by Alex Scarrow
‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Well, say you’ve come home from work and you want to wash your office shirt for tomorrow. You’d shove it in your washing machine, and then put it on a fast spin-dry afterwards, wouldn’t you? And maybe you want a cup of tea whilst you’re waiting, maybe put on the TV, and throw a frozen dinner in the microwave. Well in slave terms, that would have required a slave to take your shirt, chop wood to make a fire, to heat the water, to wash it. You’d probably need another slave to go hunt or gather the food for your dinner, another to chop wood and build a cooking fire, to boil the water for your tea, and cook the food that the hunter-slave brought in. Still more slaves to entertain you in place of a TV set. And let’s not forget the four or five slaves that carried you home from work on their backs, instead of the car you drive home in. Anyway, you get the point right? So, this economist calculated that the average American or Western European would require ninety-six slaves tending to him night and day, to maintain this lifestyle we’ve all grown accustomed to.’
‘Ninety-six slaves?’
‘Ninety-six oil-slaves. Even the poorest person in this country, the poorest, has his own team of oil-slaves tending to him; a TV set, electric heating, hot water, a kettle, levels of luxury that only the richest aristocrats from the previous century could dream about.’
Jenny gestured towards Mr Stewart and his staff, sitting together in the sunlight. ‘Look at them, look at us, everyone in fact . . . we’ve just had our slaves taken away from us. We’re all like those pampered aristocrats after the French Revolution, seeking refuge without their servants to tend them, incapable even of tying their own shoelaces.’
‘Hardly,’ Paul scoffed.
‘Yeah? Who here knows how to do the basic things to survive? How to grow their own food? Plan an allotment to provide enough sustenance all year round? How to locate drinkable water? How to sterilise a small cut so it doesn’t become infected? How to make a loaf of bread?’
Paul smiled. ‘You make it sound like some kind of on the edge of apocalypse thing. The oil will get flowing again. This is just a blip.’
‘God, I hope you’re right. But this little blip has only been going four days. Can you imagine what it’s going to be like if it lasts a couple of weeks?’
Paul’s smile faded a little.
‘Or a month even?’
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Jenny.
Ruth stirred and pointed at the single car parked alongside the truck in the staff section on the other side of the car-park.
‘Those,’ she said.
‘Why, what’s up with them?’
Ruth turned to her. ‘Mr Stewart’s wonderful perspex wall might stand up to some bricks being thrown at it, but I’m not too sure how it would flippin’ well cope with a car, or even that truck being driven into it.’
‘Oh my God, you’re right.’
‘Where’s that wally anyway?’
They both turned to look around, and saw the shift manager officiously overseeing the distribution of cups of tea, carefully pouring it from a large, steaming metal urn into Styrofoam cups. Ruth snorted, amused.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jenny.
‘You know who he reminds me of?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘Remember Dad’s Army? I used to love watching that. He reminds me of Captain Mainwaring - a real busybody who loves being the heroic little organiser.’
Jenny cocked her head slightly, not convinced.
‘Remember that episode where they all end up marooned on the end of the pier overnight?’ Ruth persisted, ‘And Captain Mainwaring takes charge of distributing their rations - a small bag of humbugs?’
Jenny managed a wan smile. ‘Yeah, I see it now.’
‘Don’t you just get the feeling he’s loving it? Loving the idea of leading his little troops through this crisis? Controlling the rations, and deciding how much everyone gets. A real flippin’ power trip.’
Jenny could see how pompous and ridiculous he looked, but a small voice of reason inside her head chipped in.
Maybe, but he’s doing the smart thing though, isn’t he?
Carefully rationing from the very beginning . . . because . . .
That’s right, because who knows how long this situation will last.
He was finished pouring for his staff and approached them holding his large steaming teapot and two cups.
‘Tea?’
Ruth and Jenny nodded, and he poured them a cup each.
‘Do you think those lads will be back again? The ones that beat up Julia?’
Mr Stewart nodded. ‘Yes, I think they probably will.’
Ruth gestured towards the front of the pavilion. ‘Your nice shiny perspex frontage may well hold out to another night of pelting with paving stones and rubble. But I’m not sure it’ll stand up to a truck being driven into it.’
The manager looked out at the large vehicle parked out there in plain view . . . and blanched.
‘Yup,’ continued Ruth, ‘I’m sure that’ll occur to at least one of them nonces out there, eventually. And I’m also pretty sure at least one of the little buggers will know how to hotwire the car, or even that truck.’
Stewart nodded, his eyes widened anxiously. Some of the smug, irritating self-assurance he’d been coasting around on, had slipped away. ‘Uh . . . m-maybe someone could go out there and immobilise them somehow?’
Ruth cocked an eyebrow, ‘Yeah? Just nip out there and quickly disable them both, huh? You going to volunteer?’
Mr Stewart replied, flustered. ‘Of course I . . . I . . . but then, s-someone has to uh . . . look after my staff.’
‘Uh-huh, pretty much what I thought you’d say,’ sneered Ruth.
Jenny had an idea. ‘We could drive that truck over here, and park it right before the front wall. I think the truck’s probably just about as long as the wall is wide?’
Mr Stewart nodded. ‘Yes . . . yes I think you’re right.’
‘And that’ll be good enough to stop them using that car, or any others lying around.’
‘Yes, a very good idea,’ replied the shift manager, shaking his head vigorously. ‘So . . . uh . . . who’s going to go out there and drive it over though?’
‘More importantly,’ said Ruth, ‘who knows how to drive a rig like that? I’ve never driven anything bigger than my little car.’
‘And we don’t have the keys anyway,’ said Paul joining them in the middle of the foyer, ‘unless someone here knows how to jack a truck. I’m sure there’s a bit more to it than smashing the steering column and holding two wires together.’
‘I have the keys,’ said Mr Stewart. ‘They’re hanging up in my office. That’s Big Ron’s rig. He’s one of our regulars. The night before last he’d had one too many drinks in the back of that cab of his and was planning to carry on with his run. I took the keys off him.’
‘He’s here?’ asked Jenny.
‘No, I don’t know where he is. Probably took a room in the Lodge, a mile down the road. I’ve not seen him since this all started.’
Paul turned to look out at the front. ‘Well, we should get on and do this now, before they turn up again for an evening of fun and games.’
Mr Stewart nodded. ‘I’ll go get the keys for you.’
‘What?’ said Paul shaking his head awkwardly. ‘I’ve never driven a bloody truck before in my life.’
Ruth looked at Paul, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘I’d go do it if I knew how to flippin’ well drive one. I’d probably flatten the building if I got behind the wheel.’ She aimed her words at Paul. ‘I’m not afraid to go out there.’
‘What? Neither am I.’
All eyes turned on Mr Stewart. His eyes widened. ‘Well I would . . . but, someone has to look after—’
‘The staff. Yeah, we know,’ said Ruth flatly.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Jenny reluctantly. ‘I’ve got a tiny bit of experience with trucks.’
It took Mr S
tewart a little while to find the keys, and ten minutes later Jenny was walking quickly across the tarmac, warmed by the evening sun, towards the truck, anxiously scanning the periphery of the car-park for signs of any gathering people. She swung the cricket bat Mr Stewart had given her in one hand, slapping it into the palm of the other, hoping the gesture was enough to deter any spotty young thug who might be lurking nearby from confronting her.
The sense of stillness outside was unsettling. The only sound she could hear was the chattering of some birds nestling in the stunted saplings along the edge of the car-park, and the caw of a crow, circling high up in the clear evening sky.
Idyllic . . . if it wasn’t so damned unnatural - none of that ever-present rumble of passing traffic. It was just so strange, unsettling.
She quickened her pace, turning briefly to look back at the large window-wall at the front of the service station pavilion and seeing a row of pale ovals staring back out at her, waving her on.
Finally she reached the truck, unlocked the driver’s door, yanked it open and then pulled herself up into the cab. Inside it was stifling. As the clouds had cleared throughout today, the sun had had ample opportunity this afternoon to flood in through the wide windscreen.
It smelled in here too. It reeked of body odour, cigarette smoke and stale doner kebabs. In fact it smelled exactly as she imagined the inside of a long distance truck-driver’s cab would smell.
It smelled of bloke.
She looked around the dashboard in front of her, completely unfamiliar with the lay-out. Jenny had driven a small truck once, a long, long time ago, some place in India in her backpacking days - but that experience wasn’t going to help her a great deal. It had just meant that of those inside, she was marginally more qualified to try and give it a go at driving it over.
‘Come on, where the hell’s the ignition?’ she muttered impatiently.
She finally located it.
She was about to insert the key when she heard a thud against the door beside her. It made her jump. She looked out of the window and saw below a group of about a dozen people; a random mixture of age and gender; they could well have been the first dozen pedestrians you passed on any pavement, in any city.
‘Hello love? Open up, will ya?’ a man called out.
Jenny wound the driver’s window down, at the same time feeling a surge of nervous adrenalin welling up.
‘Yeah? What d’ya want?’ she grunted in a voice she hoped made her sound like she might just, plausibly be the legitimate driver of this truck.
‘That your rig, love?’ asked the man. He looked to be in his early thirties and graced with a fading tattoo on his upper left arm; one of those swirling Celtic patterns that Andy had once, almost, decided to have. Until, that is, he’d spotted David Beckham sporting one on a TV commercial that had him dressed, for whatever reason, as some sort of gladiator.
‘Yeah, it’s mine. I’m pissin’ off,’ she grunted, inwardly cringing at her lame impersonation of a tough bitch trucker.
‘The roads are all blocked off, love,’ said the man. ‘The fuckin’ army and police have blocked everything off. You’re better just sittin’ tight, love.’
Jenny shrugged. ‘Yeah? Well I’m goin’ to try me luck. There’s nothin’ here. Just that bollocks service station over there, and they won’t let me in.’
The man cast a glance towards it. ‘Yeah. Selfish bastards inside won’t open up. Water’s stopped running now, and we’re all getting fuckin’ thirsty. Shit . . . I mean some people, eh?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Yeah. And there’s no way in. It’s all locked up tight. Pretty solid too. Bastards.’
‘We came up night before last askin’ for some food. There’s no fuckin’ food at all now on our estate. Just one corner shop selling fags and sweets, and that’s all cleaned out now.’
She offered a grim supportive smile. ‘Yeah. It’s crazy. What’s going on?’
The man nodded. ‘Just fuckin’ unbelievable. One minute it’s all normal, the next minute everyone’s going crazy. And now there’s no fuckin’ food anywhere, because the selfish bastards who got in first are hoardin’ everything what they took.’
‘I guess it’s the same everywhere, not just here,’ she replied.
‘Yeah, s’pose. Anyway. We sort of formed a co-operative, over on the Runston housin’ estate. There’s old ’uns and a lot of mums and kids that’re gettin’ hungry over there,’ said the man. He turned and pointed towards the pavilion. ‘There’s a shit-load of food in there they should be sharin’ out with us. But the fuckin’ manager of this place won’t give us a thing.’
‘Yeah, selfish bloody bastards,’ Jenny said, shaking her head disdainfully. ‘Look, good luck anyway mate. I hope you have better luck than I did.’ She began to wind the window up.
‘Hang on love,’ said the man, placing his hand over the rising rim of glass.
She stopped winding it up. ‘Yeah?’
‘You can help us out.’
‘I don’t see how. They wouldn’t let me in, so I guess I’ll see if there’s somewhere else—’
‘Listen love. You could just smack their front wall in. It’s only fuckin’ plastic. We thought it was glass last time we was here, it wouldn’t break. Things just kept fuckin’ well bouncing off it.’ The man pointed towards the pavilion. ‘You could just run your truck into the front, beside the entrance. Wouldn’t need to do it too hard neither, you could just reverse it in really. It wouldn’t do your rig any damage.’
Jenny made a big show of giving it some thought as the man warily kept his hand over the rim of the window. Behind him, the other people looked up at her hopefully; a cluster of very normal and very worried people, very much at odds with Mr Stewart’s description of the ‘gang of yobbos that had terrorised us’ earlier. Perhaps they had been kids that were passing through, or perhaps kids from the same housing estate as these people? Either way, these were just ordinary people trying to survive, no different to the lucky few inside who’d been working the evening shift here when things started to unravel.
Jenny wondered what right Mr Stewart had to decide who should receive and who shouldn’t, and why he’d been willing to let her, Paul and Ruth in, and yet not prepared to help these people.
It was all down to our appearance, wasn’t it? Ruth in her dark business trouser-suit, my smart interview clothes, Paul’s tidy, expensive looking casuals. Not a single tattoo between us, no sportswear, no trouble.
That’s what it boiled down to she supposed, at least to someone like Mr Stewart.
Those nice, smart-looking people can come in. But those bloody oiks from the estate? Let ’em starve.
Jenny looked up. She could see many, many more people emerging from the line of stunted saplings, coming down the slip-road and gathering in loose clusters and groups across the car-park. If there had been tattered piles of neatly ordered bric-à-brac on the ground and a row of sensibly parked Ford Escorts behind them, it would have looked like the early stages of a car-boot sale.
‘What do you reckon?’ prompted the man.
Jenny shifted uncomfortably. These people deserved to share what was in there, just as much as those inside. But, there were just too many of them - perhaps a hundred now, and, she suspected, there would be more to come. She could imagine the scale of this little siege growing quickly, as word spread to the various estates and villages around this nondescript piece of A road in the middle of nowhere.
Maybe Mr Stewart let us in simply because it was just the three of us, on our own?
Jenny looked around. In a matter of hours this car-park could be full of people pressed against the wall, hammering on it, pleading for food and water, and seeing them inside drinking tea and enjoying fried burgers . . . and that frustration quickly turning to anger, rage.
And if they found a way to smash in the front?
Jenny shook her head. ‘Look, sorry mate.’ She resumed winding up the window and stuck the key into the ignition.
‘Fucki
n’ hell, love,’ shouted the man through the glass, his matey, we’re-in-this-together demeanour quickly replaced with a flash of aggression. ‘Just askin’ for a little fuckin’ help!’ he shouted over the throaty rumble of the truck’s diesel engine, idling noisily. Jenny stabbed the accelerator and the truck growled deafeningly and belched smoke.
‘Sorry!’ she shouted apologetically back, and with an awkward backward lurch that almost pulled the man’s tattooed arm out of its socket as he hung on to the driver’s side door-handle, she reversed away from the knot of people that had gathered at the front.
The truck bunny-hopped manically, rocking alarmingly on its suspension as she struggled to get a feel for the pedals. The clusters of people that had gathered in the car-park had to quickly leap out of the way.
She guessed her crude bluff that she was the regular driver of this particular rig was well and truly blown now. Not that she had any illusions that the tattoo guy had been convinced in the first place.
Clear now of anything, or anyone, she might hit, she spun the large steering-wheel and swung the truck round towards the service station. Almost immediately, above the loud rattle of the engine, she heard a chorus of voices cheering her on.
They think I’m going to ram it for them.
The pavilion was only about seventy-five yards ahead of her. She drove slowly towards it, unsure how well she could control the vehicle - how quickly this monstrous bugger would come to a halt after she’d applied the brakes. It would be the definition of bloody irony if she accidentally rolled through that wall. Jenny needed to park it parallel to it, and as snugly close to it as she dared.
Thirty yards away she swung the truck to the right, taking it off course for a few moments, before turning it sharply left, back towards the entrance, swinging it round in a large loop so that now it was coming in at a tangent towards the front of the pavilion. Seconds later, the wheels beneath the cab rode the curb surrounding a stubby bush planted out front, then knocked aside an uninspiring children’s little wooden climbing-frame and some picnic benches before riding up on to a small paved pedestrian area in front of the pavilion.