Jam (15 page)

‘Two?'

‘Yeah. Didn't have any lunch. Thanks, Dave.'

The rain was still falling. They had been there for a long time, and Dave's trip was wearing off. Stevie had pulled out his phone and was scrolling through something, his face under-lit by a pale blue glow. Like Gollum, thought Dave. He rotated the mirror and looked at Natalie again. She hadn't moved. Same as before. He carefully watched her chest, and ascertained that she was still breathing. He moved the mirror back into position.

‘Hey,' said Stevie suddenly, ‘I didn't show you my new fail compilation.'

‘No,' said Dave, ‘I don't think you did. This is a new one?'

‘Yeah, new for this month. It's hilarious.'

He propped the phone up on the dashboard. The compilation was thirteen minutes long, fail after fail after fail. It began with grainy CCTV footage of a man slumped against an automatic door, asleep – when the door opened, he cartwheeled onto the floor and lay there groaning. There followed a clip of a cat trying to leap from a branch to a wall, missing, and plummeting out of frame; then several shots of teenagers messing up skateboard jumps, and ending writhing in agony on the ground. There were also a couple of car crashes; a man attempting a wheelie on a green racing motorbike, then falling off while the machine shot into the distance; a few skiing accidents; a woman attempting to bounce from a trampoline into a swimming pool, and landing face down on the concrete; a BMX biker jumping from a low roof onto the pavement, his bike buckling under him, howling in pain. All the way through, Stevie laughed his manic laugh as if this was the first time he'd seen it. Dave laughed too, sometimes spontaneously – he was still stoned, after all – and sometimes out of a sense of obligation. They continued in this way until the video had run its course, and
the screen of the phone went black. The car was quiet again. Still Natalie in the back seat hadn't moved.

‘I'm bored,' said Stevie. ‘Fucking bored. This fucking traffic jam.'

‘It isn't the most exciting way to spend a Sunday evening,' Dave conceded.

‘Why doesn't somebody just sort it out? How hard can it be?

We pay our taxes, don't we? And I'm starving. Plus I've got the munchies real bad.'

‘Actually, we don't. We're students.'

‘Have the munchies?'

‘Pay taxes, dick.'

‘Yeah, but our parents do.'

‘I just wish something would happen. Anything. You know?'

‘Telling me,' said Stevie.

Dave sat up and looked groggily around. ‘Hang on,' he said.

‘I think it's stopped raining. When did it stop raining?'

Stevie squinted through the window for a moment. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘It's stopped.'

‘Fuck me,' said Dave. ‘Fuck me.'

‘Let's go find the Asian dudes,' said Stevie in an American accent. ‘Have a game on the motorway. We should go out and challenge them to a game.'

‘What are you on about?' said Dave, hearing himself giggle.

‘You hate football. You hate all sports.'

‘Correction, I used to,' said Stevie. ‘I'm a new man now, don't forget. I'm getting quite into football.'

‘We've got a Frisbee in the back.'

‘Don't be a pussy. Look, I'll prove it. I'll prove it to you, I'll prove it to them. Come on.' He opened the car door, and a wedge of cold air slid in.

‘I can't,' said Dave, ‘I swear. I fucking can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Still lean, aren't I? Still fucking biffed.' He laughed, and Stevie laughed too.‘OK,' said Stevie. ‘Let's let you recover. Then
we'll challenge those cunts to a game and shit. Or play Frisbee, or whatever. I don't fucking care.'

Involuntarily, Dave grinned. ‘Fine by me,' he said. ‘Fucking anything for something to do.'

Cider

Now that they had eaten their fill, the three men in the white van – Rhys, Chris and Monty – sat in silence, staring out at the night; and when the rain descended, none of them commented, or even noticed, for a long time. The smell of burgers and chips lingered in the cab, that familiar smell that implied that the world was on pause and all was well. And it had been perfect: pulling cold slugs of Coke through straws, feeling the dull knock-knocking of ice-cubes against oversized cardboard cups, hearing the familiar squeak of straws adjusting in the X-shaped holes in the lids. The burgers had been moist and warm and comforting, like a childhood snog; they always disappeared too soon, that was part of it. And the fries had been stringy and salty and moist, to be gathered in little bundles to scoop up slicks of ketchup. Then they had licked their fingers, and stuffed the packaging into a brown paper bag, and finished their Cokes, and laughed, and the recent tension was all but forgotten.

‘It's raining,' said Monty at last. He looked across at the brothers: Chris had fallen asleep, his chin cushioned by the collar of fat around his neck, his lips lolling loosely; Rhys was sitting upright, staring straight ahead. Yet he didn't appear to have heard him. In his eyes was the reflection of the windscreen, and within that the car-studded road; and across the glassy lens danced millions upon millions of raindrops.

‘What do you reckon he's got under that hoodie?' said Monty.

Rhys emerged from his reverie. ‘What?' he said. ‘Who?'

‘Your brother. Look, under his hoodie. He's got something.'

‘What, under there? Nah, mate, he's just fat.' Rhys leaned over and plucked the hoodie away, revealing a blue plastic bag. Chris let out a loud and irritated snore and sat up, laying his hands over it. His eyes opened; he rubbed them, gathering the bundle to his chest.

‘What's that?' said Rhys.

‘What's what?'

‘That. That bag. There.'

‘What, here?' Chris looked surprised at what he was holding in his arms. ‘Oh, nothing.'

‘Bollocks. Let's see.' Rhys leaned over and made a grab. Chris was groggy but managed to keep hold of it. Then, smiling, he opened it voluntarily.

‘Booze!' Rhys exclaimed. ‘Chris, you fucking wanker. Give it here.'

Chris passed him a fat bottle of cider. He opened it – the bubbles foamed and bubbled – and took a long draught. ‘I don't believe it,' Rhys said, wiping his mouth. ‘Why the fuck didn't you say anything?'

‘Emergency supplies, innit?' said Chris. ‘Saving it for when the time's right.'

‘The time's been right for a long time, bruv. Fucking dick.' Rhys took another long swig before handing it to Monty, who raised it to his lips and allowed himself a few mouthfuls – he was driving, in theory at least. Then he handed it back to Chris.

Rhys lit a cigarette, and his smoke rose in double helixes towards the ceiling. He dug out the takeaway cups from the brown bags of rubbish, tipped out the ice, and filled them with cider; by the time he had finished, most of the bottle was gone. He handed them out and whooped, loud and long, into the rain-filled silence: ‘To our fucking English streets.'

The brothers laughed as if they were already drunk, and took big gulps. Some splashed onto Chris's chest as he drank. Then they let out almost simultaneous burps, replaced their cigarettes and laughed again.

Monty took a small sip and turned away, gazing out the window at the people in the Chrysler. It wasn't such an idyllic scene this time. The woman was turning away, rubbing her forehead, and the black man was staring straight ahead, chin jutting. He looked away. The inertia, the rain, was oppressing him, and being in a confined space with Rhys and Chris made him feel like a caged animal. He leaned over and put on the radio, turning it up a couple of notches too loud. Then he pulled out his own cigarettes, took one out with his teeth and lit it with the van's stubby lighter. Rhys was speaking to him.

‘So what I want to know, mate,' said Rhys, raising his voice over the noise of the music, ‘is how I can get into this drugs game of yours.'

‘What?' said Monty.

‘It's all right for you, mate.'

‘What?'

‘Don't be a cock. This drugs game you're playing. You're flush all the time, innit? Got fucking cash coming out your arse. I ain't got a job, innit? I want to, I dunno, I want to be your apprentice.'

Chris guffawed. ‘Me too. Fucking cool,' he said, drawing out the ‘cool' and tailing it off into a melody. ‘Alan Sugar, innit?'

‘You know I can't talk about any of that stuff,' said Monty.

‘For your sake as well as mine.'

‘What a hard bastard,' said Rhys, ‘what a fucking hard bastard.' He took another gulp of cider.

The sound of sirens cut through the air, through the music, like lasers, and flashing lights appeared in the mirror. Rhys and Chris instinctively held their ciders down low, and turned their faces from the window as the vehicles raced past on the hard shoulder.

‘Look,' said Chris. ‘The pigs rush by with all guns blazing and old Monty don't even flinch.'

‘You got to act completely normal,' said Monty. ‘Anything else and they'll pick it up.'

‘Anything else and they'll pick it up,' Rhys repeated girlishly.

‘Look,' said Monty, his temper rising within him, ‘if you got something to say, just fucking say it. Be a man. Don't just poof around, say it. I can't be dealing with your shit all the time. You're giving me shit all the time.'

‘I am the man-boob man,' Chris interrupted, trying to defuse the tension.

‘Fine,' said Rhys, licking his lips. ‘I think you're a bit of a fucking poser, all right? A fucking posh poser. Happy now?'

‘What?'

‘All this hard man stuff. All this fucking money. All this swanning around the fucking world. All this big fucking talk. Some of us ain't got no money, Monty. Some of us got a shit flat, and a shit fucking car, and not a pot to piss in.'

‘What you on about? I'm a labourer like you. That money stuff, it's all for the sake of the boys, innit?'

‘Bollocks it is. You might fool Gaz like that, but you can't fool me. I know what you're in it for, mate. Your own big fucking ego. It's all about being the big man with you. You don't really believe in nothing.'

‘You take that back.'

‘Bollocks I will. I'll say what I think. What we all think. You don't believe in what we believe in. You ain't the same as us. For you it's all just one big crack.'

‘You're jealous, Rhys.'

‘You know it's true. You know it's fucking true.'

‘You know what's true?' said Monty. ‘You hate it that I'm the one that Gaz trusts. You hate it that I do all the shit in Europe. That I get to travel, meet the big boys, make the big decisions. And you don't.'

‘Look at you,' said Rhys. ‘There's nothing to you, is there? All words, words, words. It's people like me that are going to do this fucking thing. People who have the balls to stand up and be counted, to get our hands dirty. To get out on the fucking streets, week after week, with no fucking money behind us. My
mum's still on the waiting list for a council flat while all those fucking Muslims jump the queue. I'm the heart and soul of the boys, mate. Not you.'

‘I'm not going to waste my time doing this now, Rhys. I've already stopped you making a dick of yourself once tonight.'

‘What have you given up, mate? What have you sacrificed? Fuck all. You've bought your way to the top. Like a fucking banker wanker. Fucking tosser. But you can't buy respect, Monty. You got to earn it.'

‘I've earned it, Rhys,' said Monty. ‘You know I have.'

‘Bollocks you have. You didn't even have the balls to get some fucking food from that van. We could of done with that, innit? Food, fucking posh toothpaste, all sorts. We're going to be here all night, and it's going to be shit. Because with Monty, all the fight is in his head. No red-blooded English guts.'

Monty began to say something, then stopped himself. ‘I'm going for a piss.' Pulling the keys from the ignition, he swung down on to the road and slammed the door behind him. All at once, the brothers felt far away. The night air was crisp, shocking; the rain had abated, and the world left behind was more vivid than before. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette onto the tarmac and stomped it out aggressively with his heel. He looked around. Cars, lorries, in every direction, and on the other side of the barrier nothing. So many people in the world! So many different lives! And here he was living in this trap. With people like Rhys giving him shit, after everything he'd done for the boys. Load of shit.

He vaulted over the barrier and walked up the grassy embankment. The wet grass enfolded his trainers, dampened the cuffs of his jeans. He groped for his anger, but strangely it had deserted him; instead he was filled with a feeling of dread, dark as the night. He looked over his shoulder: nobody. At the crest of the embankment he opened his flies. The piss took some time to come, but when it did it was good, fulsome and flowing,
a pale line pattering in the darkness. It was cathartic and he felt strengthened. How pathetic to feel strengthened by a piss.

He could not recall the moment when his commitment to his job eclipsed his concern for the rest of his life. With each promotion he had become focused on the next step; and when the opportunity had come up to go undercover, he had jumped at it. He had not understood at the time what this kind of work could do to a man, how it could swallow up years of your life. The guy in the Chrysler. What did he have to put up with at work? Office politics, longish hours, perhaps a bit of RSI. He didn't have to put up with . . . well, he didn't have to put up with Rhys.

And he didn't have to put up with enforced celibacy. These days it was out of the question. Getting involved with someone while on the job was a sackable offence, yet there was barely a time when he was not on the job. And he needed a woman, he needed one. It was a basic human need. He believed in what he was doing – the job satisfaction, he often told himself, was its own reward – but the successes were disproportionate to the long years of deprivation. Tonight was proving it: he had been unable to pursue a conversation with the woman by the supermarket van, as his obligations had been with Rhys. That woman. He had not even learned her name. It would probably have come to nothing. But maybe, on the other hand, a single conversation would have revealed a path to a different future. But he had not been able to allow himself to find out. And for what? For what? For what?