Max slammed the car door behind him and looked around. He was trembling. He took a deep breath; the night air had cooled, it entered his lungs like a balm. Another deep breath, a third, and he was better composed. He made his way along the long lines of traffic, negotiating wing mirrors and half-open doors with awkward rotations of his hips. Most of the engines were quiet now, and the few that still grumbled were sending wispy smoke signals into the atmosphere. He glanced into cars as he passed them, hoping for a friendly face. Everybody seemed to be groping their way towards sleep. Many dozed already; many gazed listlessly into space, trying to make themselves vulnerable to sleep’s approach. All were emotionless. He walked on.
At times like these, it was his habit to remind himself of his wedding speech, as if to conjure up the love that had expressed itself then. He still knew parts of it by heart: how they had met through a mutual friend, all those years ago. How he had fallen head-over-heels almost overnight, how he had even given up a trip to Spain with the lads for her. They had loved it, the wedding guests. And now he tried to remember it, as if, like some ancient amulet, the recollection of that previous man’s emotions could ease his suffering now.
The previous night, Carly had been unable to sleep. After more than an hour of comforting – for Ursula had given up – he had lain beside her on her bed, his hand on her fragile shoulder, and waited as the room darkened, its shadows multiplying into a smothering thicket, and her breath slowed into that particular rhythm of sleep. And he had been struck, all at once, by the imperfections of the days of his life, of everyone’s lives, all sullied by concerns about the past, about the future, insecurities and angers and unrequited passions, while the moon shone on and the breeze passed unheard above the trees overhead. And he had remembered the members of his family who were gone, realised how rarely he thought of them now. And he had thought that his heart would break.
Night clung to his shirt in the sour streetlight. The people in their vehicles seemed so remote; they might as well be waxwork dummies, seated there for effect. He was just about to return to the car, when he caught somebody’s eye. It was a delivery man, clad in a uniform, skirting the Waitrose van. The man paused, looked about to bolt, then smiled weakly. Perhaps it was his obvious consternation that infused Max with a sudden courage.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ said Max. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
The man nodded, sweeping his eyes along the cars and into the distance. ‘We’re all going to be late now, like,’ he said. ‘Thousands of us. Hundreds of thousands, like. Think there’s a million here?’
‘No. Not a million.’
‘Think it’s solid the entire way round the M25? The whole sort of ring?’
‘Doubt it.’ Max sighed. ‘The volume of frustration that’s building up, it’s enough to fuel a rocket to the moon.’
The man laughed nervously. ‘I was just checking that the back doors are locked,’ he volunteered, as if trying to slip an explanation in under the radar. ‘I’m like that, me, having to check things all the time.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Max. ‘I’m a bit like that myself.’
They fell awkwardly into companionable poses.
‘Do you know what the problem is?’ said Max.
‘The radio said it was flooding, I think,’ said the man.
‘Flooding? But it hasn’t been raining.’
‘Don’t know, mate. There hasn’t been much on the radio. Difficult to get reception here, like. Bit of a black spot. I’ve buggered all my timing anyway. I’m supposed to be doing three more drops tonight. But instead I’ve just got to sit here and stew.’
The man was short, much shorter than Max, with the kind of face that seemed to cling to its skull, as if in a strong wind. His uniform hung sacklike on his frame, and his eyes were two sparkling pebbles; the voice was high-pitched, constricted. Max thought he must be forty; a bachelor, probably, for he wore no ring. Imagine, sitting in a jam like this for the sake of someone else’s shopping.
‘Sorry,’ said the man, ‘didn’t offend you, did I?’
‘Offend me?’
‘Christ, I did, didn’t I?’
‘What? How?’
‘When I said . . . you know . . . the b-word, like.’
‘What b-word?’
‘Black spot. God, I’m cringing.’
‘Black spot? Why should I be offended by that?’
There was a difficult silence.
‘What time is it?’ said the man.
‘Nine,’ Max replied. ‘I hope this isn’t going to last all night.’
‘No way,’ said the man. ‘It’ll clear in an hour, max.’
‘How did you know my name?’
‘What?’
‘My name. Max.’
‘Oh, I see. No, I meant it will clear in an hour, max. Maximum, like.’
‘Ah. Sorry.’ Max chopped his heel into the tarmac. ‘I just want to ask you a favour. My wife and I have somebody else’s little girl in the car, and we need to tell her parents about the hold-up. But neither of us have any signal.’
‘Somebody else’s little girl,’ the man repeated.
‘It’s completely above board. Completely,’ said Max, aware that his protestations were implying the opposite. ‘She’s a friend of our daughter’s. We’ve taken them out for the day.’
‘I see,’ said the man. ‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Just to . . . to borrow your phone. Just for one minute. It was my wife’s idea. I’ll pay you. Sorry. This wasn’t my idea. Sorry.’
The man turned and climbed into the cab of the van, where he slid across to the passenger seat and began to rummage in the glove compartment.
‘I do have a mobile, somewhere,’ he said over his shoulder. Max peered into the cab and saw that the door of the glove compartment had broken, and needed to be propped open.
‘Do you want me to hold it for you?’ said Max.
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
Slowly, and without expertise, Max levered himself into the van. Instantly he found himself surrounded by a familiar fug of bodily odours, stale exhalations, and the suggestion of fried food and beer.
‘Can’t seem to find the bugger,’ the man said, as Max held the glove compartment open. ‘I was sure it was in here somewhere, like. Work’s not going to like this . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Max, ‘please. Don’t go to too much trouble.’
The man continued to search, cursing with frustration. Max asked him to stop – then implored – but no. This had become a matter of honour. In the end, however, the man had no option but to admit defeat.
‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘Pain in the bloody arse, that’s what it is.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Max. ‘I appreciate it. What did you say your name was?’
‘Waitrose Jim,’ said the man.
‘Waitrose Jim?’
‘That’s what they call me. It’s not my real name, like. I mean, Jim’s my real name. Not Waitrose.’
‘I see.’
‘Because I work too hard, like.’
‘Right.’
‘And you’re Max?’
‘That’s right,’ said Max. ‘Max King.’
‘Good name.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t help,’ said Jim. ‘It’s bollocks that. If this goes on any longer, what you want to do, I reckon, is walk up that hill. Give it a go up there. Reckon there’s reception up there.’
‘Looks like a bit of a hike to me.’
‘You could do it. If you’re desperate, like.’
‘Yes, I suppose I could. Though I’d be rather reluctant to, just for the sake of James and Becky.’
‘James and Becky?’
‘The parents. Awful people.’
‘Right.’
A silence filled the van. Max found that he had no wish to move. Jim seemed contented just sitting there. Like a confessional, Max thought.
‘It’s a bit frustrating,’ he said. ‘My wife drank the last of the water a couple of hours ago. There’s nowhere for us to go to the loo. Apart from in the bushes, and we’re really short on tissues. None of us had a proper supper. And with two kids in the back . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Anything could happen out here.’ He glanced at Jim, gauging his response.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Jim. ‘I can’t go opening the van up, even in a situation like this.’
‘Oh God, I wasn’t suggesting that.’
‘Can’t say it hasn’t occurred to me, like. It occurs to me all the time, truth be told. Driving round all day with piles of groceries in the back and that. Samosas, pork pies, chocolate, croissants. Milk, Coke, beer. Brie. Pasties. The works, like.’
‘That’s all back there?’
‘Tip of the iceberg, mate. It’s a right torture, having it all there all the time, having to deliver it to these swanky houses and that.’
‘But you’ve never opened it?’
‘No, mate. Devil’s work, like. And I ain’t going to start now.’
There was a pause. Max looked out at the traffic. All these people with mouths to feed, places to be, people they loved, enemies they hated, problems, futures, pasts. If he threw away what he had, could he join them?
Jim rummaged under his seat and pulled out a ripped cardboard box. ‘Crisps,’ he said. ‘And Coke. I always keep a little stash in the front. Take some. To see you on your way.’