Gridlock

by Ben Elton

  FISH BURGERS

  It had been Corker's brilliant media intervention that had saved the Government over the great fishy beef scandal.

  The feeding of fishmeal to British livestock appeared to be causing cows to go a bit scaly and spend an unhealthy amount of time sitting in puddles. This has led some scientists to propose the possibility that, since the average British teenager eats his or her weight in hamburgers every six hours, pretty soon now we might expect a few of them to start going 'glop, glop, glop', breathing through their armpits and spawning half a million eggs. Once this possibility hit the news-stands ('OH COD! BEEF HAS HAD ITS CHIPS!'), there was, understandably, a degree of panic, and, for just a moment, it actually looked like the farmers might have to sell their Rolls-Royces. However, at the last minute, Corker, the Junior Minister for Health, had saved the day. Not by introducing any new guidelines regarding the rearing of cattle, but by taking a posse of photographers to the Tower of London where she allowed herself to be photographed standing between two Beefeaters, eating a hamburger.

  It was this genius for damage control that had led the Prime Minister to promote Corker to a senior ministerial post, in the hope that she would smile winningly whilst the Civil Service sorted out the Digby mess.

  THE ROAD TO NOWHERE

  'We've got a complete environmental panic brewing, Mrs McCorkadale,' Ingmar Bresslaw had said to her during her breakfast briefing the previous week. 'Would you call that sausage cooked? I wouldn't call it cooked. What is wrong with this sodding country? Even the bloody dagoes can cook.' Ingmar took a pull at a hip flask, whilst Corker sympathized diplomatically. She knew not to get on the wrong side of Ingmar Bresslaw.

  'An environmental panic, you say, Ingmar? It's not the bloody greenhouse effect again, is it? I just don't understand that one. For centuries all the British have done is moan about the lousy weather, and when we do get the chance of a bit of sunshine everyone starts bellyaching that Southend will soon be under water. Honestly, who cares whether Southend is under water or not? Nobody I know lives there. Do you know anybody who lives at Southend, Ingmar?'

  Ingmar admitted that he did not. Corker was very much his kind of minister: obscenely ambitious but without any particular political principles to justify that ambition. Corker simply loved being famous and she would do anything to get in the papers. This was a minister who would climb Churchill's statue and sit on his face for six column inches.

  'No, it's not the greenhouse effect, Mrs McCorkadale,' answered Ingmar, giving his sausage the sort of bristling, eyebrowish look that made the bowels of young back-benchers dissolve and put them in severe danger of losing their deposits. 'It's roads.'

  'Oh yes,' said Corker. 'That's fascinating,' she added, wondering how her lip gloss was holding up. There was an awful lot of it on the rim of her coffee cup, so there couldn't be much left on her.

  'This government has a massive road-building plan,' Ingmar was saying. 'Truly colossal. A plan that, if fully implemented, will create traffic jams well into the next century.'

  'Sorry, Ingmar, small point,' said Corker, grabbing a chance to show that she was listening and on the ball . . . 'You mean rid us of jams.'

  'No, Minister, I mean create jams,' said Ingmar, lowering his voice to slightly less than its usual boom. 'The purpose of building roads is to stimulate the economy. If we were ever to arrive at a system of roads which was jam free there would be no excuse to build any more, which is the language of recession and I hope you have no wish to hear that kind of language in your ministry, Minister. Traffic jams are a necessary factor in continued economic growth.'

  'You're kidding me,' said Corker.

  'I am not kidding you, Minister. Why do you think motorways are constantly covered in bollards and contraflows, restricting traffic to snail-like single lanes?' enquired Ingmar.

  'Uhm . . . roadworks?' Corker answered, weakly.

  'When did you ever see any actual roadworks being carried out behind those walls of bollards, Minister? Perhaps once a year. Is it not more common to see mile upon mile of pristine tarmac bollarded off for no apparent reason at all? The reason for that, Minister, is to create jams, jams that will persuade the public to accept further road building.'

  'Coo,' said Corker, absolutely astonished. She had, of course, noticed that there has never been a major road built, ever, that did not end up constantly jammed, but she had never realized what a good thing it was . . . 'I suppose all this is a bit of a secret though, is it?' she added, trying to look professional.

  'Yes, it is a secret,' said Ingmar, 'as, indeed, is our whole road strategy. There was considerable public disquiet anyway, but now that bugger Parkhurst has panicked the entire country, we are going to have to lie very low.'

  'Yes, it's all off, isn't it? I heard the Prime Minister denying everything at conference. Did you have a good conference, Ingmar? I had a marvellous conference. Perhaps you saw that photo of me on a donkey? It was gruesome, I hated it,' said Corker, who had had it framed.

  'Yes,' said Ingmar, pursuing his point with a weary sigh. 'As far as the public are concerned it is all off. It is your job, Mrs McCorkadale, to continue to reassure the public that we never even entertained the sort of road plans that the imbecile Parkhurst revealed at conference.'

  'Right ho,' said Corker putting on her serious face. 'All off . . . never even on. Got it.'

  'Until such times as you are told otherwise, the Prime Minister wishes you to present the friendly, socially aware face of our transport policy to the general public.'

  'You've got the right girl, Ingmar.' Corker couldn't believe her luck, she was in the fast lane and it was easy street. Ahead of her lay years of photo calls, years of adoring profiles in the women's mags about keeping her make-up straight through a workaholic sixteen-hour day. By the time she'd finished, if she wasn't Prime Minister, she would certainly be able to get her own chat show, and that would be even better.

  'In the meantime,' said Ingmar, fixing his fiery, bloodshot eyes on Corker's, in order to intimidate her with the awesome seriousness of the situation.

  'The old bugger fancies me,' thought Corker, giving him a wry, flirty little smile, all subtle innuendo, with a hint of white teeth.

  'In the meantime,' repeated Ingmar, 'and kindly stop grinning at me like a simpleton, Mrs McCorkadale.' Corker laughed as if to show that she knew Ingmar was only joking . . . 'In the meantime,' Ingmar continued, 'the Prime Minister wishes you to allow for the massive road-building preparations to continue.'

  'Uhm, which road-building preparations would these be, Ingmar?' enquired Corker.

  'The ones which do not exist, Minister.'

  'I see.'

  'The ones which have never existed and which you must deny at all times.'

  'Right ho.'

  'The ones which your senior civil servants are working on as we speak, looking to the day when the public will be persuaded to accept the necessity of thousands of new roads.'

  'And how are they to be persuaded of that, Ingmar?' enquired Corker.

  'Never you mind about that,' declared Ingmar. 'I shall attend to the manipulation of public opinion. I have methods.'

  And by the scarily sinister way that he said it, it seemed to Corker that Ingmar was probably intending to individually torture each and every British subject until they called for the paving of the Home Counties.

  'Well, that all seems pretty straightforward,' said Corker.

  And thus it was that Corker McCorkadale came to be demonstrating the environmental face of government transport policy by cycling the last hundred yards to work and flashing her legs for the cameras. Whilst behind the walls of Whitehall, Digby's precious models continued to spread across tables, over filing cabinets and out into corridors.

  MOTOR-VATION

  It was hot and sweaty in Detroit that night. Bruce Tungsten was sitting up late, alone in his vast office. All the lights were out, but Bruce was occasionally illuminated by a burning flash or a shower of sparks at his windo
w. Brace's office overlooked the vast Global Motors works and even though everybody bought Japanese these days, the long, hot night rang to the sounds of American industry. Global Motors, an enormous corporation, dedicated to the art of making losses with out-of-date machinery and out-of-date cars. Out-of-date? Of course they were out-of-date, the Japanese innovated every five minutes, damn it.

  'Global Motors,' Bruce said, and clapped his hands. The little doll that Hirohato had sent him laughed in the darkness of the night. It laughed at him, it laughed at the company he'd been with since he got out of the army, and it laughed at the United States of America.

  Bruce clapped again, 'Global Motors.' He could not hear it enough even though it burnt into his soul. Again and again he clapped and the doll kept laughing. Bruce got up and strode about the office. Each time the laughter died he tormented himself anew, shouting the name of his company into the silence and clapping his hands till they were sore.

  Bruce snatched up the doll.

  'One day, Hirohato,' he spat. 'One day soon, now, I'm going to take this little doll and stick it so far up your butt you'll need a stethoscope to hear it laugh.'

  The phone rang, as Sam had said it would. Bruce picked it up and the voice on the other end spoke immediately.

  'Is it true, this nightmare? Is it real? Does it exist, this damnable engine?' the voice asked, and Bruce recognized it as Cornelius Brandt's.

  'Yes, it's true,' Bruce replied.

  'I did not really doubt it,' said a weary Cornelius, his voice dry and choked. 'But Turk is such a gangster, I needed to hear it from you.'

  'Well, you've heard it,' said Bruce, 'and now you're going to do exactly what Sam and I tell you.'

  Chapter Seventeen

  DIGBY RUMBLED

  Christian Corbet and his creature, Galton, sat in Christian's office at the Sunday Word staring at the big television screen.

  'That's it,' said Christian, freezing the video, 'best shot we're going to get. You're sure the BBC won't give us any of their tapes?'

  'After what George said about them in last week's "Voice of Sanity"?' Galton shook his head. 'Of course he was right, they are nothing but raving communistic, lesbian-loving Stalinists. One day, sir, one day we shall settle scores with our television "colleagues". We shall show them that the true meaning of the word "balance" is that the scales will always tip to favour the strong and ruthless.'

  'Yes, all right, Galton,' said Christian, who knew that once Galton got going it was sometimes difficult to stop him. 'Anyway, it's of no importance, this picture tells me the story plain as day.'

  The image on the screen was of the moment at the party conference when Digby had stalled mid-speech. The point at which he had promised to announce government rail policy. The point just prior to his ditching his speech and ending his career with a disastrous improvisation about roads.

  Galton had reported to Christian the results of the Royal Princess Hotel investigation. It seemed extremely likely that the Scottish transvestite who had been spotted near Digby's room, late on the night before the speech, was the means by which Digby believed Sam Turk had intimidated him. However, if this was the case, why was it, Christian asked himself, that Digby had appeared perfectly composed throughout the following morning, and had, indeed, delivered the first half of his speech with what was, for the average cabinet minister, considerable aplomb – meaning that he actually faced in the right direction and got the words in the right order?

  'It's as if something hit him halfway through his speech,' Christian had mused. 'Well, the party tittle-tattle is that it was a naked power bid, sir,' said Galton. 'It is their belief that he felt, by exposing secret policy and gaining for it popular support, he could push the policy and himself to the forefront of the Government, possibly even presenting himself as a potential leadership contender.'

  'That's what they say, is it, Galton?' enquired Christian, his mouth now actually shut.

  'Yes, it is presumed, sir, that he was seething.'

  'Seething?'

  'Seething at the fact that Department of Transport policy had to be conducted in such an underhand manner; secret contracts; constant lobbying; the real power lying with the Civil Service. As an ambitious minister, he is deemed to have seethed, sir, and yearned for popular approbation.'

  'Galton, even Digby Parkhurst must have known that announcing plans to relocate St Paul's Cathedral behind a DIY centre in Essex would not bring him popular approbation.'

  'They also think he must have been on the piss, sir.'

  But Christian knew better, he knew that something must have happened to make a dull, featureless minister screw up his career and party policy so spectacularly. This was why he had called for the video tapes of the day's events. He had watched Digby leave his hotel to be confronted by the members of the rail lobby, he had watched Digby arrive at the conference hall and he had watched Digby's speech, particularly the point of confusion. Christian had watched Digby shout, 'What this government intends to do with the railways is . . .' and he had touched the freeze-frame button. Then, taking a ruler to the screen, he attempted to follow Digby's eyeline to find out what the Minister had seen at that precise moment.

  It was blurred, and almost off the corner of the screen, but it was unmistakably there; a young man, standing up in the fourth row holding up a handbag.

  'That's our transvestite,' said Christian. 'Bloody cheeky, eh? Fingering Parkhurst mid-speech.'

  'Rather strange behaviour on Turk's part too, I feel, sir,' added Galton. 'After all, it was the precise timing of the hit which led to Parkhurst's road speech, and the subsequent debacle over secret government policy. Sam Turk, as a prominent road lobbyist, must be kicking himself that in bringing down Parkhurst he inadvertently brought down the biggest road-building plans in British history.'

  'Sam Turk had nothing whatsoever to do with the incident,' said Christian, decisively, and he called for a second television and video recorder. The equipment having arrived, he inserted into the second machine the news tape of Digby's departure from his hotel and his encounter with the rail lobby. He froze the tape at the point at which the forceful young man pushed his way through the crowd . . . Through the general babble he could be heard warning the minister not to announce the formation of BritTrak, what's more, he had a Scottish accent. Christian looked at the frozen image of the man outside the hotel. He turned to the image of the man in the fourth row, one business suit is much the same as the other, but none the less, it was clear that the two men were the same person. 'Well, well, well,' murmured Christian through a mouth that was positively imploding. 'So Digby Parkhurst got stitched by a queer train nut.'

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE ENGINE SLIPS FURTHER OUT OF REACH

  ASSEMBLING THE LAB

  Toss was out traffic wardening, Deborah was at college sitting an exam and Geoffrey had the flat to himself. He was hard at work in the little work area that Toss had helped him to set up in Deborah's laundry room. This was a partitioned area at the back of the kitchen which housed the washing machine, tumble drier and ironing stuff. Most of what Geoffrey required to redesign his engine was in his head. The only tool which he really needed was his home computer, a machine specially adapted to Geoffrey's needs. This Toss retrieved from Geoffrey's flat at his first opportunity, which was the Tuesday evening after work. This meant that two days had already passed since Geoffrey had discovered that his invention had been hijacked. Toss also grabbed books, notes and whatever other stuff he was able to lay his hands on amongst the mess. This was not very much, because Toss was forced to operate without putting on any lights. The reason for this was because it was clear to Toss, having strolled past the place a couple of times during his lunch hour, that Geoffrey's flat was being watched.

  Toss knew this because, in the course of his years tramping about with his traffic warden cap on, he had come to know every type of loafer, trader, ne'er-do-well and poser that hung out on the streets of London.

  'I'm cool, guy,
you understand. My eye is like an eagle and I am totally happening,' Toss had pointed out when asked by Deborah how he could be sure that the two men he had reported had actually been watching the house.

  'It is my personal style to be hip to whatever is going down, yah nah what I mean?' he added. 'I know when a guy is just chillin't out right? Just catching rays, watching the fine ladies and hangin' OK? I know if he is a thief, right, a beggar, a pimp, a copper's nark. I have to tell you that I am so wicked to the street life of this city that I can tell you what people had for breakfast, yah nah what I mean! And the geezers outside of Geoffrey's flat was watching it, girl. They weren't selling chestnuts and they weren't delivering nuffink, they was watching.'

  'All right already, so your cockney intuition assures us that they were watching,' said Deborah. 'I had no idea you were such a Dickensian character, Toss. Anyway, the question is, what are we going to do about it? Geoffrey can't exactly reshape the world with a ballpoint pen and pad.'

  Geoffrey sat twitching on the sofa, wondering whether he should point out that greater men than he had done just that, but he couldn't be bothered to formulate the sentence.

  The upshot of the conversation was that Toss had returned to the flat as dusk fell, pushing a pram. Geoffrey lived on the ground floor of a large old Victorian house, the sort where the old family living room had been divided into six 'desirable maisonettes' and the under-stairs cupboard had been converted into 'a totally separate and enclosed living area suitable for a young couple'. Geoffrey was fortunate that, being a moderately well-paid professional person, he was able to afford a whole floor, but the great mass of bell buttons on the front door indicated that above him dwelled many souls.

  'Listen, Fleur!' Toss shouted into the intercom, having pretended to push a button . . . 'It's me, doll, and I'm back for good all right. Livingstone needs his mum . . . Now don't give me that, doll, yah nah what I mean?' continued Toss, enjoying his performance. 'Just open the door and get me dinner on, all right? And then you'll have to wash me shirt cos Livingstone's just pissed on it and that shirt is wicked threads, girl . . . What's that, doll?' Toss leant in, pretending to listen to the intercom . . . 'Loves yah? Course I loves yah, I fucks yah, don't I?' This triumphant bit of characterization completed, Toss leant in, to disguise his movements, and deftly unlocked the door with the key that Geoffrey had given him . . . 'Thanks, doll,' Toss shouted into the uncomprehending intercom as he pushed the pram into the gloom of the hallway.