Gridlock

by Ben Elton

  Toss was absolutely convinced, not unreasonably, that Deborah was going to get herself killed. So fearful was he, on her behalf, that he had even, with the greatest reluctance, volunteered to attempt the mission himself. He was honest enough with himself to concede that he was relieved when Deborah said that it wouldn't work.

  'This is the one time when being in a stupid wheelchair gives me the edge. Somebody has to get into the Global building, right? And once in, get around it. That I person is me. People don't like to talk to people in wheelchairs, let alone kiss them off. They're embarrassed too, so they grin weakly and ignore us instead. I have to tell you, they do not have a similar problem with young black guys. It is conceivable that you might get the job interview, but if you start wandering round their building uninvited, you are going to have the FBI and the National Guard and the Ku Klux Klan on your back in two, maybe three, seconds maximum. They will slam you against the wall, spread your legs and say hurtful things like, "Freeze nigger motherfucker!" or, seeing as how we're in London, "Orl roit, sambo, wotcha want?"'

  Deborah, like many Americans, was rather proud of her cockney accent, which was strange because she couldn't do it at all. The American cockney accent is taught via 1940s Sherlock Holmes B movies, where actors from the Bronx sit on top of hansom cabs saying, 'Cor blimey, wot a toff! Arf a crahn to roid ya to tha trine styshon.' This accent reached its glorious zenith with Dick Van Dyke's extraordinary performance as the sweep in Mary Poppins.

  Dialect aside, Deborah's point was a forceful one. She pressed it home.

  'Now little old me, on the other hand, Toss. Who's going to press me against a wall? A poor pathetic girl in a chair? What possible danger could I be? Crippled, you see, good for absolutely nothing. Such a shame, so young and yet so useless, what harm could she do?'

  Toss could see the logic in this argument. But only as far as it went.

  'All right, Debbo, I am happening to your point that you have got slightly more chance than me. But considering, girl, right, that neither of us have any chance whatsoever, I mean, none, right, your advantage is kind of academic.'

  'That's beside the point. I have to try.'

  'Listen, you're not bleeding Davy Crockett, girl, you don't have to remember the Alamo. You are going to be wheeling yourself into the lair of a killer, right. And for what? So you can ask him for your engine back. Do you know what he'll say, Deborah? He'll say "no", that's what.'

  But there was no dissuading Deborah, her mind was made up. Geoffrey's mission had become her mission. After all, in a way, it was her engine that had been stolen, Geoffrey had designed it for her. He had wanted to make her fly, and now this Turk guy had stolen her wings and she intended to get them back. What's more, she was going to demonstrate to Sam Turk that you did not deposit the heads of her friends in her flowerbeds and expect to get away with it.

  It wasn't entirely personal. Since his death, Deborah had thought hard about Geoffrey's self-imposed mission. He had intended that his engine should be used for good, that through his work transport in the next century would be prevented from destroying the planet. Deborah's backbone was always a bit stiff on account of the fact that she spent her days sitting down. At the thought of Geoffrey's dreams, however, it stiffened further, stiffened with iron resolve.

  'Toss,' said Deborah, 'I am on a mission to save the world.'

  THE GENERAL

  Sam was plotting with Bruce, Deborah was plotting with Toss, and the man in the battle fatigues was plotting with General Ali.

  General Ali had a lot of problems. He was an army officer who had come to power via a military coup. His position had always been rather shaky. In fact, he had started up the recent war with his neighbour by way of rallying popular support. It is one of the great paradoxes of history that leaders who find themselves in difficulties at home often start wars in order to make their people love them. Although why anyone should feel deepening affection for someone who has exposed them to being bombed, gassed, shot at and invaded has never been explained. However, be that as it may, the general remained in a fairly precarious position. He who rises by the coup is often condemned to fall by the coup and many terrible rumblings were to be heard in the country – although these may have had something to do with the fact that, due to war rationing, the bread was now 50 per cent sawdust.

  The once beautiful city was devastated, the army was weary, its best men were gone, and the people were hungry. The last thing the general needed was to have to stump up the seven billion US dollars that the Union of Oil had designated as his country's contribution to Sam Turk's buy-off.

  'We're busted, Colonel,' the general informed the man in military fatigues who had attended the Union of Oil meetings. 'Seven billion dollars? Where am I going to get it from, taxation? What is there to tax? People will say, "OK, General, take the rubble that used to be my house, take the food out of the empty larder." Listen, Colonel, you remember when we took power? You remember what I said?'

  'You said that heads must roll because the state was bankrupt and could no longer afford to pay its soldiers or feed its babies,' the colonel replied.

  'Spot any irony?' enquired the general.

  The colonel remained silent on this one.

  'You know what I think?' said the general. 'I think we can sort this out more cheaply.'

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  INGMAR'S EFFORTS

  THE EIGHTH MAN

  Whilst Deborah and General Ali plotted against Sam Turk, Ingmar Bresslaw plotted to fulfil the promise he had made to the Prime Minister that he would bring the road-building plans back into public favour. He was absolutely determined that the public would be persuaded, by fair means or foul, that they wanted nothing less from their government than an epoch-making era of public road building.

  A plan had been forming in Ingmar's mind, almost since the very moment that Digby had disgraced himself. It was an outrageous and audacious plan, requiring meticulous detail in its planning and split-second timing in its execution. Ingmar had held long and deep discussions with engineers, town planners, publicists and lobbyists and was now ready to assemble the undercover team that would be required for the job. It was for this purpose that Ingmar had gone to visit Bill 'Bogus' Bottomley, a senior operative at MI5.

  'Look, I'd love to help, Ingmar, you know I would,' said Bogus, 'but we really do try and avoid the dodgy stuff these days. Can't risk it you see. Do something dodgy, next thing you know, there's a book out about it, have to be terribly careful. Actually, I've got a book planned myself for after I retire, all the blokes have, it's terribly competitive. In fact, I've been meaning to ask you a favour on that score. You see the truth of the matter is, my book's going to be rather dull I'm afraid, never even met a Russian, let alone engaged one in a deadly game of bluff and counterbluff. Spent my whole life listening in on students doing their year pretending to be socialists, damn dull. What I need is an edge, something to drum up a bit of interest. So I was just wondering if you could put it about that the PM thinks I might be the eighth man.'

  'The eighth man?' enquired Ingmar.

  'You know,' said Bogus, 'in the Burgess/ Maclean, their trade is the treachery business. Nothing substantial, just a rumour, wouldn't half bump up my measly book advance.'

  'Bogus,' said Ingmar, 'I require the assistance of Her Majesty's Secret Service on a very sensitive issue of grave national importance. I do not wish to discuss publishing.'

  'But the Secret Service is publishing these days, Ingmar,' insisted Bogus. 'Nobody does anything any more without thinking about how it's going to look in their book and to be quite frank, old boy, roads won't sell, Russians do. Listen, be a sport, I can't even get a Sunday serialization, and with the Soviets going and collapsing on us, like the bastards we always knew them to be, the Burgess business will probably finally die in a year or two. I really need to get my claim in now. The Chief's bagged pretending to be the sixth man, so that's out, he's bought a couple of homosexual screen prints and a little bust
of Lenin to leave lying round his flat. Damn clever, wish I'd thought of it. Then there's a chap over at MI6 who's written a book called The Seven Dwarfs, claiming there were seven of them, I'm certain the bastard started with the title. Even says Moscow Control was known as Snow White, and of course Penguin love that. Anyway, he's backing the Chief's claim to be the sixth man, I'm convinced money changed hands there incidentally, and he's proposing that the Queen Mum was the seventh. Not bad that, she always was a bit of a fag hag, friend of Noel Coward's etc. Anyway, I'm going for the eighth, and a hint from the PM, or even the Foreign Office would be wonderful, could put twenty-five thou' on my advance. Go on, Ingmar, you could swing it.'

  Ingmar Bresslaw made his excuses and left. If he wanted dirty tricks performing he would have to go elsewhere . . .

  ANGRY ALF

  . . . Which was why he was to be found the next evening dining at the House of Lords with 'Angry' Alf Higgens, who had, some years before, become Lord Higgens of Hackney. Angry Alf was a trade union man born and bred, and, despite the fact that his politics had been drifting steadily rightwards all of his life, his worker credentials were something of which Alf was inordinately proud. He was the type of man who considers that the fact that his unfortunate mother was forced to bring up him and six siblings without the benefit of an indoor lavatory imbued him in later life with an omniscient insight into the minds of working people.

  'Don't tell me how to run a union,' he would instruct colleagues, 'I never had a pair of shoes until I was eight.'

  Angry Alf's trade unionism was the politics of power and posture. Throughout his years of influence, he loudly boasted that his job was simply that of 'doing deals for his boys'. He gave short shrift to anyone who dared raise in his presence the broader principles of trade unionism.

  'Don't give me any of that bollocks about solidarity,' he would brusquely instruct them, adding that, as a child, he had to rise at five o'clock in order to help out on a coal round before school. It was Angry Alf's narrow perspective and singleness of purpose that had made him, in his years of power such a respected figure in the road lobby. Roads meant more work for Alf's workers and so roads had no greater champion.

  Alf had long since retired, but he had kept up his connections with some senior road lobby figures and he still had influence within his old union. It was for this reason that Ingmar Bresslaw had sought him out. Ingmar's huge plan required skilful, well-motivated operatives. If MI5 could not supply them, perhaps Angry Alf could.

  'The planning has already been done, Your Lordship,' Ingmar assured Alf. 'All I require is the services of about twenty men. They must be of the best type of course. Utterly reliable, you understand, courageous and resourceful. Will you do it?'

  Angry Alf was doubtful, life was very pleasant in the House of Lords. He had no great desire to immerse himself in Ingmar's schemes.

  'I don't know, Bresslaw,' he mused. 'If we were rumbled I'd probably lose my ermine. This is social engineering you're talking about.'

  T am talking about bringing the public to their senses, Alf,' said Ingmar. 'Britain needs more roads, you know how important that is, but since Parkhurst's speech, the anti-road movement has held the moral high ground. We have to do something now. If we're not damn careful, there won't be a square foot of tar laid in Britain for half a decade.'

  Ingmar was talking a language Alf found difficult to resist.

  'All right,' he said, 'I'll make a few calls, see how the land lies. But it's a dodgy game we're playing here. If we lose, or worse, get found out, they'll lynch us.'

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  MONDAY MORNING

  A COP AT THE END OF HIS ROAD

  It was Monday morning and Chief Superintendent Barry Ross was completing a letter to Corker McCorkadale, the Minister for Transport. It was a very sad letter, a letter from a proud and disillusioned man. Barry Ross had controlled London's traffic for fifteen years, but he had grown old and tired in the job. This was the day he was to take premature retirement and he felt the need to explain why.

  Minister, (he wrote) I have to tell you that my reason for seeking early retirement is because I am absolutely convinced that it cannot now be many months before the job I have loved will become, quite literally, impossible to perform. I am a proud police officer and will not be the man who presides over the moment when London quite simply ceases to function. Please let me assure you that this is now an inevitability. The long-feared gridlock, which has been my constant nightmare, will become my successor's reality since I see absolutely no political will to face up to the cataclysmic scale of the problem.

  The problem is, of course, pure and simple. It is the private car. I have devoted my life to the rights of the private motorist and still believe in them 100 per cent. But such rights become rather theoretical, don't you think, when traffic moves at a snail's pace and it is impossible to park? Minister, in order to protect the private motorist of the future, action must be taken now. The pollution, the road carnage and the insane inefficiency have to be dealt with. There is one answer, Minister – the rigorous promotion of public transport. Nobody has to park a bus.

  Barry would be sorely missed, he was the best traffic planner in the country and had just about kept London moving, against virtually impossible odds, for years. Now he had had enough. Despite being a Monday, this was to be his last day.

  HEADING FOR TROUBLE

  On that same Monday morning, Deborah and Toss left their home together and headed for the Swiss Cottage area of London, where the UK headquarters of Global Motors were located. Deborah was as sure as she could be that this was where Sam Turk was to be found. Discreet telephone enquiries during the previous week had shown Turk to be a diligent man who arrived at his office early and left late.

  Deborah parked her converted car with its disabled sticker bang outside the mighty Global building. It was on a double yellow line with prominent signs about the place saying that parking was prohibited at all times. Deborah felt that she would be OK though, because riding with her was her own tame traffic warden. Toss was in uniform, and it was his job to wait by the car, ensuring it remained there, unclamped, for that ill-defined time when Deborah would be making a getaway.

  'You might be hours,' complained Toss. 'I'm going to look a bit of a dickhead spending all day putting a ticket on a car, girl. I am a flash! I am lightning! Nobody books them like El Toss.'

  'Listen, buster,' replied Deborah, 'you ain't the one walking into the lion's den. Just wait by the car because I got a feeling that if, and when, I get out of this place, I'm going to be in a hurry.'

  And with that, Deborah wheeled herself up the ramp which Global Motors had thoughtfully provided outside their building. Unfortunately, at the top of the ramp were swing doors, and the conventional ones to either side were too stiff to open. They had dropped very slightly on their hinges and hence dragged on the metal bases as they swung. This, of course, meant that Deborah had to sit outside the building (it was now raining), trying to attract the attention of someone inside, whilst hoping someone might come along. Eventually someone did.

  'I hope you ain't on the judging panel for this job,' Deborah said to the person. 'Because if you are, I just lost it.'

  Once inside, Deborah found the Global building pretty well-equipped, and, having reported to reception, Deborah was escorted in a spacious lift to the appropriate floor.

  'Jeez, eighth floor,' said Deborah, casually. 'I would have thought only the big boss guys got to ride this high.'

  Her companion merely grinned, as if humouring an idiot. Deborah tried again. 'Maybe the great Sam Turk himself will get in. I could ask him for a job direct.'

  'I don't think so,' said the girl with a patronizing smile, 'there's a private executive lift to the penthouse offices.'

  Deborah had feared as much. Still, at least she knew where his office was, and hence where he was most likely to be. However, she could not strike out for it just yet. Deborah had decided that she would have to go through wit
h the mock interview for fear that she would be missed and a sympathetic search party sent out for 'the poor stupid girl in the wheelchair'. Fortunately for Deborah, she was called first.

  'Getting me out of the way early,' thought Deborah, cynically, as she was ushered solicitously into a room containing three earnest-looking people, their faces a picture of heartfelt solidarity and support.

  THE CHAIR GETS INTERVIEWED

  'Hi, I'm Rod. Step right in and take a seat.'

  Aaaahhh! Rod wanted the floor to open and swallow him. What was he saying? What was he doing to this poor girl? Just rubbing in her terrible, horrible disability.

  'Sorry, stupid thing to say.'

  'Pardon?' said Deborah, positioning herself next to the empty chair that had been placed in the middle of the room to accommodate interviewees.

  'Uhm . . . about stepping right in . . . Uhm, stupid, silly . . . Obviously I meant wheel right in . . .'

  Rod looked around for a razorblade with which to slit his wrists.

  'Wheel right in!' Rod was a soggy crouton in a faux pas soup, a crouton going under for the third time. He was a nice, caring man, a liberal. Whilst a student he had even been a communist for a week and a half. He just wanted to show this poor pathetic girl that he was massively aware of her catastrophic inadequacies in the leg department but, within the bounds of practicality, he would not judge her too harshly on them.

  'Look, what I'm trying to say is just forget about it, all right? God knows, we certainly have.'

  'Forget about what?' asked Deborah.

  'Your . . . your . . .' Rod could not bring himself to use the word wheelchair. It seemed so brutal, just drawing attention to the poor girl's appalling predicament. As if she didn't have enough to put up with without insensitive oafs like him idly dropping the word 'wheelchair' about willy nilly . . .