Gridlock

by Ben Elton

  'What do you want, Deborah?' Sam asked, but Deborah was too astonished to answer.

  'Sure I know who you are, kid,' Sam continued. 'You're the friend of a guy I may have had a little business with recently. But you have nothing on me and you know it, or you wouldn't be here, you'd be with the law. So what do you want?'

  'Well I . . .' For a moment Deborah experienced a sensation almost unique in her experience, that of not having anything to say.

  'Go home, little lady. I'll get them to order you a cab.'

  Sam was acting very casual and unconcerned but that was only because he did not wish to have to have Deborah killed in his office. That would be extremely inconvenient, especially on the day before his monumental deal when the situation was tense enough. However, underneath he was hugely put out. How on earth had this girl worked out his connection with the engine? She must also know about his connection with the death of her friend. Given time to think, Sam would probably have remembered the article in the Sunday Word and figured things out from that, but, for the moment, the girl in the wheelchair seemed almost clairvoyant, and terrifyingly so. Of course Sam knew that she could prove nothing, not unless she had another copy of the engine plan. None the less, the whole situation was pretty disconcerting. Sam resolved to get her out of his office immediately and then to contact Euro Despatch to arrange her murder that very afternoon.

  'Miss Hodges,' said Sam again, touching the intercom button.

  'I have a plan of the engine!' blurted Deborah. 'He drew up another before you had him killed, and your thugs didn't find it!' Deborah's mind was racing, she was running out of ways to stall him, she just had to get him close enough, but how?

  'Forget it, Miss Hodges,' said Sam again, taking his finger off the intercom button. 'You have another copy?' he asked very quietly, all his dreams of unimaginable wealth hanging on how he dealt with this girl.

  'Yes, I have it right here in my blouse,' said Deborah.

  Sam could scarcely contain himself, the relief was incredible. He leapt forward joyfully to tear the supposed plans from Deborah's clothing. Sam Turk never imagined that he could possibly be in any danger, but he was. He was the mouse and Deborah was the lion.

  TRUSSED TURKEY

  Crack! Geoffrey's dead fist in the shape of a small Victorian flat iron leapt out of the arm of Deborah's chair and swung hugely and horribly into the side of Sam Turk's head, the spindly anglepoise arm delivering the sort of blow that no human arm could muster – no matter how many steroids were pumped into it. Sam Turk folded up like a deck chair, i.e. in a confused heap with everything bending the wrong way.

  'Jeez, Geoffrey,' muttered Deborah, addressing her dead companion at arms, 'I hope this guy has a thick skull. He's no use to me dead.'

  Sam was not dead, he lay at Deborah's feet, the side of his face a throbbing purple tribute to the awesome ballistic power contained within an anglepoise lamp arm, an old flat iron and a couple of Bullworker springs. The weapon now lay collapsed and limp across Deborah's lap. She leaned forward, painfully doubling herself up over it, and stretching down in front of herself with all her might. Clutching at the turn-ups of Turk's trousers, she finally managed to get a hold of his feet and pulled them up onto her lap. Producing some of the telephone cable that had played a prop part in her brilliant portrayal of the telephone engineer (she accepted that the FBI agent had been rather two-dimensional, but she was proud of the engineer), Deborah proceeded to tightly secure Sam's feet. This done, she felt a little safer.

  'That's evened the score a tad, bud,' she muttered to herself, perhaps a little vindictively. 'Now neither of us can walk.'

  Letting Sam's feet fall from her lap, Deborah manoeuvred her chair towards Sam's hands. Of course the carpet rucked itself up under the wheels of her chair and as she struggled to free them, Sam seemed to stir. With a huge effort Deborah got herself into a position whereby she could lean forward and reach Turk's hands. First, though, since she wished to tie them behind his back, Deborah had to roll the big body onto its face.

  'Why didn't that clutz Geoffrey think to fit a forklift onto this thing?' thought Deborah, as she leant over the side of her chair and attempted to heave the unconscious Turk over without toppling herself over, which would of course mean the end of everything.

  'You never hear of Jane Fonda, you bastard?' Deborah enquired of the non-comprehending Turk . . . 'It wouldn't hurt to exercise a little, maybe cut down to fifty hamburgers a day.'

  Eventually Deborah got the large car maker where she wanted him, with his hands and feet firmly tied, and, what is more, his tied hands tied to his tied feet. Deborah then got herself into position and threw a jug of water at his face.

  INTERROGATION

  When Sam Turk came round he could be forgiven for being a little surprised, he was in fact positively astonished. The very last thing he remembered was towering menacingly over a helpless girl in a wheelchair, and now, the very next thing, as far as he was concerned, was that he himself was being towered over. He was trussed up like the guest of honour at a sadomasochist ball, and his head appeared to have been used to stop a Network South-East train that was in danger of actually arriving on time.

  More to the point, and point being the word, he was staring at the front end of the bolt on what appeared to be some kind of wheelchair-mounted crossbow. 'Don't move,' said Deborah, rather unnecessarily, considering the position that Sam Turk was in.

  'Or say a word,' said Deborah, as Sam appeared to be opening his mouth to speak. In fact he had been trying to breathe properly. In consequence of the years spent wheeling herself around, Deborah had very strong arms, and she had trussed Sam extremely tightly. His shoulders were being pulled back and down, putting a considerable strain on his chest.

  Deborah stared at him across the raised arm of the anglepoise, which now served as the bow of the weapon which Geoffrey had so ingeniously designed. She had the wire, which was stretched between the arms of her chair, pulled back tightly against her chest, a short arrow, or bolt, lying gently across the bow, its point fashioned from the thin, shining spike of an electrical screwdriver, the blade of which Toss had filed down to a vicious chisel-like edge.

  'Now listen to me, suckhole,' Deborah said very slowly. 'You killed my friend, OK? I know you did, so don't deny it. You killed my friend who, with one twitch of his spastic shoulder, was worth more than every beat your heart ever made. Nothing beat my friend, nothing! At least not till you, you evil little fuck! He overcame everything life ever put in his way, and that was plenty. But he couldn't overcome you, could he? And you know why? 'Cos you're too low, that's why. My friend never looked anywhere but up, and to see a slime like you, you got to look way down low. Now I'm only telling you all this so you need have no doubt that if you don't co-operate with me, I'll kill you without even thinking about it. I mean it, I don't want anything more than to kill you and I could do it right now. Right now, do you hear! All I have to do is let go of this wire and you're dead! Nobody noticed me come in, nobody would notice me go. I'd be out of here. And I want to do it, Mr Turk, believe me, I really, desperately want to kill you. All I need is an excuse, and you can give me that any time you feel like it.'

  'Why don't you then?' asked Sam, painfully.

  'Shut the fuck up,' said Deborah, and Sam could see her thumb and forefinger quivering as she held back the bolt. He hoped she did not have sweaty hands. 'I told you not to say anything and I meant it. One more word, just one, unless I say so, and I'll kill you, you understand?'

  Sam nodded as best he could from his difficult position.

  'Now the reason I'm not killing you straight off is because I ain't a murderer, much as I'd like to be,' Deborah continued. 'Besides which, you have something that belongs to me, and I want it back. I want the designs of the hydrogen engine that Doctor Geoffrey Peason designed. He designed it for me! You understand! For me! I was his fucking inspiration! Have you ever inspired anyone, Turk? Maybe to puke up, I guess, that's about the best effect you coul
d hope to have on anyone, to make people sick. But I inspired an engine and I'm taking it back, because you are never going to use it just to put a billion more private cars on the road.'

  Even in his prone state Sam felt a vague pleasure that at least there was something about him and his plans that this appalling girl did not know.

  'Geoffrey wanted his engine to be part of a new way of doing things and that's exactly what it's going to be.'

  Sam did not attempt to answer, he was happy to let Deborah keep talking. They would be discovered at some point and, seeing as how they were at the nerve centre of a huge industrial conglomorate in the middle of a working day, he reckoned it would happen sooner rather than later. Deborah knew this too and so she decided to get to the point.

  'OK, this is what you have to do now. You have to give me your key to the executive lift and you have to tell me where the plans to my engine are. You can talk now, but only about the key and the engine.'

  Sam Turk could scarcely resist a smile.

  'Well, the key is right there on the desk,' he answered, indicating a key card which Deborah recognized as the same as the one which her rude companion in the lift had used . . . 'Use it, kid, get the hell out of here, by the time I get loose you'll be long gone. As to the engine, I'm afraid—'

  'Let me save us a little time here, Turk, because we're both busy people, right?' said Deborah. 'You're about to tell me that the plans ain't here, that they're somewhere else, which would be good news for you because poor old Miss Paraplegic ain't likely to get the rise on you a second time. Well, I have to tell you that I doubt that those plans are elsewhere, because I can't think of a more logical place for Sam Turk's magical new Global engine to be than in Sam Turk's office at the Global building.' Deborah was, of course, unaware that Sam did not see Geoffrey's plans as the new Global engine at all. 'Now you had better hope I'm right, Mr Turk, because either I get the plans in my hands in the next five minutes or I'm going to kill you,'

  'Ah now, come on, kid—' Sam began to protest, but Deborah was not in a listening mood.

  'I told you not to speak unless I said,' she hissed. 'One more word, just one, and the negotiations end with a bolt in your neck and I'm outta here. You ain't the only one with a stomach for murder, Turk. Now listen, this is my one chance, OK? My one chance to get back my property and to revenge my friend, right? Well believe me, if I can't do the first I will sure as hell do the second. So bite on this.'

  Deborah accompanied this by leaning across her bow and, with the hand that was not holding back the bolt, flinging a scarf over Sam's head. 'Go on, I said bite on it, suck it into your puss and bite it!'

  Sam had no choice but to work the scarf into his mouth as best he could without the use of his hands.

  'Go on, all of it!' Deborah commanded. 'Get it in your mouth, the whole damn scarf. Do it, bastard.'

  Sam sucked in the cloth until it filled his cheeks and he began to gag. He did not mind, he certainly was not going to be able to tell this stupid girl where the plans were with a scarf in his mouth.

  'You biting it, Turk?' demanded Deborah. Sam nodded. 'Biting it hard?' Again he nodded. 'Good,' she said and let go of the wire.

  The bolt buried itself deep into the fleshy part of Sam's thigh, it was not a terribly serious wound but it was a painful and bloody one. Sam's head swam, he wanted to cry out with the shock and the pain. But of course he could not, now he understood why Deborah had made him stuff the scarf. Deborah drew the shaft of a second arrow back towards her chest.

  'You want to know something, Turk?' she said. 'I wish I was in your position, I really do, because you may be hurting in your leg, but at least you can feel something. If that was me, I wouldn't feel a thing. Do you know why that is, you little scheister? You disgrace to the American flag! I'll tell you. My legs can't feel because the brakes on the Global Moritz were of the absolute minimal standard that you people could get away with at the time. Global could have fitted better brakes, but they didn't, and that's why I can't walk, and why I wouldn't feel no arrow in my leg. Now, I shot you, Turk, so that you know how serious I am. It was a hard lesson, but I guessed you have a pretty thick skin, also I am only giving you one warning so I wanted to make it good. The next arrow, you get in the face. OK, this is what happens now. I'm going to pull the cloth out of your mouth, and you ain't going to scream and you ain't going to shout. If you do, in that moment, you're dead, OK, just like my friend, you're dead, and I'm gone. The only sound you are going to make is to tell me where the plans are, and if you even hint that they ain't here, I'll kill you instantly. No further discussion, no negotiations of any kind, if they really ain't here then I lose, but you lose worse. OK, here goes.'

  Keeping a firm grip on the shaft of her arrow, Deborah leant forward and, taking hold of a protruding corner of the cloth, gently pulled it out of Sam's mouth. Sam was a gambling man, but he was not foolish or impetuous. He weighed the odds of a situation carefully. In this circumstance he knew that there was a chance that if he called Deborah's bluff she would not kill him, but he could see from the bloody mess on his trousers that there was a real possibility that she would. There was also, of course, the possibility that if he gave in to her demands and gave her the plans, she would still kill him, but he didn't think so. Sam knew that his best bet was to gain more time. Deborah's position of power could not last for ever, the odds would have to change soon, he had to humour her until then.

  'In the safe,' he whispered. 'Seven-nine-two-zero-four – twice.'

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE SHIFTING BALANCE OF POWER

  THE ODDS CHANGE

  Very carefully, and keeping the bound Sam in her sights the whole time, Deborah slowly reversed her chair towards the wall with the safe in it. This was a complicated process, she only had one arm for motivation, she required the other to keep tight the bolt which she was training on Sam. This meant that, to avoid simply going around in circles, Deborah was forced to continuously change hands, performing tiny arcs and thus slowly backing away.

  Eventually she arrived beneath the safe. Fortunately it was set low in the wall and, reaching up, Deborah was able to shift the dial, her eyes flicking upwards to the dial and back to the prostrate Sam between each number. Click, click, click, seven-nine-two-zero-four-seven-nine-two-zero . . .'

  'I got one more number, Turk, if the door of this safe don't swing open, I shoot you immediately,' said Deborah. Sam nodded to show that he understood.

  'Four!' The door clicked open and swung forward upon its beautiful German-made hinges. Deborah almost dropped her arrow in relief. She couldn't think what she had been expecting, some sort of booby trap perhaps, but Global Motors was a respectable business, they did not have exploding safes.

  Without taking her eyes off Sam, Deborah's hand groped upwards and backwards into the safe. She could feel a sheaf of papers tied up with string. Taking a firm grip on them she dragged them out over her head and down into her lap. Reaching backwards again she discovered a couple of larger rolled-up sheets, these too she awkwardly dragged out. One glance at the top page of the sheet was enough to convince her that she had struck gold, 'Notes on the Principles of Hydrogen-Powered Internal Combustion by . . .' and the name was crudely Tippexed out. 'Not even his name remains, huh?' said Deborah, wheeling back towards Turk. Sam tensed, why the hell had nobody disturbed them yet? What did he pay these people for? Actually, it was not so strange, it had in fact been less than fifteen minutes since Deborah had first appeared and a combination of Sam's enigmatically forestalled intercom messages to Miss Hodges, plus the sign that Deborah had put on the door, had so far dissuaded everybody from risking Sam's famous wrath by disturbing him. Sam wondered what his chances would be if, bound as he was, he attempted to roll towards Deborah's chair and topple her. Deborah read the fear on his face.

  'Don't worry, I ain't going to kill you, 'less you make me,' she assured him. 'Just you nuzzle down to the piece of cloth on the floor there and suck it back into your mouth, OK?
'

  Sam did as he was instructed as Deborah tortuously rolled her way back towards him, employing the same alternative thrust method that she had used to get to the safe. When her chair again stood in front of Sam, who now cut a pretty pathetic figure, bleeding and sweating and with his checks stuffed with cloth, Deborah produced some heavy-duty insulation tape from her prop tool bag. Fumbling it open with one hand and her teeth, a rather difficult thing to do, she leant forward to Sam for the final time and firmly taped up his mouth.

  Finally she relaxed her hold on the arrow.

  'I'm going now, Mr Turk,' she said, taking up his lift key from the desk, 'and let me tell you that by tomorrow there will be a copy of my engine in the post to every environmental group in the country. Whoever makes this engine is going to consider the earth first and profit second. I've won, you murdering schmuck.'

  But Sam could not hear her, the birds were singing too loudly in his aching brain for Deborah's voice to penetrate, for behind Deborah the door had quietly opened and through it had come the one man who could ignore Sam's 'do not disturb' signs without risking the sack, Deborah's recent lift companion, Bruce Tungsten.

  CONFLICTING PLANS

  Bruce strode quickly up behind Deborah and grabbed at the anglepoise arm, wrenching one end out of its clip on the arm of Deborah's chair and bending it right back, breaking the hinge on the other arm from which had been launched the first blow against Turk.

  'OK, little lady,' said Bruce, grabbing Geoffrey's plans from her lap. 'Keep your hands on the arms of your chair where I can see them, don't you move them now. By the look of things around here you're a mite too resourceful for my liking.' Bruce had a pistol. Even in his state of blissful relief at being rescued in the nick of time by his coconspirator, Sam Turk could not help wondering why Bruce had brought along a pistol.