‘And people could carry things away . . . subtly.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Well, then,’ said Popper. ‘There we are. Now let’s say no more about it.’ While the other members of the group gradually digested this game-changer, Popper turned the conversation to other things. ‘Funny how groups of people are thrown together at times like these,’ he said. ‘People who’d never normally mix together.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Shauna. ‘Did you see the guy who came over here earlier? Nutter. If it wasn’t for his friend there might have been trouble.’
‘It has been a weird night,’ said Max. ‘Really weird. We had three students over here just before you guys arrived. They were wasted.’
‘Really?’ said Shauna. ‘Wasted? In a traffic jam like this? That would do your head in.’
‘I keep thinking about them,’ said Max. ‘There was a girl with them, a black girl. Can’t remember her name. I got the feeling she was in well over her head.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Popper.
‘Couldn’t put my finger on it, really,’ said Max. ‘Just seemed out of her depth.’
‘Wait,’ said Shauna suddenly. ‘What was that?’
The group looked around them. Out of the orange-washed gloom came a tall figure.
‘All right?’ he said.
They all nodded warily.
‘Popper,’ said Popper. ‘Tom Popper.’
‘I’m Monty,’ said Monty, giving his outstretched hand a cursory shake.
Monty, thought Shauna. So that’s his name. Monty.
‘Know what the hold-up is?’ said Popper.
‘No idea, mate,’ Monty replied. ‘Look, I can’t stay and chat. I just wondered if I could borrow a fag. We’ve run out, and Rhys is desperate for one. I thought it would be better . . . well, you know, better if I come over. Rather than him.’
‘I have some cigars . . .’ said Jim tentatively.
‘He’s welcome to one of mine,’ said Popper. ‘I’ve got lots of duty free in the car.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Monty.
‘No problem. I know what it’s like to be desperate.’
‘You’d be saving us all a lot of grief.’ Monty’s gaze fell on Shauna, and as it did so, they both felt something surge within them. ‘You all right?’ he said.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Shauna. ‘You?’
He nodded. ‘Shame about the circumstances,’ he said.
‘My car’s just down there,’ Popper interjected. ‘Come with me.’ The order was authoritative, as if there could be no other option.
Monty allowed himself to be led off along the line of cars. As they went, Popper turned back and shared a knowing glance with the group; they all understood what he meant. Monty may have been protecting them from Rhys, but Popper was protecting them from Monty.
Hsiao May and Harold
‘Well?’ said Shauna, as Popper returned and sat on the barrier next to her. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘Who? That chap there? Monty?’
‘Yes, him. Monty.’
‘Decent enough.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’
‘But I’d say he’s got his own problems. Debt problems, probably. Or a divorce. With kids.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. Something in his general outlook, I suppose. His demeanour. You get to know how to read men like those.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mention. I’m an army officer.’
‘So you’re in charge of men like that?’
‘Known shedloads of them,’ said Popper, sliding a cigarette from the packet and placing it between his lips. ‘A good sort, really. Seemed like he was thinking of the wider good, you know, the way he came to get some cigarettes for his mate. He’d probably make a good soldier.’ He looked her in the eye, and Shauna, certain that he could see into her soul, blushed. And then he had taken a light from Jim and was smoking, and she looked at him again, and once again was struck by the feeling that something deep inside Popper wasn’t right. Something in the way he hunched around the cigarette, the way he pulled so aggressively on it and let the smoke leak out in front of his face. Something in his preoccupied eyes. There was a silence.
‘Look up there,’ said Shauna. ‘Do you think anything’s watching us?’
‘You mean God?’
‘No, not God. Not a creator – more of an observer. Not like an astronaut, or an alien, or anything. Something with a completely different perspective, who can see everything and everybody equally. Something that might care enough about us to notice our existence, but not enough to have it eclipse the importance of everybody else. Something who can see us in proportion, in the context of the world at large.’
Popper looked up into the blackness for a while.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I do.’
Max had all but forgotten about his wife, his daughter, his daughter’s friend. So it was with a start that he looked up and saw Ursula sitting up in the passenger seat, rubbing her eyes, and looking bewilderedly around. He got to his feet.
‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘The wife’s woken up again.’
‘Bring her over,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.’
‘Thanks, but my daughter’s asleep in the car. And that other monstrous child. Anyway, my wife wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t get this.’ He lumbered off, opened the door and disappeared into his vehicle.
‘Good bloke, that,’ said Jim.
‘I thought he was a bit of a prick,’ mumbled Shahid.
‘We all have our moments, mate,’ said Jim.
‘This fucking jam,’ said Shahid. ‘On and on and on. We’ve been here for what, four hours? Five? Feels like a fucking week.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve just about forgotten what normal life is like.’
Just when it seemed like nothing would ever happen again, a man could be seen walking casually along the hard shoulder towards them. He was of late middle age, with a round belly tautening his shirt and a pair of slacks that flapped as he walked. The lower part of his face was covered in a bearish beard; it was perhaps this, combined with his manner of walking, which gave him the impression of a pilgrim.
‘Evening,’ he called in a light Scottish burr, raising a hand. ‘Just thought I’d come and see if anybody knew what’s going on.’
‘Not a clue, mate,’ said Jim, as if to spare him the inconvenience of continuing. ‘I don’t think anybody knows anything, to be honest.’ But the pilgrim went on undeterred, and comfortably entered the circle of the group.
‘I have to admit, I’m struggling,’ he said. ‘I’m gasping for a pint. And I’ve got a camper van. I don’t know how you folks are surviving at all.’
‘No way – a camper van?’ said Shahid.
‘Aye,’ said the man, eyeing him levelly. ‘A camper van.’ He turned and pointed into the distance. ‘That greenish one there.’
‘I’m not opening the van,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s get that clear from the start, like.’
‘Mine?’ said the pilgrim.
‘No, my one. That one. There.’
‘That delivery van?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s yours? But why . . . oh, I see,’ said the pilgrim with a chuckle. ‘You’re afraid I’m trying to get at the groceries. Times like these do make people predisposed to suspicion.’
‘Right,’ said Jim. And then, after a pause: ‘Sorry.’
‘The traffic is horrendous,’ said the pilgrim, ‘but just look at this wonderful piece of engineering. We never get the opportunity to appreciate it normally. Not up close like this.’
‘What do you mean, engineering?’ said Jim.
‘This. You know. This. Spectacular, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The M25.’
This was met with silence.
Popper, who had been watching the newcomer, got to
his feet. ‘Tom Popper,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘They call me Popper, or Pops. Occasionally Poppy.’
‘Harold,’ said the pilgrim, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘They call me . . . well, Harold.’
‘Far more sensible,’ said Popper. ‘Allow me to introduce Shauna, Jim and Shahid. Those two chaps over there are his friends, but I’m afraid I can’t remember their names.’
‘Kabir and Mo,’ said Shahid sharply.
‘Quite.’
‘Have you heard anything about the hold-up?’ said Shauna.
‘Not a sausage,’ said Harold. He breathed in deeply, as if savouring the air, and breathed out again. Suddenly he caught sight of something behind them. He craned his neck, nodded, and gave a little wave. ‘Well, well,’ he said.
A diminutive female figure stood behind a Prius in the middle lane. Only her head and shoulders were visible; they could see that she was Oriental. She threaded her way through the traffic to join them.
‘Goodness, I am glad it’s you,’ said Harold. ‘For a moment I thought I was waving at a total stranger.’
‘No, it is me,’ said the woman, without any trace of an accent. ‘And it’s you.’
‘Aye, it is me,’ said Harold.
‘And who is me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Who is me? I mean, I know who I am, but who are you? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name,’ said the woman.
‘Harold Ritchie,’ said Harold. ‘Professor of history.’
‘Do you remember who I am?’
‘I have to confess I don’t.’
‘Ling Hsiao May,’ said the woman. ‘Entomology.’
‘Of course,’ said Harold. ‘How rude of me.’
‘That’s your camper van?’ she said.
‘It is, it is. You’re welcome to pop in for a cup of tea. If you get bored, you know. Or if it rains. It’s starting to feel like rain.’
‘You have a kettle in there?’
‘Of course. And a stove, and a wee fridge. The works. You’d be very welcome.’
‘So you’re colleagues,’ said Popper. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Indeed we are,’ said Harold, ‘though our paths have not really crossed, save for the occasional departmental meeting. Nevertheless, it’s very nice to see a friendly face.’
‘It has been a night of coincidences,’ said Popper. ‘Shauna and I discovered that we have a mutual friend.’
Shauna coloured, then nodded. She was looking increasingly worse for wear; the dark smudges under her eyes were deepening, and she persisted in massaging her temples.
‘How rude of me,’ said Popper. ‘I haven’t introduced us to . . . Ping, was it? Or Ling?’
‘Hsiao May,’ said Hsiao May.
‘Quite.’ He proceeded to introduce himself and the other members of the group with eloquence.
‘You’ve got one of them electric cars, innit?’ said Shahid, suddenly turning to Hsiao May.
‘Me?’ said Hsiao May.
‘Yeah. It is, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s a Prius.’
‘That’s the one. A Pious.’
‘A pious?’
‘That’s what my dad calls them.’
‘I thought he worked for the Guardian,’ said Shauna acidly.
‘He does,’ said Shahid.
There was a pause, which was broken by the sound of running. They turned to see Stevie dashing at full pelt down the hard shoulder, all angular elbows and flailing feet, a foolish smile spread across his face.
‘What are you doing, mate?’ called Jim.
‘Any chance of a Crunchie and shit?’ called Stevie, and laughed. Then he ran off, swerving crazily along the tarmac.
Jim shook his head. ‘That boy’s a right strange one,’ he said.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just open that van,’ Shahid broke in. ‘We might be here all night without food or drink.’
‘Will you stop going on about that fucking van,’ said Shauna. ‘Honestly. Honestly.’
‘I just can’t understand it,’ said Shahid. ‘It doesn’t make sense, that’s all.’
Jim began to form a response, but Shauna stopped him. ‘Rise above it, Jim,’ she said. ‘Rise above it.’
‘We should have a game of footy, innit? Pass the time,’ said Shahid. ‘I’ve got a ball in the car. Me, Kabir and Mo against the rest.’
‘You can count me out, I’m afraid,’ said Harold. ‘I’ve got a gammy knee.’
‘Girl’s blouse,’ said Shahid.
‘Oh, I rather take that as a compliment,’ said Harold.
But before the idea could be further explored, the flow of their conversation was interrupted by a smattering of rain, which increased quickly in intensity until it became a downpour. As one, and with much cursing and covering of heads, the group dispersed, leaving threads of nascent relationships and discussions hanging in the air. And so Jim went back to his van; Shauna went back to her Smart car; Shahid and his friends to his grandfather’s old Peugeot; Popper to his Golf; Hsiao May to her Prius; Harold to his camper van. One by one, they threw themselves into their cocoons of metal and plastic, slamming heavy doors on the world. In seconds, no trace was left of their gathering.
The rain was lashing mercilessly across the landscape now, bowing the heads of trees, stippling the flanks of cars, making intricate designs on windows, and washing the tarmac into a sleek river. Like animals in their holes, their nests, their burrows, their caves, the beleaguered inhabitants of the traffic jam had no choice but to give themselves over to solipsism.
Bugs
Dr Ling Hsiao May watched the jagged trails of raindrops making their way down her windscreen, separating, joining, separating again. The vehicle was vibrating slightly around her under the force of the water, and she began to feel afraid. It was getting cold, and she was tired and hungry. Already she had missed dinner with her sister Lulu, a farewell dinner put on especially for her. At this rate Lulu and Ricky would be asleep by the time she arrived, if she arrived this evening at all; and as her plane was leaving early the following morning, she ran the risk of not seeing them at all before she left. Anyway, if the traffic didn’t move by the morning, she’d be going nowhere. Did her travel insurance cover eventualities like this? But if she missed the conference, no amount of compensation could change that.
Should she take the invitation from the professor seriously? She never knew if people said these things in earnest or not. Oh, she could do with a cup of tea, and, unusually, felt a need for human company. But dare she go and impose herself like that? Her pulse was quickening just thinking of it. The rain was dreadful now too. Surely it would be foolish to brave such weather as this just for the sake of a cup of tea in the camper van of a colleague? No, she’d wait for the rain to blow itself out. Then she’d see.
She tilted back her seat, testing the possibility of sleep. The voice of her mother was, as ever, loud and clear. So she hit traffic, so what? So it was a particularly bad traffic jam; so it wasn’t moving at all; so what? She shouldn’t mind waiting. She should be a patient girl; she shouldn’t be in hurry. (Since she was a child she always liked to hurry, and it had never done her any good.) She could arrive at Lulu’s any time this evening – her flight wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, was it? – and she had already written her lecture. The main thing? Make the most of the wait. That was the main thing. She could easily get work done in the front seat of the Prius, which was comfy. After all, she loved her new Prius, didn’t she? When she bought it, the first thing she had done was to drive it round to her mother’s house and take her on a spin, showing off how it fell silent when idle. Wasn’t one of her arguments for buying the new car that she could work more efficiently? So.
Hsiao May reached into the cool bag on the front seat and prised open a Diet Coke, indulging a habit of which her mother was ignorant. Put quite simply, there are times when the correct gesture – like a punctuation mark in the paragraphs of life – was a Diet Coke. Cigarettes? Neve
r. Diet Coke. Feeling, as she always did, a small frisson of rebelliousness, she sipped. The can wasn’t as cold as it should be, which cheapened the experience. She turned on the overhead light. The silver cylinder showed no trace of rime. A bad sign. She turned off the overhead light. Trying not to read too much into it, and focusing on the taste, the familiar stinging bubbles, she drank.
When she saw the rows of cars, vans and lorries, all frozen in the act of teeming around her, all resisting the rain with their hard bodies, it was impossible for her not to think about insects. It was experiences like these that made her feel closer to the creatures she studied, and she liked that. She could feel what it meant to be one in hundreds of thousands, and being inside a car was – she imagined – similar, to some extent, to having an exoskeleton. Generally, she spent her life so absorbed in the minute details – the wing construction, the breeding habits, the adrenaline production process, the aggression instincts – that she rarely had the time to consider what attracted her to insects in the first place. But here, in this stationary swarm, she could allow herself to enter their scuttling, teeming, burrowing, feeding world. She could imagine that she was a cricket, or a caterpillar, or a mealworm, or a grasshopper. She was particularly fond of a grasshopper, with that inertia masking the pent-up energy, that dignified, almost statesmanlike bearing, those powerful legs, powerful jaws, beautiful proportions, elegance.
She slipped the can into the holder on the dashboard, taking a little pleasure at the snugness of the fit. The drink had eased her anxiety, but not much: this was a big trip. Finally, an invitation to present a paper at the annual conference of the Entomological Society of America! She had just completed her Ph.D. on the escape behaviour of the Oedipoda caerulescens, a rare blue-winged grasshopper found in the Channel Islands. It had taken her five years. During that time she had built up a body of published work in journals, and had presented papers at various conferences around the world. She was becoming known as an emerging authority on the subject. This was a male-dominated world at the higher echelons, and she, as a Chinese woman, was, ironically enough, at an advantage on account of her disadvantage; departments wanted to demonstrate their ethnic diversity, and a face like hers helped no end. (Relatives called her a ‘banana’ – yellow on the outside, white on the inside – though she thought that her insides, if they were any colour at all, would be not white but a sort of pale yellow, not custard, but lemon curd perhaps. To be exact, the shade of a Hymenopus coronatus, which she had once seen in its natural habitat during a field trip to the Malaysian rainforests.) Her mother would have said, though not in so many words, that if British discrimination allows certain Chinese people – in certain circumstances – to have a marginal advantage, why not make the most of it?
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