly crossing the room on a long arm.

'All right, mate, that is it. You are dead, you hear? I don't care whether we've got all your research stuff or not, you ain't going to be telling anyone about it because you are bleeding dead.'

Frank held up his pistol, and for the first time in his life Geoffrey found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Except he wasn't really staring down it, his eyes were fixed on the space above his assailant's head. Could the arm reach high enough? Fortunately, it had also been designed for getting things down from the top of wardrobes.

As the man cocked his pistol the coffee pot appeared from behind him and levitated upwards until it hovered above his head. Geoffrey had literally only seconds in which to act, but, to his lasting credit, he found the time to be cool.

Making a huge effort to gain control of his voice he enquired . . .

'Do you take sugar?'

Without waiting for a reply Geoffrey again hit the button on his remote, and a pint of boiling coffee descended on Frank. Fortunately, Frank did not fire, instead he screamed in agony and began to hop about. Geoffrey's plan, as far as he had one, was at this point to try to get to the door, praying he would have time to stumble out before Frank recovered sufficiently to kill him. However, as Frank hopped about, fate hopped in beside Geoffrey and offered him an altogether more satisfactory course of action. Frank's agonized jumps had landed him bang on top of the explosive lifting platform. Geoffrey had intended the platform to be used for purposes such as getting wheelchairs into buses, or the paralysed into bed, but he had no objection to it being employed to fight murderers. It was the work of a moment for Geoffrey to hit his remote for a third time. There was an explosion and the unfortunate Frank sailed out of the window – following exactly the same trajectory that Geoffrey's suitcase had done on the previous occasion. He landed head first in a flower-bed and broke his neck.