Gridlock (9 page)

Sandy did not know what to do. His drunken plan had been to smite Digby with his girlish charms, get a tape recording of Digby propositioning him and then clear out before Digby had a chance to find the sausage. His instant unmasking as a gonad-packing, tackle-swinging member of the male sex had rather blown that out. Suddenly Sandy decided he had had enough.

'Sorry, wrong room,' he said and made to go.

'No you bloody don't!' said Digby, jumping up to stop him. 'Not before you tell me who the hell sent you and who the hell knows I'm bloody gay.'

For Sandy at least, those words seemed to fill the room with music, beautiful music, played on train whistles. He smiled a huge smile. He slipped a hand in his wife's handbag to ensure the tape was running.

In some ways Digby was a victim of his own cowardice. His unquestioning acceptance that his sexuality must always remain a dreaded secret was the very reason that the revelation was so terrible now. It is true that such are the prejudices of British society that, had he confronted it from the beginning, he might not have risen to the Cabinet – but he might have done, and he certainly would not have lived a life of career paranoia and seedy intrigue. And now he was knackered anyway, his carefully cultivated jack-the-lad image making the truth about him all the more sensational.

'Come on, who's after me? Who knows I'm a gay transvestite! I only ever do it in Amsterdam . . .' Suddenly light dawned for Digby. Amsterdam! His last three trips to the Continent had been as a guest of the road lobby. They took him to motor shows, they took him to oil refineries . . . They left him alone in the evening. God, was this Turk's way of warning him not to dress him down in public? Was Turk warning him, in none too subtle a fashion, that he would burgle as many government departments as he pleased? How could Digby have been so foolish as to quarrel with a man like Turk?

'Listen,' said Digby, 'tell Turk, I understand and I'm sorry. Tell him he can pinch every patent in London if he likes, I'll stand by him. Tell him I'm very, very sorry and he won't need to warn me again. Do you understand?'

The years fell away from Digby. The arrogance of office evaporated. He knew he was still what he always had been, a sad scared little farty. Once again he was poor old Shitsby Zitburst pleading with the school bullies.

'Do you understand?' he said again. 'Tell Turk to call it off.'

'Yes, I understand,' said Sandy, who did not understand at all.

'You can go then.'

Sandy got up.

'OK then. It's been very nice.' He was about to leave, but he turned back to Digby once more. 'Just do me one favour will you, Digby? Remember this handbag, will you?' Sandy held up the handbag, and then left without another word.

Leaving a subdued and thoughtful Digby, Sandy staggered away, suddenly realizing how blotto he was. As he entered the lift a maid was coming out of it to collect the breakfast orders. Feeling rather exposed, Sandy confronted the situation with Scottish bravado.

'A bonny evening to you, sweet lassie,' he said.

'Good evening, madam,' said the girl in a small embarrassed voice. Sandy felt pleased. So his disguise had at least worked on someone. Leaving the lift on his floor he crept back to his room and tried to get undressed without waking his wife up. He failed.

'Will you look at you,' she said. 'You've been living in London too long.'

With the departure of the Minister the road lobby had soon broken up and Sam left the hotel to take a quiet stroll along the promenade and down onto the beach. He loved the sea at night, even in a town. At night you could forget all the crap that was in it and see it as men had seen it when they first set sail for the New World – shining and mysterious. It was a clear night and Sam turned his head to the stars. Despite the lights on the pier, quite a number were visible and Sam was just contemplating that he would probably soon be able to just about afford one, when Springer scuttled up beside him.

'Boy oh boy,' he panted, 'that wasn't too comfortable with Parkhurst there, for a minute.'

Sam kept looking up at his star.

'Who gives a fuck what Parkhurst thinks?'

'Well I was just thinking . . . What with the—' but Sam cut Springer short.

'I do hope you're not going to be stupid enough to mention our little project, Springer.'

'Well, no, of course not. But I mean, when it comes on line . . . when we start building the thing . . .'

'Building the thing?' asked Sam.

'Yeah . . .' answered Springer, hesitantly. 'Building the thing.'

Sam looked at Springer quizzically.

'Listen, Springer,' he said, 'Digby Parkhurst is a lowlife little cockroach. We kiss his ass while he's a minister so he builds us roads. That's it, that's all. He has nothing to do with our future plans.'

'But . . . but he slipped us the . . .' protested Springer.

'Exactly, Springer. He gave us the information. So what's he going to say? That he tipped us off to make a robbery? Then he's an accessory and no-one will believe he didn't take a piece. Besides, like I said to Parkhurst, we haven't stolen anything. Do you see any stolen property? I don't. What have we got to do with anything?'

'Yes, but when we start to build it, well then it has to come out doesn't it?' Springer persevered.

Again Sam looked at Springer quizzically.

'You just haven't thought this through at all, have you, son?' he said.

Digby woke up the following morning with a monumental hangover, but apart from that he didn't feel too bad. On reviewing the incident of the previous night he reckoned he had got off pretty lightly. Turk and the road lobby had only warned him of their knowledge, as long as he played ball and was a good boy they would have no reason to use it against him.

Besides, Digby had even scarier things to consider. He had been summoned to attend an early breakfast with Ingmar Bresslaw, the Prime Minister's eyes, ears and Doc Marten boots. Digby knew that, despite being a non-elected civil servant, Ingmar Bresslaw had more influence on national policy than the whole of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, every protest march and petition ever organized plus the European Court of Human Rights, put together.

On his way to the dining room, preparing himself to genuflect before the great man, Digby encountered Sam Turk. Digby saw his opportunity to establish his puppy-like loyalty to the road lobby beyond doubt.

'Uhm . . . Mr Turk,' said Digby nervously.

'Yes, Minister,' replied Turk, expecting a resumption of the ticking-off he had received the previous night.

'I just wanted to say . . . Sam, that you're the boss, OK? I know that Ministers for Transport may come and Ministers for Transport may go, but car builders, well, they stay for ever . . . I know that now, it was stupid of me to forget it, and well . . . I'm sorry.'

Sam was mystified at Digby's change of attitude, but he was a man who took his good fortune where he found it.

'Yes, well, what you say is very true, Minister. And I guess if we have to liberate the odd patent for the good of Britain, what the hell, eh? It's only ethics for Christ's sake.'

'Exactly, Sam, exactly. It is, as you so very rightly say, only ethics,' replied Digby. 'And if I come across any myself, rest assured I'll slip them in my pocket for you . . . Patents that is, ha ha, not ethics, good Lord, you wouldn't be needing them . . . I mean . . . Well anyway, ha ha
thnn thnn
. . . Oh and by the way, that working paper the Road Federation presented, the one about turning all of London parks into car parks, I've been thinking about that one hard, do memo me.'

'I will, Minister, I will and good luck with your speech,' said Sam Turk.

'Well that's very kind, Sam . . . and, I can forget about uhm . . . last night's little Scottish visitation can I?' said Digby.

'Why sure, Minister, you can forget about whatever you please.' Sam had not the faintest idea what Digby was talking about and only the very slightest interest.

Digby, believing he had set matters straight with Sam, went into the dining room for his breakfast with Ingmar Bresslaw.

'Good morning, Ingmar,' he said. Ingmar Bresslaw did not even look up from his bacon, which he was viewing with utter contempt.

'They only ever do it on one side!' he growled in fury.

'What was that, Ingmar?' enquired Digby.

'Without doubt the three most misleading words in the English language are "Great British Breakfast". It is a global bloody con and it should be exposed! Us boasting about our breakfasts? It's like the Russians boasting about their cars! We do worse breakfasts than any other nation in the world! The bloody Australians do better breakfasts than us and do you know why, Minister?'

Ingmar did Digby the courtesy of addressing him as Minister, but only in the manner that an all-powerful, regimental sergeant major might call a nineteen-year-old subaltern 'sir'.

'Uhm not really, no, Ingmar, no I don't,' a nervous Digby replied, desperately wondering what the answer was that Ingmar wanted to hear, and conscious that Ingmar could swat ministers like flies.

'Because we only grill the bacon on one bloody side!!!' Ingmar said in a voice taut with emotion. 'From a transport cafe to a four-star hotel it is considered enough that the bacon
looks
done. If it looks done the work-shy bastard in the kitchen reckons it
is
done and he's off the hook. Is a car finished without the engine? It
looks
finished. Is a man dressed without his underpants? He
looks
dressed. So why is it considered acceptable to grill the bacon only on
one
bloody side!!! I like my bacon
crispy,
damn their bloody eyes!'

'Uhm . . . perhaps you should send it back.' Digby was taking a big risk offering an opinion, but he was at a loss as to what to say.

'Don't be an arse, Minister! Send it back and have some pimply school-leaver in a big white hat phlegm up on it out of spite?' Ingmar pushed his breakfast away and called a waitress. 'Bring me a large, single malt whisky, any bloody brand, and four soluble aspirin. Right then,' he continued after the girl had gone, 'what do you want?'

'I'm sorry?' said Digby, somewhat taken aback by this abrupt enquiry.

'Come on, come on, come on, Minister, I'm a busy man, what do you want?'

Of course Digby did not like being addressed in this fashion by a civil servant, but he was as likely to object as to slam his tackle in the waffle iron which had just been placed at his elbow. Ingmar Bresslaw's power was awesome and he wielded it with the scruples of a bed bug. He was the Prime Minister's hit man, the toughest thug in Whitehall, and Ingmar's dark shadow in your door spelt terror to any member of the Government. What's more, the higher you got, the more terrifying he became, because it was his job to make sure that no-one ever got close enough to challenge his boss.

However, Digby could not help but feel rather put out and honour bound to stand up for himself.

'Uhm I'm awfully sorry, Ingmar. I mean really, sorry, but it was you who summoned me surely?' he said meekly taking a piece of toast.

'Was it? Oh yes. Don't bother buttering that toast, I haven't much to say,' replied Ingmar.

Digby had just stuck his knife into a curl of butter. His arm was stretched across the table, holding the knife. He did not know what to do for the best. Withdraw the knife, in which case the curl of butter might come away with it and Ingmar might imagine that he was being disobeyed, or else lay down the knife in the butter where it was, which would be slovenly table manners and Ingmar might feel that insufficient respect was being shown. In the end, Digby remained frozen, conducting his short interview with Ingmar Bresslaw arm outstretched across the table with his knife into the butter. Bresslaw did not notice as he did not bother to look at Digby.

'Right, Minister,' he growled, his great wet boozy eyes still staring glumly down at the bacon. 'Your speech to conference, all prepared?'

'Oh yes, Ingmar, I'm very pleased with it,' replied Digby.

'I didn't ask how you felt about it, I asked if it was bloody well prepared,' snapped Ingmar Bresslaw. 'You haven't messed about with it? Changed anything since we wrote it for you?'

'Well . . . I did add a joke,' confessed Digby.

'Ye gods, saints preserve us, a joke! What bloody joke?'

'Well . . . it's about a donkey . . .' said Digby, his arm beginning to quiver with the strain.

'Well if it's the one I've heard about the donkey, your resignation will be requested mid-speech,' said Ingmar. 'Not that I care. The point is, just make sure you don't get carried away and add anything of substance that hasn't been agreed, all right? Above all, don't mention the road plans, they're political dynamite, all right? The BritTrak stuff is quite a hot enough potato for one conference. That damn anti-road rally yesterday shows people suspect a pretty radical plan, but, as you well know, they don't know the half of it. So it's damned important how we present ourselves on this one. A silly move now would kick up a stink we couldn't handle and ruin the most important bit of legislation since we sold the NHS to American Express.' Despite the pain in his arm, Digby swelled with pride. He knew his road projects were big stuff but to have the mighty Ingmar Bresslaw speak so seriously about them was a high commendation indeed.

'So have you got that?' said Ingmar. 'Talk rail. Keep off your bloody roads. All right. Goodbye, Minister.'

'Goodbye, Ingmar,' said Digby, and he got up and left. To avoid further embarrassment he took the butter knife plus the bit of butter with him.

Outside the hotel the rail lobby finally got their moment with Digby, they converged on him one step ahead of the press. They were pathetic, like beggars, they knew the Minister would give them nothing and they harried him in a defeated, dispirited fashion. Except Sandy, Sandy lobbied with cool, confident simplicity. Wearing a neat suit and dark glasses he pushed his way through the throng and confronted Digby head on.

'Minister,' he said firmly. 'I am going to say this only once so you had better listen. In your speech today,
don't
announce the formation of BritTrak.'

'Another bloody Scot,' thought Digby to himself, ignoring Sandy and getting into the limo. 'They're all train mad, it comes from living so bloody far from anywhere decent, that's what it is.'

Despite the fact that he had been up late telling Deborah his story (and making rather a meal of it, it might be added), Geoffrey was up bright and early on Monday morning. And just as Digby was dealing with the train lobby in Brighton, Geoffrey was getting ready to phone the Office of Patents in order to get back the designs of his brilliant invention.

As has been said, the telephone was one of the great banes of Geoffrey's life. Communication is rendered infinitely more difficult when you cannot see the person to whom you are speaking and Geoffrey had to be on particularly good form to make himself understood. On this morning, what with the excitement, the loss of sleep and everything else, he wasn't.

'Urgh, urgh,'
he said into the receiver on hearing that he was connected.

'Aaaargh! We've got a sicko!' screamed Dolores.

The Whitehall department Geoffrey was phoning, despite being the repository for the very latest inventions, was itself last fully refitted just after the war and it still boasted a nice old-fashioned exchange staffed by nice old-fashioned girls.

'I dunno,' she explained to her anxious colleagues' enquiries, 'he just sort of went
urgh, urgh.'

'Dirty bastard,' chimed Maureen, 'probably gets his filthy kicks going urgh urgh. You shouldn't have screamed, Dolores, that's what they like. It makes 'em all excited to hear a girl scream.'

'I couldn't help it,' claimed Dolores. 'He went
urgh.'

'Yes, well, you have to be strong, Dolores,' asserted Maureen. 'You owe it to other women.'

The phone rang again. Maureen answered it. 'Hello, Whitehall Office of Patents.'

'Urgh, urgh, urgh.'

'Aaaargh!' screamed Maureen, slamming the phone down. 'It's that
urgh-er.'

'I thought you said don't scream,' complained Dolores. 'That wasn't very strong. Coo, I'll bet he's excited now. I'll bet he's as excited as anything. I'll bet he's rolling round on the floor rubbing himself with a washing-up glove and going
urgh.
You've gratified him, Maureen, that's what you've done, you've given him gratification.'

'Oh shut up, Dolores,' said Maureen.

Geoffrey summoned up all his concentration and dialled again. But this time the girls were ready for him. Maureen possessed a rape alarm and they had sworn that the very next time anyone went
urgh
at them, they would let him have it.

'Urgh,'
said Geoffrey and an ear-shattering shriek shot out of the phone, into his ear, through his brain, out of the other ear and ricocheted against a couple of walls before finally dying down in the goldfish bowl, giving Deborah's goldfish, Jaws, a nasty turn.

Geoffrey decided he would have to wake Deborah and ask for her help. Being a student, Deborah was able, to a certain extent, to make her own timetable. Her timetable this morning had been to try and get some extra sleep, since she had got so little in the night, what with visions of imaginary burping axe murderers, followed by Geoffrey's tale of the real thing.

Deborah snapped into a bleary consciousness.

'What! Where! Don't sit on the kiwi fruit!' she said, with one of those curious lapses of logic that sleeping or half-awake people specialize in when attempting conversation. Her eyes focused on Geoffrey who had brought her a cuppa, and was endeavouring to keep it steady.

'Geoffrey! It ain't five minutes since I finally prised you off the end of my bed, now you're back. What is it, a charity thing? You get sponsored for how much you can annoy me?'

'Sorry,' he replied. 'I brought you a cup of tea.'

'What's going on? Are Murder Incorporated here? Is it curtains for us, Bugsy?'

Geoffrey explained that there was no immediate danger, and Deborah enquired, far from soothingly, why then he had woken her up after only a couple of hours' sleep, further adding that perhaps Geoffrey would like to take a hike and not return unless either the assassins or Elvis turned up.

'You have to ring the Patents Office,' said Geoffrey, proffering her the extension phone. 'I've tried but they think I'm a raving sex beast.'

'Hmm,' said Deborah, 'they may have a point. Get your eyes off my front, meathead.'

'Get your eyes off my front, meathead' was, as might be imagined, the phrase which Deborah used when she caught Geoffrey ogling, which was often. Deborah was as pretty as a picture, and what's more, a picture of something very pretty, and Geoffrey was so hot for her you could have boiled an egg in his Y-fronts. Of course Geoffrey was hot for a lot of girls and Deborah often had to admonish him on behalf of a stranger they happened to pass. 'It's all very well taking a discreet glance,' she would say, 'but allowing your eyes to extend three feet on little springs and steam to shoot out of your ear-holes was a bit obvious.' Thoughts of sex play an enormous part in the make-up of any individual, and for young men it is close to an obsession. Geoffrey was a young man and, being, as he was, at a disadvantage when it came to asking out girls, his obsession was a nightmare. Geoffrey quite simply spent his entire life absolutely gasping for a fuck.