‘Oi-oi,’ said Rhys, over the noise of the radio. ‘That black bastard came away with a stash of fucking crisps, didn’t he? And a Coke.’
‘What?’ said Chris, his brother.
‘There. See him?’ They peered out through the windscreen of the white van, straining their eyes against the orange-bleached darkness.
‘Reckon there’s any more?’ said Chris.
‘Course there is. It’s a fucking supermarket van, innit? Bound to be full of stuff.’
‘We’ll be moving soon, I reckon,’ Monty interrupted. ‘We’ll stop at services and stock up.’
A police car whined into view then shot past them, siren blaring; as one, they turned their faces away until it had disappeared.
The three men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the front of the van – the two brothers, the comrade – felt trapped. This was how it was: however action-packed today had been, they were all to start work early tomorrow. They had been hoping to wind down with a few drinks at the boozer in Newham before bed. A debrief. That wasn’t going to happen now, was it? Fucking traffic.
‘Weren’t bad today, eh,’ said Rhys, the older brother, for the umpteenth time. ‘The boys left their mark and no mistake, eh?’
‘Fucking great, bruv, fucking great,’ replied Chris. ‘Kings of the town. The pigs couldn’t get anywhere near us.’
‘Didn’t get a scrap in, though,’ said Rhys. ‘Got to get a scrap in soon, innit. It was kicking off everywhere, but we were nowhere near. Sod’s law, eh? Been too fucking long.’
Chris nodded, like a sage in a school play. ‘Too fucking long,’ he repeated.
Rhys stretched out his fingers as if taking stock of his hand span. They were outlined against the windscreen, which was framing a sweep of twinkling scarlet lights on the rear bumpers of cars, stretching off into the distance; thousands of little cars and big, hulking lorries, a Hindu elephant parade. ‘Fucked off with this traffic,’ he said, hitting the dashboard with the heel of his hand. ‘Fucked off with it. Overcrowded fucking England. Just look at this shite. This lot’ll be claiming fucking Jobseekers tomorrow morning and all.’
For a while they sat without saying anything. Music hung dully in the air. Chris pulled out his iPhone and resumed a game of Angry Birds. All day he had been facing a tricky level, which had pockets of green pigs in far-flung parts of the screen, all of which were to be destroyed with just four red birds on the catapult.
Monty, the third man, the driver, passed his hand across his face. Look at this shite, he thought. Got to be back on the site at six tomorrow. Can’t be late. Gaz thought it was important that he didn’t lose touch with the foot soldiers; a good general, he said, leads from the front. Personally, Monty didn’t think it was worth it; he didn’t think anybody noticed either way. They would love him or hate him, the foot soldiers, on their own terms, regardless. And he tired easily, that was his problem. The other leaders seemed to be able to go on for ever. But he had less stamina. He got hungover easily, and was inevitably exhausted two hours before the end of the working day. Anyway, he had more going on than them. In the past month alone he had visited groups in France, Germany and Norway. It was exhausting; it was all he could do to hold it together. And for what? This endless, petty struggle against the sweeping waves of history? He saw Rhys with his outstretched hands, and looked down at his own fingers. The whorls and creases were picked out in white paint from the week before, still not off. All busted fingernails. Shite life this is, he thought. Shite life.
‘I reckon,’ said Rhys, ‘we should pay that van a little visit.’
‘You what?’ said Chris, not looking up from his phone.
‘A visit. You know, mate. Get the bloke to give us some stuff. Like he did with that black cunt. It’d be a laugh.’
There was a pause. Chris looked up from his game, and appeared to turn the idea over, a smile spreading across his face.
But it was Monty who spoke into the silence. ‘There’s only going to be shite food in there,’ he said hesitantly.
‘Shite food? That’s a Waitrose van, mate. That’s posh, that is.’
‘But it’s not hot, is it?’ said Monty.
‘Hot?’
‘You know, hot. Proper hot grub.’
‘Course it ain’t hot.’
‘Exactly. I reckon we should send Chris off to find a Macky D’s.’
Chris, hearing his name, and wishing to make it clear that he didn’t have anything against anyone, flipped them both the bird, jovially. But he didn’t look up from his game.
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Rhys. ‘I reckon you should fuck off and find a Macky D’s, Chris.’
He looked up. ‘Why me?’
‘Why not you?’
‘Nah, man. We should toss a coin or something.’
‘Look, bruv,’ said Rhys, ‘you could do with the fucking exercise.’
‘Come on . . .’
‘Plus,’ said Rhys, ‘you’ll be quick. You can sniff out a burger three miles away.’
‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ said Chris. ‘What if the traffic moves?’
‘You’ll just have to be quick, then,’ said Rhys. ‘Large Big Mac meal for me, bruv, with a Coke. And an apple pie. And make sure you get enough fucking ketchups this time.’
‘Same for me,’ said Monty. ‘But I want two apple pies. And extra cheese. And barbecue sauce.’
‘All right, same here, bruv,’ said Rhys. ‘Two apple pies, innit. And all that. Plus onion rings.’
Chris looked bewilderedly from one to the other.
‘Get going, go on,’ said Rhys. ‘Or we’ll be gone by the time you get back.’
‘Give me the dosh then.’
‘We’ll pay you back,’ said Rhys. ‘You’ve still got that twenty quid on you, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Use that then.’
‘You’ll pay me back?’ said Chris. ‘You swear?’
‘Course, mate. Now fuck off. Quicker you go, quicker you’ll be back.’
Chris looked from his brother to Monty and back again. Then he heaved his bulk out of the van, closed the door carefully, and lumbered off.
‘Mind if I kill the radio? There’s nothing on about the hold-up anyway,’ said Monty. ‘We’ve been listening for ages.’
‘Whatever, bruv,’ said Rhys.
Monty did so and the vehicle assumed a cavernous, morgue-like stillness: no music, no engine, no shuddering vibration in their bones. No human voice.
Rhys rummaged in the scarred glove compartment and found his cigarettes. They wound the windows down and smoked. Monty picked up the paper, which they’d all read several times today – they’d agreed on her tits, a seven or eight – and turned to the sports pages.
Rhys broke the silence. ‘Wonder what the fuck’s going on. Accident or what?’
‘Accident probably,’ said Monty.
‘Nina’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Oh, Nina tonight, is it?’
Rhys laughed. ‘Yeah.’
‘No signal, mate. Can’t be fucked to piss about.’
They smoked, listened to the sizzle of the cigarette paper burning down.
‘Surprised you didn’t get a scrap in, Monty,’ said Rhys, after a time. ‘Must of been plenty of chances what with your experience, innit?’
‘If it’s not there, I won’t look for it,’ said Monty. ‘No point doing it for the sake of it.’
‘There is, mate,’ said Rhys grimly. ‘Defenders of England, innit. Show them who rules our fucking streets.’
‘Yeah,’ said Monty, folding up the newspaper and tossing it onto the dashboard. ‘But if I got banged up it’d be a disaster. The pigs’d start nosing into my business and all sorts.’
‘Don’t be a cunt, Monty. You’re a big-balls with the boys now. You can’t be dicking around worrying about your own skin. You got to be setting an example to the young ’uns, innit? People without fucking jobs, without fucking money. People like Chrissie-boy . . .’
‘Anyway, I did have a scrap, didn’t I?’ said Monty quietly. ‘I did have one.’
‘You had a scrap?’ said Rhys.
‘Yeah.’
‘Go on then,’ said Rhys sceptically. ‘Dark horse.’
‘Well, it were when we got separated,’ said Monty. ‘Remember?’
‘That were only for twenty minutes.’
‘Long enough, mate.’
‘Why didn’t you say nothing?’
‘Don’t need to, do I?’ said Monty. ‘Got nothing to prove.’
‘Go on then,’ said Rhys. ‘How many did you scuff? You obviously came out all right, innit? Not a scratch on you.’
‘It weren’t as simple as that,’ said Monty. ‘It were, like, you know, chaos.’
‘Course it were,’ said Rhys. ‘It weren’t like a duel or nothing, were it? Or the fucking Queen’s fisticuffs.’
Monty fell silent. Rhys waited for him to respond; when he didn’t, he snorted and stubbed out his cigarette in the van’s ashtray. After a moment, Monty did the same.
‘We’ll be here all night,’ said Monty. ‘Must be an accident. A spillage. Or a shooting or something.’
‘And we ain’t got nothing to eat or drink,’ said Rhys. ‘Going to run out of fags soon. Imagine what’s in that fucking van. Just imagine.’
‘Chris’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Come on, let’s do it. Go over there, tell the cunt to open it or we’ll cave his fucking head in. What’s he going to do?’
‘The chopper’s still up there, mate. Police chopper.’
‘Paranoid prick.’
‘I told you, Rhys. I got to be careful.’
‘That van’s an Aladdin’s fucking cave, mate. There’ll be all sorts in there. Booze. Fags. Condoms.’
‘What the fuck are you going to use a condom for?’
‘Dunno, bruv. To shit in.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what the fucking SAS do, innit.’
‘Shit in a condom?’
‘Yeah, man. So they don’t leave a trail.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Nah, man. Whatever. But condoms are fucking expensive. Be prepared, innit?’ Rhys laughed.
‘The pigs’d be here in no time, I’m telling you.’
‘It’s all posh food in there, innit?’ said Rhys. ‘Posh food for fucking posh cunts. Even the delivery men got to be posh.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Never mind how I know. Prick.’
There was a pause.
‘What’s wrong with you, Rhys?’ said Monty.
‘What’s wrong with you, Monty?’ said Rhys. ‘You’re a pussy.’
‘Bollocks, bollocks. The pigs this, the pigs that. Never mind the pigs, bruv. What about the boys?’
‘You don’t get it, Rhys. I got given responsibility. There’s a lot I’m doing.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Nah, mate. If I got banged up, the demo next month wouldn’t happen . . .’
‘Course it would. Prick.’
‘Whatever.’
Monty picked up the newspaper, put it down again.
‘Anyway,’ said Rhys slowly. ‘About that scrap today.’
Monty sighed. ‘It were one of theirs,’ he said. ‘Got separated from the rest of the pack. Down this side street. Raghead. A couple of lads spotted him and started getting stuck in. He weren’t bad though, gave as good as he got. The two lads were backing off. So I had to have a go, didn’t I?’
‘And you got him, did you?’
Monty nodded. ‘Sorted him out something proper. Didn’t even need to go back to the van for the toys.’
‘Probably still there, the cunt,’ said Rhys. ‘Scum on our fucking English streets.’
A cloud came over Monty’s face. ‘It were self-defence, though,’ he said. ‘The bloke had this bit of piping, innit? Like an iron bar.’
‘You’re talking bollocks now.’
‘Bollocks, bollocks,’ said Monty. ‘I sort of got it under my arm and smacked him like that. You know, over the top. Nobody came back for him, neither. Least, I didn’t see no one. He were just left there, fucked, on the pavement.’
‘Let’s see the knuckles then,’ said Rhys.
Monty eyed him warily, then held up his hands.
‘Them are old, them grazes,’ said Rhys. ‘From the site and all.’
‘Bollocks they are.’
‘Yeah, look. That’s a scab, innit? That’s a scab and all.’
‘I scab over quick, all right?’
‘I’ll say you fucking do.’
There was a pause.
‘We could sort it out here and now,’ said Rhys, dreamily. ‘You and me. Nobody’s about. Nobody would know. We could go up into the woods up there and sort it out.’
‘What?’
‘Man to man,’ said Rhys. ‘Queen’s fisticuffs. Pass the fucking time.’
‘Don’t take the piss,’ said Monty.
Rhys lit another cigarette. He didn’t offer Monty one, and Monty didn’t ask.
‘Looks like we’ll be here for a bit,’ said Rhys. ‘There’s still time. If you change your mind.’
Monty looked out of the window. Outside, darkness had unfurled like a shroud. Cars were everywhere, dull and unmoving. There were lots of expensive vehicles on the road, no doubt about that. The one next to them, a Chrysler, probably cost a packet. Wouldn’t look at it twice, but what – twenty grand? At least. A family in there, probably. What wouldn’t he give to have a family like that? To drive your kids around in a twenty-grand Chrysler? Normal, that’s what it was. Not for him. He rested his forehead on the glacier-cool glass. He saw his own reflection, his own eyes looking sadly back at him, windows into his soul. I’m fucked, he thought. Fucked.
‘Fuck me,’ said Rhys. ‘Look. That black bastard’s going back to the van now. Loads of people are there now, innit? That toff van.’
‘Go on then,’ said Monty. ‘Nothing’s stopping you.’
‘I will,’ said Rhys. ‘Once I’ve finished this fag.’
Monty turned his face away. He couldn’t hear properly, as if he were underwater; Rhys’s voice sounded muffled and remote; the world seemed eerily fuzzy. What would his father say if he could see him now? Through the window he could see a woman in one of those microcars, the ones that could be parked sideways. He could see her shoulder, blanched by the dull glare of the motorway lights, and a cascading mass of blonde hair. He felt a stab of pain. The darkness was deepening, he noticed that, growing like a fungus, like someone changing the contrast on a telly. Must be the exhaustion. He closed his eyes.