Jam (10 page)

‘What are you doing?' said Max.

‘She's going to get that crap in her eyes,' said Ursula, ‘that crisp crap.'

‘Don't. You're waking her up.'

‘If she gets that crap in her eyes, we'll really know it.'

‘Jesus Christ.'

‘Bonnie,' said Ursula soothingly, trying to squeeze the tension out of her voice. ‘Bonnie. There, there, now, Bonnie. We're in the car. It's all right.'

‘Where's my mummy?'

‘Your mummy's at home, and as soon as this traffic jam begins to move we'll take you straight to your mummy. OK?'

‘I want my mummy.'

‘I know, darling, and I'm sure your mummy wants you, and we'll get you home just as soon as we can. OK? Stop rubbing your eyes.'

‘I don't want you, poo head. I want my mummy.'

‘You'll see your mummy very soon.'

‘Go away, poo head.'

‘Bonnie, that's not a very nice thing to say.'

‘I want juice.'

‘The juice is all gone now, Bonnie.'

‘I want juice. I want juice, poo head.'

Max passed a hand across his face and peered over the shoulder of his seat. ‘Bonnie,' he said sternly, ‘Ursula has told you. There . . . is . . . no . . . juice.'

‘Max,' said Ursula softly, ‘don't.'

‘You're a fuck man,' said Bonnie.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You're a fuck man. You're a poo head. I want my mummy.'

‘That, Bonnie, is unacceptable.'

‘Max,' said Ursula, ‘don't raise your voice.'

‘We can't allow her to get away with that.'

‘She's not our child.'

‘I don't give a fuck. She's not getting away with that.'

‘You'll wake up Carly.'

‘You're a fuck head,' said Bonnie, ‘you're a fuck man.'

‘Let's just stick a DVD on,' hissed Ursula. ‘Before she wakes up Carly. And teaches her how to say fuck.'

‘Like she hasn't already?'

‘I'm going to turn the TV on, OK? Bonnie, darling, please stop rubbing your eyes.'

‘No, Ursula. We agreed there'd be no more TV.'

‘Oh, don't be so fucking holier-than-thou. She's not even our child.'

‘Exactly. Even more of a reason not to. God, that whinging is doing my head in.'

‘Max, I am sure Becky would not mind if we allowed her daughter to watch a DVD. In extremis.'

‘Let's ask her then. Oh no, we can't. No signal.'

‘Don't be sarcastic. Bonnie! Stop crying. Stop rubbing . . . Now she's waking up Carly. Right, I'm giving her some TV.'

‘I don't agree with it. You don't have my support.'

‘Max,' she said, ‘give her your phone.'

‘I'm not giving that child my phone.'

‘Max. Just do it. Just do it.'

‘I'm not doing it.'

‘Have you got something on there you don't want me to see?'

‘Don't be stupid. She'll break it.'

‘No, she won't. She'll only be playing Angry Birds or something. And all your data's backed up, anyway, isn't it? Come on. We're in extremis.'

Max, realising that he was cornered, pulled out his phone and thrust it at the wailing child in the back. Bonnie's cries faltered, then abated; she took the phone and started to prod at the screen. Equilibrium was restored. For now.

‘What did we use to do when we were kids?' said Max. ‘When we were stuck in a traffic jam? We didn't have televisions staring at us from every conceivable surface. We didn't have fucking iPhones. We had I Spy. We had Count The Red Cars. We sang songs.'

‘You want to sing ‘Little Bo Peep' with Bonnie for the next five hours?'

‘She could read a book or something.'

‘We only have one book.'

‘Well, then. She could look out of the window.'

‘Right. Well, I'll leave it all to you then. Good luck.'

From the back seat, Bonnie began to wail again. Max groaned.

‘What is it now?' he said.

‘Not working,' said Bonnie.

‘What's not working?'

‘Poo head iPhone. And my eyes hurt.'

Now Carly was stirring, scrunching up her face and making a noise like the mewing of a cat. Max plucked his iPhone from Bonnie's grasp. Somehow, she had managed to turn the handset completely off. He held down the button on the top and the Apple logo appeared.

Carly opened her eyes. ‘I want TV,' she mumbled.

‘Jesus H. Christ,' said Max.

‘I want the iPhone,' said Bonnie. ‘I want TV. Fuck head.'

‘Right!' shouted Max. ‘Both of you shut up! Shut up! I want total silence! Total silence, OK? Silence.'

At this, both of the girls began to wail.

‘Oh, well done,' said Ursula. ‘That was handled brilliantly. Absolute top-class parenting. Top-class.'

‘Oh, put a fucking DVD on then,' said Max. ‘Just switch the fucking thing on and be done with it.'

‘It's too late now. You've set them off.'

‘It's not too late. Here. I'll fucking do it. What do you want? Disney? Fucking Little Fucking Mermaid? Beauty and the Fucking Beast? Here. I'll do it. Here.'

Both screens lit up with a toxic blue light, both displaying the logo of a magical castle with a shooting star arching above it. The two weeping children were bleached the colour of an early morning sky, and began to settle down. Music filled the car, a cheerful, bouncy tune that was interrupted every couple of bars by a sound-effect, the noise of a spring, or a chuckle, or a comedy crash-bang-wallop. Max looked in the rear-view mirror, and was sure he could see in Bonnie's tear-filled eyes the unmistakable expression of triumph.

‘I can't take this,' he said, ‘I just can't fucking take this.'

‘Max,' said Ursula in a dangerous voice.

He looked over; she was scrolling through something on his phone. His heart leaped into his mouth, and he made a futile grab at the phone.

‘You bastard,' she said, handing the handset back to him. ‘You fucking bastard.'

Here we go, he thought. The time has come. Drawing a shuddering breath, he looked at the phone. But, to his surprise, there was nothing from Nicole on the screen. Instead, Ursula had been looking at his email outbox. There, unsent, was the email to James and Becky.

‘You told me you'd sent it!' said Ursula, raising her voice above the noise of the cartoon. ‘James and Becky will be going absolutely spare!'

‘Shit,' said Max, ‘it must have got stuck in my outbox.'

‘You said you were sure it sent!'

‘I was sure. I am sure. I mean . . .'

‘Did it not occur to you to check?'

‘I'm sure I checked. This is really weird.'

‘Christ almighty, Max. I ask you to do one thing . . .'

‘Fine,' said Max, ‘Fine!' I'll go back out and borrow someone's phone. OK? I'll find someone. I'll humiliate myself again. OK? OK?'

‘You do that,' said Ursula, ‘and make sure you tell James and Becky the reason why it's taken so fucking long for us to get in touch.'

Max heaved himself out of the car.

‘Don't say anything rude,' said Ursula after him. ‘Don't be arsey. Don't ruin things for me. They're nice people.'

Without a word, Max slammed the door and stalked off into the night.

Popper

On someone's suggestion, the little group relocated to the hard shoulder. Jim locked the van before going with them, and sat on the motorway barrier facing it so he could see if there was any foul play. Shauna perched on the barrier too, and Shahid sat in front of them on the tarmac. Mo and Kabir had wandered off a little way along the road, kicking a stone. There they sat, the four of them, scratching the ground with pebbles, kicking up grit, biting their fingernails. And talking.

‘I just don't get it, brah,' Shahid was saying. ‘We could be having a party right now.'

‘I don't know what's so complicated, like,' said Jim. ‘It's not my van, is it? It's not my groceries.'

‘Come on,' said Shahid. ‘Nobody thinks like that.'

‘Course they do.'

‘Look, mate, you got to open your mind. You got to think, innit. Waitrose are this massive company. They're taking over the High Street, pushing independent retailers out of business, and making billions of quid. And it's people like you who are doing all the work. What are they paying you?'

‘That's not the point.'

‘What are the fat cats getting at the top of the tree?'

‘That's not the point.'

‘Do you think their massive profits would be damaged one bit if we all had a party with the stuff in the back of the van? Do you think it would make any difference at all?'

‘That's not the point.'

‘So what is the point, then?'

‘The point is I'm an honest man.'

‘That's not honesty, brah. That's naïveté. It's people like you that maintain the status quo.'

‘Proper little lefty,' said Shauna. ‘What does your father think?'

‘Don't matter what he thinks, brah.'

‘What's with this brah business, anyway?'

‘Brah, you know. Brah, bruv, bruvver.'

‘Do you call your dad brah?'

‘No . . . look . . . shut up, OK? We're talking about the van, blood. Mate. We ain't talking about me, or my dad.'

‘He's at the
Guardian
, isn't he?'

‘God, I wish I'd never told you that. You're bare jarring me.'

‘Jarring you? What?'

‘Whatever. Getting on my tits.'

‘That one I've heard.'

There was a pause. Then Max appeared, his thunderous expression fading as he greeted them.

‘What have you been up to?' said Shauna.

‘Just, you know. I managed to find an old boy down there who had a signal. I borrowed his phone, but the number was engaged. I've been trying for ages.'

‘What number?' said Shauna.

‘Oh, sorry, I thought I'd mentioned. We've got our daughter's friend in the car . . . oh, fuck. Trust me, you don't want to know.'

‘We're going to be here all night,' said Shauna.

‘Surely not,' said Max.

‘Do you think it's safe?'

‘You're thinking about those nutters?'

‘Amongst other things.'

‘I wouldn't worry about them,' said Max. ‘Thinking about it now, I reckon they were all bark and no bite.'

‘So how much do you reckon it costs to produce, say, a typical bar of chocolate?' said Shahid.

Shauna groaned.

‘I don't know,' said Jim, wearily. ‘Thirty pence?'

‘Nah, man. Less than three pence.'

‘So?' said Jim.

‘And what are they selling it for?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Anything from sixty pence to a pound.'

‘Your point is?'

‘That you should open the van, mate. That's my point.'

‘Look, Shahid,' Shauna interjected, ‘you've made your point, OK? This isn't going to get us anywhere. Can we now have a bit of peace and quiet?'

‘You're the one who's worried about staying here all night,' said Shahid. ‘There might be something you'd want in there. I don't know. Alka-Seltzer.'

Shauna shook her head. Max had stepped over the barrier and was walking off. He approached the orange emergency phone, tried it again, played with the connection and the receiver, tried again. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and held it at various angles. At first nothing. Then, suddenly – there, 3G! No, it's gone. Yes, it's back! It's back! Swiftly, he opened the fateful email to James and Becky and made sure it sent, holding his phone at an angle of thirty degrees to the ground. Then, leaving the receiver dangling, he returned.

‘Seems like the world's stopped,' he said. ‘There haven't even been any emergency vehicles for ages. Managed to send an email, though. Thank fuck.'

‘This is awful,' said Shauna. ‘Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.'

‘We don't even know what we're waiting for,' said Jim. ‘It's weird. We don't know why we're here, and we don't know what we're waiting for.'

‘I know what I'm waiting for,' said Shahid.

‘For fuck's sake,' said Shauna, ‘will you give it a rest about that van?'

Shahid rolled his eyes and fell silent.

Shauna massaged her temples and rotated her dry tongue inside her mouth. What she wouldn't do for a bottle of water!

It was then that she noticed a figure getting out of a silver Golf GTI, several cars back, and walking in their direction. She had not noticed the car before; there was no reason why she should have. But when she caught sight of its driver, she saw the GTI in a new light: as an expression of disguised wealth.

Because the driver could be measured at a glance. Clothes: black gilet, checked shirt, jeans, trainers. Hair: longish. Nose: strong. Forehead: broad. Cheeks: ruddy. Little finger: signet ring. A quiet confidence of bearing, at once chummy and commanding. Assertive in his modesty, haughty in his politeness, impenetrable in his impression of candour. In the gait, a controlled muscularity. In the gaze, a can-do practicality, underpinned by the impression of homely bonhomie. All this her practiced eye took in immediately. Here, at last, was a known quantity.

‘Evening,' he said as he drew within range, ‘I don't suppose I could ask a massive favour? It's just that the lighter in my car is broken and I'm desperate.' He waved a cigarette like a conductor's baton.

There was a moment of silence as the group, so recently and randomly formed, regarded him suspiciously.

‘I've got one in the van,' said Jim at last.

‘Oh, that's your van, is it?' said the man.

‘It is. And I'm not opening it.'

Jim got to his feet, rubbed his behind, and walked heavily over. It was eleven o'clock now, and he was tired. He'd be in bed by now, easily, on a normal night. When he arrived at the van he looked around and thought he could see a thousand eyes glinting from cars. But what could he do? When he opened the door, he was sorely tempted to lock himself in, try to get some sleep. But he felt that this would somehow be an immoral act; some primordial instinct told him that he needed
to stay with the group. Was Shahid right? Was he just a cog in the machine? Being exploited? Had his mind been conditioned to think only inside the framework of oppression? Was he an idiot? He supposed that he was. He retrieved the lighter and sat for a brief moment, gathering his strength to return.