Jam

by Jake Wallis Simons

  ‘That was a foul,’ said Shahid. ‘Free kick.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Stevie. ‘Come on.’ He ran down the middle lane, retrieved the ball, dribbled it back. ‘Come on.’

  Blinded by anger, Shahid went in hard. But he lost his composure and missed; Stevie managed to both release the ball to Dave and avoid getting chopped down. Mo was out of position. Dave lined it up and let fly; the ball whizzed across the tarmac and skidded inside the far post. The goalie made a half-hearted effort, too late.

  ‘Goal!’ shouted Stevie. ‘Ten-four!’

  ‘Get in!’ shouted Rhys and Chris. ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland.’ Stevie turned towards them and punched the air. Their laughs and cheers increased. ‘You’re shit and you know you are . . .’

  ‘Look,’ said Shahid, taking a few steps towards the van, ‘come on, why don’t you two come and play? Show us how it’s done? Have a fucking game.’

  ‘Shahid,’ said Mo nervously.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ called Rhys, ‘you’re all right.’ Then, in an aside to Chris, he said something else.

  Shahid turned back and saw that the goalie had returned with the ball. He raised an arm. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said, ‘give it a boot.’

  ‘Let’s play first to fifteen,’ suggested Stevie, panting hard.

  ‘You’re on,’ said Shahid. ‘First to fifteen.’ He felt hollowed out, as if something had been knocked out of him.

  ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland. Ha ha.’

  Kabir booted the ball into the air; they jostled for position beneath it, and when it came down they scrambled to trap it and it bobbled away to the left. Shahid gave chase, controlled it neatly. Mo went out wide, waving his arms and shouting, ‘Square ball! Square ball!’ Shahid went to pass it but dummied, drawing the ball back between his legs. But he had overestimated Dave, who had not read the dummy in the first place; when he saw the ball being dragged back, he stuck a clumsy toe in and it skittered free.

  Stevie, approaching at a brisk trot, couldn’t believe his luck and rushed in the direction of the goal. Shahid went in for the challenge; the ball ricocheted between their shins and squirted out to Dave. Mo put in a half-hearted tackle from behind, but it was too late. Dave had fed the ball back into the path of Stevie, who was continuing his advance like a juggernaut, hissing like a steam train, and he struck it first time. Kabir rose to meet it, but his bare hands were unable to grip the shining leather, and it spun from between his palms and dropped behind.

  ‘Goal! Goal! Ha ha ha!’

  ‘En-ger-land, En-ger-land, En-ger-land!’

  ‘Fucking hell, Kabir,’ said Shahid. ‘What sort of fucking goal-keeping was that?’

  ‘He was offside!’

  ‘We’re not playing offside, you nonce! This is two-on-two!’

  ‘Yeah but that was just fucking goal-hanging!’

  ‘Ten-five! Ten-five! Fucking yes!’

  ‘Yeah, nice one mate, nice one.’

  ‘Ruuule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves. Britain never, ever, ever, shall be slaves. Ruuule Britannia . . .’

  ‘They reckon they’re at a fucking England match,’ said Shahid, to nobody in particular. ‘Oi! You ain’t at a fucking England match, you know!’

  ‘Fuck off. You’re not English any more! You’re not English any more. You’re not English, you’re not English, you’re not English any more . . .’

  ‘Take it easy, man,’ said Mo. ‘Calm down, OK?’

  ‘I am fucking calm,’ said Shahid. ‘But those cunts should shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Just ignore it, OK? They’re just pissed up. Ignore it.’

  ‘This doesn’t feel right, dude,’ said Dave, drawing a jubilant Stevie aside. ‘I’m telling you.’

  ‘What you on about? It’s ten-five! We’ve got them on the run. Now whoever gets it next, try and get a foul. Try and get a penalty. OK?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Game on, game on!’ Stevie clapped his hands again.

  ‘Stevie, you don’t say “game on” in football.’

  ‘Game on! Let’s play ball!’

  ‘Stevie! Fuck sake.’

  Kabir elected to throw the ball out this time, and Stevie and Mo both went up for the challenge. Mo won easily, and nodded it down to Shahid, who trapped it with velvety precision. Dave crabstepped up to him, legs apart, trying to corral him away from goal. In a heartbeat Shahid had skipped past him; Stevie cut across, threw himself at the ball; then he went down, rolled over twice, shrieking.

  ‘What?’ Shahid was saying, his arms raised as if in fright. ‘I didn’t even touch him. I didn’t touch him.’

  Dave stooped. ‘You all right, mate?’ he said, for all the world unsure whether Stevie was faking or not.

  Stevie sat up gingerly. ‘That’s a fucking penalty, that is,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Shahid uncertainly. ‘I didn’t even touch you.’

  ‘Like fuck,’ said Stevie. ‘That’s a penalty. That’s a penalty.’

  ‘Free kick, free kick,’ said Mo, pointing to a spot in the tarmac a couple of feet from the dashed line that separated the slow lane from the middle. ‘Free kick.’

  Stevie got painfully to his feet.

  ‘It’s so a penalty,’ said Dave, warming to his friend’s theme. ‘Look, it’s only a few yards from goal.’

  ‘That’s outside the area,’ said Mo.

  ‘Bollocks it is,’ said Dave. ‘It’s not like there’s any markings or anything.’

  ‘I didn’t even do nothing to begin with,’ moaned Shahid childishly. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Penalty,’ Stevie announced. He took the ball and placed it perpendicular to the goal; when nobody protested he was surprised.

  ‘Kabir, man,’ said Shahid, ‘let Mo go in goal. He’s better at penalties than you.’

  ‘But I’ve been playing in goal all night,’ said Kabir, his arms going limp. ‘At least let me stay in for the pen.’

  ‘Don’t be a twat,’ said Shahid. ‘You’ll only let it in.’

  Kabir rolled his eyes and exchanged places with Mo, who took up a position in the centre of the goal, crouched a couple of times, and clapped his hands together.

  Stevie stepped back from the ball and looked Mo straight in the face. He knew in his gut he could do this. The fog was dispersing now, chasing its feathery tail across the surface of the land and down to the various rivers and streams that nestled silently in the shadows. Adrenaline was warping his thoughts. He was going to conquer this game in this weird no-man’s-land. He took another step back for good measure.

  ‘Go on, my son!’ came a shout from behind him. ‘Queen and fucking country! Ha ha.’ He turned, glanced across at the two men by the white van, and acknowledged them awkwardly with a flutter of the hand. The thinner one pumped his fist, jutted his chin; the fatter one swigged from the bottle. He turned back. The ball. The massiveness of the tarmac. The goal.

  ‘You’d better fucking save this, Mo,’ said Shahid.

  Dave stepped closer. ‘Hit it low,’ he said into Stevie’s ear. ‘He won’t be able to dive on this surface. Plus there’s no crossbar.’

  Stevie filled his lungs and began his run-up, letting out his hissing noise. With a grunt, he struck the ball. Not a great shot; not low, not high, but chest height, which was the easiest to save. And at the very moment the ball left the canvas of his trainer, Rhys split the air with a bellow: ‘Goooon!’

  Mo had already started moving to save the shot, but his concentration was pricked by Rhys’s shout; for an instant he took his eye off the ball, and fumbled the catch. It slipped out of his grasp back into the path of Stevie, who booted it, with unnecessary force, past the goalkeeper and into the greying light.

  In jubilation, Stevie ran in a curve away from the goal, arms in a V, pursued by a grinning Dave. The cheers from Rhys and Chris were loud and barking; they began chanting for England again. Shahid clutched his head. At the top of his voice, which was hoarse and strained, in a tone of pure frustration, he yelled t
he goalkeeper’s full name: ‘Mo-hammed!’

  There was the briefest of pauses. Then, mindlessly, as if meeting one war cry with another, with a single synchronised voice Rhys and Chris both gave vent to their demo chant: ‘Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!’

  ‘Right,’ said Shahid, ‘that’s it. That’s fucking it.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Mo, trying to restrain him, ‘just leave it.’

  ‘Fuck off. There’s more of us than them. Oi! Come and have a game, you fucking Nazi cunts! Show us what you’re fucking made of! Be fucking men!’

  ‘Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!’

  Then Chris turned his back, loosened his belt, and mooned the Asian boys, slapping his butt-cheeks with his hands. The line had been crossed. Led by Shahid, the three of them strode across the slow lane, across the middle lane, across the fast lane, closing in on the two men in the shadow of the white van. The fog had all but disappeared now, and they could see each other with renewed clarity.

  Rhys and Chris readied themselves.

  ‘Let ’em fucking come,’ said Rhys softly. ‘Let ’em get within range, innit. When I chuck this bottle at ’em, we leg it round the back of the van and get out the toys. Then we’ll let ’em fucking have it.’

  As if in a dream Dave watched Shahid and his friends go; suddenly it dawned on him what was about to occur. ‘Fuck!’ he said, grabbing Stevie’s arm. ‘Come on, back to the car.’

  ‘What? What?’ Stevie replied, still intoxicated by his penalty.

  ‘It’s about to kick off, dude,’ said Dave urgently. ‘I mean it. Come on, I’m not getting caught up in this shit. Come on!’

  Pulling Stevie after him, Dave hurried to the barrier, climbed awkwardly over it, and made his way back to the car. He shoved Stevie into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and locked all the doors. There they sat in the gloom, craning their necks, watching the spectacle unfold.

  ‘Hey,’ said Stevie. ‘Where’s Piece of Meat?’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ said Dave. ‘Oh shit! Fucking hell! Check that out!’

  M25

  Hsiao May and Harold were sitting now within that state of natural comfort engendered by a good cup of tea. Harold got up to clear the cups into the sink, and in so doing managed to take another little sip of whisky, just to keep the wolf from the door. Hsiao May didn’t seem to have noticed. He sat down heavily on the sofa, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘It’s so lovely to finally make your acquaintance,’ he said, ‘it really is.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Hsiao May. ‘So do you spend much time in here? I mean, do you go on long holidays or anything?’

  ‘From time to time,’ Harold replied. ‘It’s a lovely feeling to be able to carry your house with you, like a wee snail.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hsiao May, ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I have been known on occasion to do a full circuit of the M25,’ said Harold. ‘Sometimes more than once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s a topic of especial interest to me. The M25. It is one of my passions.’

  ‘Of course, sorry, you did mention.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘How many circuits have you completed in one go?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know.’

  ‘Without counting stops for petrol? Toilet breaks?’

  ‘Without counting them.’

  ‘I don’t know. Four? Five?’

  ‘That’s a lot, Harold.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It must have taken a long time.’

  ‘Sometimes I can spend a whole afternoon just driving round and round. Other times, if the weather’s good, I find somewhere to park the old van, have a little nap perhaps, then get out and explore the environs at a leisurely pace. I find it . . . very therapeutic. Goodness, that must seem terribly odd.’

  Hsiao May thought for a moment. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It must be . . . well, therapeutic. As you say.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A living history.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘A microcosm. A cross-section of millennia of life.’

  ‘Precisely. That’s very perceptive of you.’

  ‘Do you have a favourite section?’

  ‘Of the Orbital?’

  ‘Yes, of the M25.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m a bit embarrassed about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Um, I suppose it’s just a bit nerdy.’

  ‘Of course it’s nerdy. You’re an academic.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’m just as nerdy as you. More so.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to that.’

  They laughed, filling the camper van with the sound for which it seemed to have been designed.

  ‘There are just so many fascinating bits,’ said Harold after a time. ‘Take Junctions 7 to 9. There you have the top of Reigate Hill, the highest point on the Orbital, at 700-odd feet. And to the west you have the village of Merstham. Limestone from there was taken to build London Bridge, Windsor Castle, and Henry VII’s chapel in Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, Junctions 1 and 2 are good. Dartford Tunnel crossing, you know. Cyclists used to be taken across in a specially adapted London bus, but these days they’re ferried over in a police Land-Rover, free of charge.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Aye, it’s one of those last vestiges of good old British eccentricity. Then there’s the QEII Bridge. It’s absolutely wonderful. In each of the concrete pylons is a two-man lift used for the sole purpose of replacing the light bulbs. And from the centre, you have a marvellous view. There’s a redbrick packaging factory, piles of containers owned by Eldapoint and Maintainer, which are supposed to be for sale or rent. On a clear day you can see the roofs of the Lakeside Shopping Centre, and the huge pink Proctor & Gamble detergent factory, fully automated. And in the shadow of that vast thing is the ancient church of St Clements.’

  Hsiao May reached into her cool bag and brought out a can of Diet Coke, but she did not open it.

  ‘And then, further round, from Junction 3 onwards, you have Lullingstone, with its late second-century Roman villa, complete with bathhouse, central heating and mosaics. And then you have the deer parks, and the Henry VIII tiltyard, you know, which was used for jousting . . . And it was the site of a fake airfield during the Second World War, with aircraft made of wood and canvas, intended to take the heat away from Biggin Hill. Rumour has it that at one point, a solitary German bomber flew overhead and dropped a wee cardboard bomb on it. And they say the Germans don’t have a sense of humour.’

  ‘A cardboard bomb?’

  ‘Exactly! Exactly! You know, the heir to Lullingstone Castle is the most wonderful chap by the name of Tom Hart Dyke. He’s a plant hunter, and has created an extraordinary garden of rare plants in the grounds. Once he was captured by guerrillas on the Panama–Colombia border. You may have seen it on the news?’

  ‘It rings a bell . . .’

  ‘He’s recently made a wee volcano too. In the grounds.’

  ‘A volcano?’

  ‘Aye, a wee one. With a smoke machine that blows scented fog.’

  ‘Scented?’

  ‘I know! You see, it’s all so fascinating. He is the most charming man. And it’s all so beautiful too, with the constant drone of the Orbital in the background. Like a continual stream of transience, permanent and primordial, like a river. Only made by man, that’s the thing.’

  ‘It sounds magical.’

  ‘Aye, it is. And there’s the site of the old Saxon burial ground at Junction 7. Two hundred graves had to be moved when the Orbital was built. The ground in that area is Gault clay, which, when it dries, cracks to reveal rainbow-coloured fossils. Their colour fades when they’re exposed to air, you know.’<
br />
  Hsiao May was starting to feel a little dizzy.

  ‘Further round you have the Clackett Services. Those monstrous lorry parks? Modernity itself, so ugly. But they’re crossed by a Roman slave road, which used to run from London to the great ironworks in the Sussex forest. Just north of the Services they found a Roman temple. You see, the whole gamut of human history’s brought together in the Orbital.’

  ‘I do see.’

  ‘And junction six – goodness, junction six is special. Most people miss it, but if you keep your eyes open you’ll see a wee cutting across the road, which indicates the very point where it is intersected by the Greenwich Meridian. A brass rod in the grounds of Waltham Abbey nearby places it exactly. It is almost spiritual.’

  Hsiao May nodded, opened her Diet Coke and took a sip. The bubbles, the flavour, in this unfamiliar context, were a sweet, old-fashioned infidelity.

  ‘But I suppose my very favourite spot is just north of Junction 6. The Godstone Vineyard. It lies at the mouth of an enormous disused quarry, hidden by trees. In summer one can sit with a drink on the veranda and watch the traffic stream past a Bronze Age tumulus.’

  ‘I’d . . . I’d love to join you,’ said Hsiao May. ‘One day. Not necessarily soon or anything, but . . . one day. If that’s all right. It really does sound fascinating.’

  ‘Would you? Would you really? Goodness, that would be special. To have a companion would be lovely.’

  Hsiao May noticed that her hands and feet were trembling.

  Harold stopped now, a strange expression on his face, as if he had just caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. ‘Goodness gracious,’ he said, ‘I should apologise. I’ve been rambling.’

  ‘You haven’t at all. It’s your passion.’

  ‘I’m embarrassed now. Christ, I’ve lifted the lid.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On my nerdy, lonely life.’

  Hsiao May leaned forward. ‘It’s not nerdy and lonely,’ she said. ‘It’s magnificent.’

  Suddenly, over Harold’s shoulder, framed in the rectangle of the window, Hsiao May saw something. She put down her can of Diet Coke. ‘What’s that?’ she said. ‘I think something’s going on.’