Gridlock

by Ben Elton

  'Well, well, well, Sam,' said Bruce, jovially, whilst none too gently pulling the tape from his mouth and allowing Sam to spit out the cloth. 'This one's going to be a barrel of laughs to tell the boys down in the locker room. The day ol' Sam Turk got trussed up and seriously wounded by a young girl in a wheelchair.' The girl under question moved her hands slightly, she wanted to spread her knees apart and the only way she could do this was to haul them apart with her hands.

  'I said keep your hands exactly still, miss,' said Bruce waving his gun at her. 'My old pal Sam here is a very tough guy indeed, in fact he's one of the meanest men I know, and yet you got the better of him. That makes you a very formidable woman as far as I'm concerned, so just keep yourself real still, OK? Or I shall be forced to tie you up like you did to Sam here.'

  'Speaking of which,' grunted Sam, who it must be remembered was still lying bleeding on the floor with his arms and legs pulled backwards and bound behind him. 'For God's sake get me out of this before I bleed to death.'

  Bruce ignored Sam's plea, instead he placed a little doll on top of Sam's desk.

  'I have to thank you, miss, whoever you are,' he said. 'Personally I was scared to confront old Sam here myself, I was fearful he'd get the better of me. That's why I've spent two and a half hours going to every top man in this building enquiring, hoping that one of them might have a clue as to the whereabouts of our new miracle engine. Of course it wasn't any use, none of our senior management were aware that we even had a new miracle engine. Kind of selfish of you to keep it to yourself, Sam, considering it represents the entire future of our industry.'

  'You can't double-cross me, you bastard,' said Sam. But, of course, seeing as how he was saying it whilst trussed up and stuck to the floor with his own blood, it was palpably obvious that Bruce could do just about what he wanted. Sam changed his tack.

  'Fifty-five billion bucks, Bruce,' he pleaded. 'You are holding fifty-five billion bucks in your hand, that's what the oil people will pay! You can't throw that kind of bread away just to make cars!'

  Deborah could not believe her ears, the duplicity of it astonished her.

  'You mean you weren't even going to make it!' she gasped. 'You were going to sell my engine to the oil people so they could put it in the trash!'

  'He was, I wasn't, and keep your hands where they are!' said Bruce, noticing that yet again Deborah's hands were straying towards her knees. 'You damned idiot, Sam, did you really think I was going to let the greatest engineering breakthrough in a century just disappear? I'm a car man for God's sake, I make cars. These plans go back with me to the USA, tonight. Lord Almighty, man, do you have no vision at all? No soul? I'd rather be a multimillionaire national hero than a multi-billionaire nobody, schmuck. I'm disappointed in you, Sam. You need something to help you get motivated. Keep my doll, it was good for me . . . Sam Turk,' he said loudly and clapped his hands. The doll began to laugh. It was still laughing when the windows crashed open and three masked figures in combat fatigues, balaclava helmets and carrying machine guns sailed in as if from nowhere. One knocked the pistol from Bruce's grasp, another threw him to the floor, while the third covered the room. Deborah they ignored, and she used the opportunity to haul apart her knees to the sides of her chair.

  MULTINATIONAL ETIQUETTE

  Along the corridor, in Miss Hodges' office, some of the younger girls wondered whether they should go and investigate what the noise was.

  'Absolutely not,' replied Miss Hodges. She had only a few minutes before been instructed specifically by Bruce Tungsten himself, the president of the entire international group, to leave him and Turk absolutely alone.

  'Gentlemen from the American Midwest often conduct business by smashing things,' she assured the nervous girls. 'I believe it's hormonal, like stags rutting and parallel walking. They must be left to get on with it or else they might take it out on their wives when they get home.'

  FOUR PARTY DISCUSSION GROUP

  Inside Sam's office the balance of power had changed radically again. The chief terrorist was speaking.

  'So it looks like you done half our job for us,' he said, nodding towards the prostrate Sam. 'The general wants you alive, which is bad news for you, my friend, let me tell you. I don't know what you done to make him mad, but he's sure mad. You are luckier,' he said, turning to Bruce. 'You we will kill now, and the secretary.' For the first time he acknowledged Deborah. 'It is very convenient of you to be here, Mr Tungsten, we did not expect to see you here at all. We thought we'd have to go to Detroit to kill you. OK, give me the plans and we'll make it quick, huh?'

  Bruce's mind was racing, but unfortunately he could not think of anything clever. 'Come on, come on,' said the terrorist. 'I can shoot you then take them if I like, but I don't want to get them all bloody.'

  Still Bruce hesitated, his burning passion to get the better of Hirohato urging him to do anything to save those plans, throw them out of the window, try to swallow them, anything. His own life meant nothing, but he had to save the engine and pay Hirohato back for that doll. Then Deborah spoke.

  'Just toss the plans over to me, pal,' she said. 'I'm a fellow American, you can trust me.'

  'Shut up!' snapped the terrorist. Then, turning back to Bruce, he said, 'Give me the plans.'

  'C'mon, bud, you've got nothing to lose,' said Deborah quietly. 'I can get them out, somehow the thing'll get made. Trust me, I got special skills, I can do it, better I have them than him. C'mon.'

  Not really knowing why, Bruce turned and tossed the plans to Deborah. She caught them and the terrorist shot Bruce, although fortunately, because the terrorist was also turning to look at Deborah, Bruce was only winged. The other two terrorists were already moving towards Deborah to retrieve the plans. It was then that the whole room received an enormous shock, for a sheet of flame suddenly burst forth from between Deborah's legs, engulfing both men in an inferno, just below the knees. Instantly their trousers were alight and both fell to the floor beating at their burning legs. Deborah revolved her chair. Suddenly she was facing an astonished and terrified terrorist chief. Again fire bounded forth from under her. Now there were three men writhing around beating their legs and searching for a vase of flowers.

  'So long,' said Deborah, and wheeling her chair round, she smashed through the door.

  DECISION TO DISTURB

  Down the corridor Miss Hodges was on the horns of a dilemma.

  'It sounds like they're shooting at each other now,' one of the girls had said.

  'Must be having an awful row,' another added.

  Miss Hodges was inwardly furious, she had never warmed to Sam Turk's manners since the day he had first arrived at Swiss Cottage promising people, for some reason known only to himself, that he intended to kick their bottoms. Fortunately, in Miss Hodges' case, at least he had never carried out this threat but breaking windows and conducting shootouts during office hours was nearly as bad. It was such a terribly poor example to the younger girls.

  She pressed the intercom connecting her to Sam's office, but there was no reply. 'Wait here,' she instructed the wide-eyed under secretaries. 'I shall enquire if they require coffee.'

  Deborah was waiting by the executive lift when Miss Hodges rushed past her and into Sam's office. There she discovered a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno. Both the president of the company and the chief executive of the UK division lay wounded on the floor, one bound, and three militaristic, Middle Eastern-looking gentlemen were writhing about the place desperately trying to put their trousers out.

  'Mr Turk!' said Miss Hodges. 'Installing a basketball net and a golf putter in your office is one thing, but sadomasochistic orgies is quite another. I resign.'

  'The girl! The girl in the wheelchair,' shouted Turk. 'For Christsake stop her!' Miss Hodges was a highly professional woman and knew full well that Sam was entitled to a month's notice of her departure. She remained therefore his senior personal assistant. Turning on her heels she rushed back into the corridor. The girl in the chai
r was still there, but she would not be for long. Ping! The executive lift arrived. The girl slipped a keycard into the slot and the doors opened, but not before Miss Hodges had bounded down the corridor and grabbed the handles of Deborah's chair to prevent her rolling into the lift.

  It was then that Miss Hodges received the shock of her life, quite literally, for Geoffrey's ghostly hand was still hovering over the woman he loved, and if there is a heaven, still loved. Deborah's hand dropped to a little switch that Geoffrey had installed, and sent the entire contents of the traffic-light battery shooting up poor Miss Hodges' arms. She wasn't standing in a puddle and it wouldn't have been a strong enough charge to do her any harm even if she had. However, it was enough to make her leap backwards in fear and surprise, and at that time Deborah disappeared into the lift and pressed ground floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  GETAWAY

  A GENUINE HAZARD

  Toss was extremely glad to see Deborah emerge from the Global building (again she had had to enlist help to cope with the sticky door). Toss liked to think that he was only pleased because Deborah was still alive, but he could not deny that he was almost equally relieved that his period of guarding the car was over too. Three hours trying to look like you're booking the same car would have tested the histrionic powers of Sir Henry Irving.

  None the less, it had been worth it. The getaway car was still in place and Deborah and Toss's departure was unobstructed. If Deborah had emerged a few minutes before it would have been a disaster. Toss had left his post for a moment in order to stroll up the ramp to the door of the Global building to see if he could sort of will Deborah along by meeting her halfway. When he returned, after what he considered to be a matter of seconds, busy shoppers had parked their cars to either side of Deborah's and a third had actually boxed it in. The reason that the three drivers had felt justified in this outrageous bit of attrition parking was that they had all put their hazard lights on.

  The invention of the hazard light is one of the few genuine changes which have been introduced to cars since Benz and Daimler first realized that the explosion of volatile liquid vapours inside a piston cylinder attached to a gear system and a drive shaft would be a wonderful way of sitting in a traffic jam. Hazard lights are, as the name suggests, a hazard. They provide certain drivers with such a combined sense of inner peace and moral justification for their actions that a casual observer might presume Jesus Christ was at the wheel.

  Some people think that hazard lights excuse anything. If you want to stop in the middle of an urban clearway to pick up six kids and an antique kitchen dresser, no problem, bung on your hazards, that will make it all OK. Contemplating a U-turn across a dual carriageway, but worried it might be a little dangerous? Not if you have four orange lights blinking simultaneously at the corners of your car, that will provide you and other road users with all the security and protection required.

  There are some drivers who genuinely believe that there is no manoeuvre, no matter how dangerous, that having both indicators on at the same time will not justify. Parking on top of a bus queue, driving into the reading room of a public library, the day is surely coming when bank robbers will plead in mitigation that the getaway car had its hazards on.

  Toss had given all three offending cars tickets, an action which genuinely outraged the drivers when they returned, it simply was not fair to give them tickets, they had not been gone long, besides which they had had their hazards on.

  Anyway, by the time Deborah emerged from the Global building, the way was once again clear.

  'Yo, girl, what's happening?' enquired Toss as Deborah rolled down the ramp towards him. 'So you managed to persuade him not to blow your head off then?'

  'I've got it,' screamed Deborah, 'I've got it! I've got it!' she shouted, waving the plans around.

  'Wicked,' said Toss, opening the driver's door for her. 'But Debbo, please try to be cool, I have a reputation in this town. Hysterical women screaming that they have "got it" at me could be misconstrued.'

  'I can't believe it,' bubbled Deborah, hurrying to shift herself from the chair to the driving seat. 'I went in there and I knocked Sam Turk to the ground, tied him up and tortured him until he told me where Geoffrey's plans were.'

  'Cor,' said Toss, momentarily so impressed that he forgot to say anything cool.

  'That's right, and I look out three guys with my flame-thrower,' Deborah continued as she leant sideways out of the car, folded up her chair and tucked it in behind her.

  'Totally happening, girl,' said Toss. 'SAS-ville,' he added. Toss had regained his composure because he no longer believed a word Deborah was saying.

  'Get in the car, Toss. We are on a mission to unchain the highways and byways of the world.'

  As Toss got into the passenger seat a car drew up behind them. It was a big, left-hand drive, American Global, a Supreme Class Over-Cruiser.

  'Here, do you think I've got time to book that flash bastard?' enquired Toss.

  'I don't think so,' said Deborah, her expression suddenly changing from exuberance to fear. 'We have to move.'

  Sam Turk, limping hugely, but very much on his feet, had just barged through the swing doors, he was carrying Bruce's pistol. Sam had cut an alarming figure rushing through the building, having been untied by a deeply disturbed Miss Hodges. There was a huge bloodstain on his trousers and the side of his head was swollen up like a rugby ball, the shape of the flat iron being still clearly visible. However, when one is watching $55 billion disappear over the horizon, it is a finicky man indeed who gives much thought to sartorial matters. Sam didn't, and his appearance would have shocked a Vietnam vet. It certainly scared Toss.

  'Girl, I dunno what you done to that geezer, but he looks well agitated. Let's scarper right now, 'cos I don't want to meet him, girl, no way.'

  'Me neither, Toss. We'd better hope his driver doesn't know London,' replied Deborah, and with that she twisted the hand accelerator and, beeping wildly, barged into the traffic. Looking over his shoulder Toss could see Turk running as fast as his wounded leg would allow him towards his limo.

  MOVIE CHASE

  Our entire lives are dominated by fantasy, every time we turn on the TV a deceit of one sort or another is perpetrated upon us. Mostly we recognize them as deceits and they do no real harm. We understand for instance that the 'serving suggestion' on the front of a box containing frozen food is a sort of culinary version of the picture of Dorian Gray in reverse. The more aged, putrid and dissolute the food inside is, the brighter, shinier and more delicious the picture on the box will appear. Interestingly, the 'serving suggestion' deceit was originally devised by the press office of the Kremlin prior to Gorbachev's presidency. The more utterly dead the leader became and the more his face seemed to resemble a defrosted lasagne, the brighter and more luminous became his official portrait.

  The serving suggestion trick is a fair, innocent deceit. If popping a sprig of parsley behind Brezhnev's ear made him look slightly more alive on the podium in Red Square, at least it gave the KGB something to laugh at. However, some media deceits are more dangerous, and the mournful mortality rate amongst teenage joyriders suggests that the movie car chase is one of them.

  The movie car chase is second only to back-seat shagging as the greatest car myth of all. Car chases in movies are like sex in movies, they seem to go on for ever, continually jump cutting from one completely impossible position to another and apparently involving no personal risk whatsoever.

  All week people sit in traffic jams. Sometimes, on a Friday night, they go to the movies, on the way they sit in more traffic jams, they miss the first part of the movie because they can't find a parking place. Then they sit in a dark cinema and watch a man drive a car through rush-hour traffic, clear across a city at 80 miles an hour. If the man had turned into a six-foot banana we would say it was a stupid movie, but a man driving a car through a crowded city at 80 miles an hour we not only accept but remark to each other how brilliantly done the car chases
were.

  Nothing can stop the hero in his car. If he meets another car, he drives round it, or maybe over it, or just possibly through it. He goes on the pavement, he crosses into opposing traffic lanes, he hurtles down empty alleyways. His car can jump, his car can roll over, it is more like a performing dog than a ton and a half of lifeless metal. If you offered it a biscuit it would probably sit up and beg.

  The fact that this display bears as much resemblance to driving as the lasagne of Dorian Gray does to food, is irrelevant. The fact that it was shot at 5.30 a.m. on four successive Sunday mornings, means nothing. The fact that if you actually tried any of that stuff for real you would not get twenty yards before ploughing into a bus queue and killing thirty innocent pedestrians, is not a part of the equation. The fact that Moses may have been able to part the Red Sea but he could not do more than 10 miles an hour in London, doesn't matter. Movie car chases remind us of how much we love cars.

  When the movie is over, everybody goes and sits in a jam again.

  REAL CHASE

  Deborah and Toss were stuck in traffic on the Finchley Road; about thirty cars behind, Sam and his driver were also stuck.

  'He had a gun,' said Toss nervously.

  'I should have killed him when I had the chance,' said Deborah, causing Toss to look at his friend in a new light.

  A nervous silence descended. Finally Toss said, 'I can't believe this traffic'

  It is a strange thing that, despite the fact that the traffic jam has become an absolute fact of modern existence, people still say 'I can't believe this traffic' whenever they find themselves in one, which is all the time. The reason for this is probably because, every now and then, very occasionally, one has a decent journey and actually gets lucky with the traffic. These journeys then exist in our memories like childhood summers in which the sun always seems to be shining. The fact that it pissed down almost continuously for most people's childhoods is irrelevant, there were wonderful summer days which stand out in our memory for their glorious uniqueness, until eventually they are all that can be recalled, it's the same with jam-free journeys.