Jam

by Jake Wallis Simons

Harold followed her gaze. Shouts could be heard now. Then figures came into view, and something struck the side of the camper van.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ said Harold.

  ‘Are the doors locked? Are the doors locked?’

  With some effort, Harold squeezed through to the front again and made sure that they were.

  ‘What on earth are they doing?’ said Hsiao May. ‘Do you think they’ll come here?’

  ‘Get down low,’ said Harold, drawing her back onto the sofa. ‘Let’s try not to draw attention to ourselves.’

  ‘Shall we call the police? Shit, I left my mobile in the car. We’re so exposed.’

  ‘Mine is somewhere in the glove compartment,’ said Harold. ‘But I have no idea if it works.’

  ‘Shall we try?’

  ‘Someone else surely will have alerted the police. Let’s leave it. I think we should lie low. And what I need to do is protect you.’

  Squatting awkwardly on the floor, he put his arm around her. And she did feel protected. As if nothing could possibly defile the charm of this camper van. And even if it did, as if nothing could possibly get past Harold.

  Over the hill

  Monty and Shauna sat on the bench, legs stretched out insouciantly, gazing up at the night sky in easy companionship.

  ‘So you like your wine,’ said Monty.

  ‘You noticed?’ Shauna replied ironically. ‘I keep meaning to cut down. Not supposed to be healthy.’

  ‘I never know what to think about all that. Seems like there’s always a new health warning coming out. And they usually contradict each other. Red wine, for one.’

  ‘I know! You’re so right. I think it also depends on your lifestyle too. My colleagues booze all the time. And my friends. It makes it completely impossible to give up. The peer pressure. Don’t you find?’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Monty, with feeling.

  ‘I still don’t completely understand what you do actually,’ said Shauna. ‘What was it again?’

  Monty glanced at her sidelong, saw her lit dully by the early dawn, grey upon grey upon grey. What to say? If he told her he was a manual worker and left it at that, he would be selling himself short. Couldn’t he just tell the truth for once? What harm could it possibly do? Nobody could hear them. It wasn’t like they were under surveillance or anything. So far as he knew.

  ‘I’m a labourer,’ he said.

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘But I’m also, um, I’m in a sort of organisation.’

  ‘Sort of organisation?’

  ‘Yeah. But at the same time, I’m not really part of it at all.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you in the Territorial Army? A few of my school friends ended up doing that.’

  ‘No. Not the army.’

  ‘So what is it then? You have to tell me, Monty, otherwise it’s not fair. I’ve been telling you about myself all bloody night.’

  ‘Well, OK. Where shall I start? I’m involved in a kind of . . . in an international organisation. Um, that sounds like I’m an arms dealer or something. God.’

  ‘It does sound pretty dodgy,’ said Shauna gaily, and Monty thought he saw a flicker of excitement in her eyes. ‘It’s delicious. Tell me more.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes, Monty, you do jolly well have to.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that. Right. So, basically what I do is travel to foreign countries and meet other members of the organisation, and we organise things. Meetings and suchlike.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re a terrorist.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘But not an Islamist terrorist. You’re something horrible and left-wing. You’re a Marxist terrorist.’

  ‘Nothing as exciting as that.’

  ‘You’re a radical animal rights campaigner.’

  ‘Nope. I’m allergic to horses for a start. And cats. And badgers, probably.’

  ‘You’re a militant gay-rights activist.’

  ‘Do I look gay?’

  ‘What’s wrong with looking gay?’

  ‘Nothing, but are you saying I look gay?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. Don’t be so paranoid. But you’ve got a dodgy job. I can tell.’

  ‘God, can we change the subject?’

  ‘You see? You have got a dodgy job.’

  ‘All right, all right. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about this traffic jam.’

  ‘Yes, now that would be an exciting thing to talk about. That would be riveting.’

  ‘When do you think it’s going to move?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. I can’t imagine it moving an inch. Ever.’

  ‘It’ll move sooner or later, don’t worry. They’re probably clearing the road as we speak.’

  ‘It feels to me like we’re going to be here for ever. For ever and ever. In which case, I’m glad we bumped into each other. You’re a good person to chat to, Monty. Even if you won’t tell me what you do.’

  ‘Thanks. So are you. But you know, speaking of the jam, maybe we’d better walk up to the top of the hill. So we can see the traffic when it moves.’

  So they got up to go, Shauna with her big bottle of water and paracetamol. The fog had cleared completely now, and had left a patina of dew clinging to the grass, which darkened their shoes, their ankles, as they climbed. Before long, they were out of breath and speaking in short bursts.

  ‘Fucking hell, this is knackering,’ said Shauna. ‘Can we take a break?’

  ‘Come on, we’re almost there. We’ll take a break at the top. Maybe we’ll be able to see what’s up now the fog’s cleared.’

  ‘Taskmaster.’

  ‘Come on. You can do it.’

  ‘Bloody hell. I’ll have to spend a week in a spa after this. And I don’t mean the grocery shop. Anyway, I know what job you do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re in the police. You’re one of those undercover cops. Aren’t you?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘If I give you an answer to that,’ said Monty, ‘will you promise not to ask me any more details? At least, not until I’ve quit?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Then the answer is yes.’

  *

  They neared the brow of the hill. This evening had taken a turn that Monty never would have expected; he had never seen himself as someone who would stumble into a friendship with a stranger. It was actually comical, in a way. No doubt about it, tonight the rudder had fallen off his life. But how beautiful this girl was! How funny. How characterful her smile, how bright and perceptive her eyes. Fuck me, he thought. I’m behaving like a teenager. Here he was, almost at the top of the hill, and he didn’t know what his next step would be.

  For her part, Shauna was feeling better. Throwing up earlier had cleared out her system. The painkillers had dealt with her headache and her thirst had been assuaged by the water. To cap it all, here was a man beside her. He was rather strange, rather cagey, she had to admit, and she knew that she should be wary of strangers. But this felt different – more substantial. Like muesli is to Cheerios, she thought. Though that was about the least romantic metaphor ever. Like gold is to fool’s gold. How cheesy could you get? Like a good English Stilton to a Dairylea. Cheese? Her mind was spinning. The idea of Hubster seemed laughably inadequate now; inadequate, superficial and rather pathetic. She smiled at herself and shook her head. Here was some totally random labourer-cum-undercover-cop, a James Bond fantasist probably. Not her type at all. What would her friends say? Her parents? Yet her every instinct was telling her to grab him with both hands and never him let go.

  He was probably sticking around out of pity. He was probably married or something. He was probably a nutter. An escaped convict. A highwayman. A frisson of excitement. She looked at Monty sidelong. Oh God, she thought. Oh God.

  Then they arrived at the brow of the hill, with the nightish dawn above them and the undulating land spreading out all around. Monty commented tha
t the traffic hadn’t moved, and Shauna shrugged ironically. She sat on a low-hanging branch on the edge of the copse, her chin cupped in her hands, and Monty leaned against a tree. Then something caught their eye: further down the hill a figure could be seen emerging from the woods and walking down the slope.

  ‘Wow, he’s been in there all along,’ said Monty.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That guy down there. See him? I saw him coming up earlier.’

  ‘The black guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Weird. Wonder what he’s been doing?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  It was then that they heard the shouts.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Monty. ‘Look down there.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Look. Look. Looks like it’s getting hairy.’

  ‘Down there? Oh yeah, I see. Shit. They won’t, will they?’

  ‘I should have known it. Rhys could never sit still for that long without getting into a fight. Jesus.’

  ‘How do you know those people?’

  ‘They’re my friends. Well, not my friends. Not my friends at all, actually. I was giving them a lift in my van. Part of my work, you know. I hate the cunts really.’

  ‘And it’s your van?’

  ‘Yes. Oh fuck, look. Shit.’

  ‘Oh God. Shouldn’t you go and help?’

  ‘What can I do from here?’ he said. ‘But I’d better make a phone call. A really quick one. OK?’

  ‘Don’t leave me here. It’s creepy as fuck.’

  ‘I’ll just be over here. OK?’

  ‘Oh my God. What are they doing, what are they doing? Shit, I can’t watch. Monty, call the police! Call the police!’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘I can’t watch. God, Monty, I can’t watch any more. I can’t watch.’

  Battle

  Rhys, his blood quickening, with a hoarse cry of ‘cunts’, drew back his arm and hurled the half-full bottle of brandy in the direction of the oncoming footballers. It rotated on its axis in the air then smashed on the tarmac. Shahid and his friends, disoriented, let out a volley of shouts.

  ‘Now,’ said Rhys. ‘Fucking now!’

  In their haste to get to the back of the van, Chris, who was still fastening his belt, stumbled. Rhys hauled him to his feet and dragged him round the side. They had lost precious seconds, but now the back door of the van was before them. Chris could almost see the weapons: the bats, the chains, the mace. He could almost feel the grain of the wooden handle in his palm; the cool, shifting links of the chain; the hiss of the mace gas as it spurted under his finger from the canister. He gripped the handle of the back door, pressed the button, pulled. In his mind’s eye it opened. But the handle did not give. The back of the van regarded him blankly. In desperation, he gave it two hard yanks; a rattle; a kick. Then he butted it with his head.

  ‘Fuck!’ he yelled. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Monty must’ve locked it,’ said Chris.

  ‘That fucking cunt,’ said Rhys. ‘Where are the keys?’

  ‘He’s got ’em. Monty’s got ’em.’

  ‘Cunt, I’ll fucking kill him. Quick, round the front.’

  Stones were falling from the sky around them now like oversized hailstones. The bastards were picking them up from the central reservation. Rhys cursed himself for not predicting that hurling the bottle would evoke this sort of response. One glanced off the van roof and ricocheted onto the side of a camper van, making a clunk, leaving a scar. Another hit Rhys on the shoulder. Pushing Chris in front of him, he tried to make it back to the front door, hoping to get in and reach the weapons cache somehow from there, or at least grab the wheel-lock which lay in the passenger footwell. But immediately he saw it was too late.

  Shahid stood fixed in time, his lips pulled back from his teeth and his fist at head height, watched by a hundred pairs of eyes on the motorway. Then the spell was broken. He let out the bellow of a maddened bull, and punched with all his strength. When his knuckles hit Chris’s temple he was surprised; surprised when the head bobbed in a way that spoke of sleep. The fat face looked delicate to him then, that formation of nose, those eye sockets. It had taken on an expression of disappointment, as if realising how easily it could be crushed.

  Rhys pushed in front of his brother, shoved Shahid back. There was blood on Chris’s face, Rhys could see it out of the corner of his eye, and he was whining like a pig. Rhys reached into his pocket and brought out the object that he always carried with him.

  When he thrusted, Shahid twisted instinctively. The blade passed through his T-shirt, sliced an L-shape in his chest, but the twisting motion entangled it in the fabric and the weapon sprang from Rhys’s grasp. It fell, spinning, and bounced once, twice, on to the tarmac of the M25. Mo and Kabir, sensing a fleeting advantage, flew at Rhys. Disorientated, he defended himself from the blows however he could, throwing his arms out wildly. He stumbled backwards and slammed into the side of the Chrysler; there was a loud bang, followed by a pattering sound, as his elbow shattered the side window of Ursula and Max’s car.

  Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream: ‘My baby, my baby, my baby!’

  Ursula burst from Popper’s passenger seat and hurled herself at the fighting men. As the bodies heaved and tussled she caught a glimpse of her daughter, crying as she had never cried before, eyes wide, hands agitating the air, covered in a constellation of glass.

  Shahid found himself on the tarmac on his hands and knees. Dazed, his T-shirt sodden with blood, he blinked. There, between his hands, in parallel with the white dashes on the surface of the motorway, was Rhys’s knife, its handle pointing towards him.

  Hero

  In the front seat of his silver Golf, Popper sat hunched over the steering wheel, every muscle in his body tensed, sweat glistening in the crevices of his face. His eyes were fixed on the spectacle that was unfolding before him. He watched the woman grappling with the men. He watched her receive a blow to the face, watched her stagger backwards, then push forward again. His breathing was shallow, he was trembling uncontrollably, and his legs felt hollow, as if they could never support his weight. What was happening to him? Where was his courage? His signet ring was making a ferocious tapping sound as his hands on the steering wheel shook. He groped around inside of himself for the old battle instinct, the fighting instinct, the bravery that was as much part of him as his ability to breathe. But he was clutching at water; it ran through his fingers, was sucked away in great lugs.

  He saw the woman fall to the ground. Again she got to her feet, plunged back into the fray. Unable to bear it he averted his eyes, pressed his forehead into the top of the steering wheel, bile rising in his mouth.

  Ursula tried again to pull the nearest man away from the Chrysler. Suddenly a hand gripped her shoulder and threw her aside. A youth, his T-shirt thick with blood, snaked his way between the bodies and she saw the flash of a blade as he struck. There was a godawful howl, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, from the motorway itself, from the landscape. Several more movements. Still she could not see Carly. Worse, she could no longer hear her cries.

  She dashed back towards the seething knot of men, tried to break her way through to her baby. Then, by some unseen force, the group changed shape. Now between herself and Carly was a lean, short-haired man with wild eyes. Blood was streaked across his face, and blossoming on his shirt, and his lips were curled back from his teeth. With one hand he was brandishing the knife, creating a circle of space around himself with wicked little jabs; somehow he must have wrestled it back from his attacker. Without thinking, she stepped into the cavity, begging him to move aside; he thrust out his hand and gripped her by the throat.

  And then a new figure approached from behind, pushing people aside, throwing blows wildly. Within seconds he had beaten his way through to her. Faced with the knife, he hesitated not for a moment. In another instant she was free and unharmed, leaning in through the window to Carly and the ne
wcomer was wrestling ferociously with the knifeman. They swung round once, twice, in the constricted space between the cars; then there was a single, anguished bark. Ursula turned to protect the children. The knifeman lay on the ground, writhing slightly, losing blood. Several feet away from his hand lay the knife. In the background, the three footballers were running off into the night, one of them stumbling. And there in the centre was the man who had saved her life, clutching the side of his neck.

  ‘Max!’ cried Ursula. ‘Max!’

  Carpe diem

  ‘We should have done something,’ said Shauna.

  ‘I did. I called the police,’ said Monty. ‘Look, here they are now. You can’t just step into these situations. Rule one. It’s not safe.’

  ‘But they’re your friends.’

  ‘I keep telling you, they’re not my friends. They’re, well, they’re my enemies. I . . . I’ll tell you about it. I promise I’ll tell you about it. But now’s not the time.’

  ‘That man. I can’t believe how he stepped in.’

  ‘He was much further down the hill than us. By the time we arrived, it would have been all over. Anyway, he must be the woman’s husband or something. Look, they’re in a huddle. Those must be their daughters.’

  ‘What’s he doing? He’s kicking something away.’

  ‘The knife, I think. Yes, the knife.’

  ‘He’s hurt. Look, he’s holding his neck. We should get down there.’

  ‘Look, here comes the cavalry. Thank God nobody’s blocking the hard shoulder.’

  A little further along the motorway, a sudden movement caught their eye. A beaten-up, ancient Peugeot estate was trying to manoeuvre out of the queue. Forward and backward it went, jolting and jerking crazily; then at last, with a squeal of tyres, it broke free, sped down the hard shoulder and into the distance. Within seconds, a police car was giving chase, siren blaring. The motorway tapered round a bolt of land, and both vehicles disappeared from view.

  ‘Well, that was a bit stupid,’ said Monty. ‘They’re fucked now. Must’ve been in a right panic.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have been?’ said Shauna.