It was not long afterwards – their cigars were still alight – that the feeling arose in both men that they were being watched. Neither of them said anything, but their skulls were prickling, and they started scanning their surroundings. Max caught the eye of a tired-looking man, seat reclined, curled up against the window of his silver Golf, trying to sleep; the man, protecting his privacy, turned his back. Many people were trying to sleep now. One or two were reading, and lots were playing with their phones. Some, even now, were standing next to their cars, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the obstruction. Everything was as one might expect. But the feeling of being watched was unshakable.
‘Hey,’ said Jim, ‘what’s that?’
‘What?’
‘Thought I saw something moving, that’s all. Over there, like.’
‘I can’t see anything. It’s difficult to make anything out. In this light.’
‘There, there it is again. See it?’
‘What?’
‘Someone’s coming. I think.’
‘Just your eyes playing tricks on you.’
‘Is your car locked?’
‘My car? Yeah, I think so. Yeah, it is. Ursula was asleep, so I locked it.’
They continued to look in that direction for several minutes, while their cigars burned down. Eventually, simultaneously, they shook themselves to their senses and stubbed them out.
‘I’ve got the willies,’ said Jim. ‘Freaking myself out, like. Feels like the end of the world.’
‘Come on,’ said Max. ‘It’s not like The Road or anything.’
‘It is. It’s the sodding M25.’
‘No, I mean the book. The Road.’
‘I’ve never read a book, mate. Not outside school, anyhow.’
‘It was made into a film too.’
‘The Road?’
‘Yes. Apocalyptic disaster sort of thing. Man and a boy.’
Jim thought for a moment. ‘Nope.’
Then there was a noise, and they turned to see three hooded men emerge from the shadows. As one, they straightened up.
‘All right, brah?’ said the leader.
‘All right,’ said Max.
‘Know what’s going on?’
‘No. You?’
‘Nah.’
The three men spread out in a semi-circle around the van door. Max saw that they were Asian, and in their late teens. The one who was speaking pushed his hood back from his head; he was taller than the other two, with what seemed to be a habitual haughtiness.
‘This your van?’ he said.
‘It’s mine,’ said Jim. ‘At least, it’s my job to drive it.’
‘How much do you want for a Coke?’
‘What?’
‘A Coke, brah. A Coke.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Max, ‘he can’t open the van.’
‘He’s the driver, isn’t he? No point in having a guy who can’t open the door, innit?’
‘Look,’ said Max. ‘The van cannot be opened, and that’s final.’
‘All right, mate,’ came the reply. Then, after a pause: ‘I’m Shahid.’ He extended his hand, and his grip was firm. ‘This is Mo, and this is Kabir.’
‘What Jim?’
‘Look, just – just Jim.’
‘Nice one. OK, I hear what you’re saying, right. But we got to help each other out, you know. Times like these.’
‘It’s a traffic jam,’ Jim said. ‘We’ve just got to sit it out, like.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shahid, ‘but we’ve been here for what, two hours? Three hours? It’s not a joke no more. People need food and stuff. Water. All that.’
Jim shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can do. I’d lose my job.’
‘Really?’ said Shahid. ‘Even if it was, like, extreme? If we were here all night or whatever?’
Jim hesitated. ‘I’d lose my job.’
‘Anyway,’ said Shahid, ‘we should, like, work together. Anything we can do for you boys?’
‘There is, actually, now you come to mention it,’ said Max. ‘Think you could lend me your phone.’
‘You got no phone?’
‘No signal,’ said Max. ‘Dead.’
‘Mine’s no good, brah,’ said Shahid, pulling out his phone. ‘You can try it if you don’t believe me.’
‘Sure, sure.’
Shahid gestured to his companions, who brought out their phones.
‘I ain’t got a signal either,’ said Mo.
‘Me neither,’ said Kabir.
There was a pause. The world tightened around them like a noose.
‘What about that?’ said Shahid, pointing at a small orange box mounted on a pole with a telephone painted on the side. ‘Tried that?’
‘It’s only for emergencies,’ said Jim.
‘This is an emergency,’ said Max. ‘I might be able to find out what the hell’s going on. You never know.’
‘You two go and check it out,’ said Shahid. ‘We’ll watch the van.’
‘Thanks,’ said Max. ‘I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.’
He walked around the van, squeezed between two cars and made his way across the hard shoulder. On the way, some instinct told him to check his own mobile. He did so, and although there was no telephone signal, the 3G sign was appearing; he could send an email. Forgetting everything else, he composed a hasty email to James and Becky, copying them both in, and pressed send. Relief. He looked back: Jim and the three boys were still watching him.
‘Got a signal then?’ called Jim.
He shook his head. ‘Only 3G. Only email. Not great, but at least it’s something.’
‘Check the BBC site,’ called Shahid. ‘They might have something about it.’
Max tried, but this time he could not find the exact angle at which he had been holding the phone, and the 3G eluded him. He shrugged, walked over to the phone box and held the receiver to his ear. He tapped the receiver against the box a few times, and listened again. Then he hung up, checked his mobile – still no signal – and walked back.
‘Dead,’ he said.
At first, nobody spoke.
‘Something big must’ve happened,’ murmured Shahid.
‘Bollocks,’ said Max, ‘it’s just a dead emergency phone. Don’t tell me you’re actually surprised.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jim. ‘The whole thing creeps me out.’
‘This is England, mate,’ said Max. ‘Nothing works in England.’
‘Where you from?’ said Shahid.
‘Ealing. You?’
‘Belsize Park, brah.’
‘Belsize Park?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I used to live near there. Down the hill from the station, you know? Towards Chalk Farm?’
‘I know.’
‘You live with your parents?’
‘Yeah. It’s on the Northern Line, so it’s good for my dad’s job.’
‘What job?’
‘Guardian. Executive editor. Or some shit.’
‘Oh, right.’ There was a pause. ‘London,’ said Max. ‘It’s a curse. My wife is always talking about moving out to Cheshire or Hampshire or Kent. But something in me can’t do it. I’m like some sort of abused woman.’
‘You’re London’s bitch,’ said Shahid.
‘You said it,’ Max replied. ‘London’s bitch.’
‘What about trying the others?’ said Jim.
‘The other what?’ said Max.
‘The other emergency phones. They’re all along the motorway.’
‘That’s a point,’ said Max. ‘But I don’t think I can be bothered to go on a massive mission. And I don’t want to leave the kids.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Mo. ‘Need a piss anyway.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kabir. The two boys jogged off along the motorway, leaving Max and Jim alone with Shahid.
‘Cigar?’ said Jim.
‘Can’t,’ said Shahid.
‘Can’t?’ said Jim.
‘Not allowed. Training. Football.’
‘Are you a footballer, then?’
‘Trying to be.’
‘Where do you play?’
‘Wing usually. Sometimes up front.’
‘No, I mean who do you play for?’
‘Long story,’ said Shahid. ‘Who do you support?’
‘Nobody, really,’ said Jim. ‘I’m not into football, like.’
‘I used to support Liverpool as a kid,’ said Max. ‘Steve McMahon? Bruce Grobbelaar? Alan Hansen? Ring any bells?’
‘Alan Hansen,’ said Shahid. ‘Isn’t that the commentator geezer?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ said Max. ‘But he used to be a player. Great defender.’
‘Lies,’ said Shahid. ‘A player? Alan Hansen?’
‘Yeah.’
There was a silence. Jim lit another cigar.
‘That smells nasty,’ said Shahid.
‘It is a bit,’ said Jim. ‘That’s sort of the point.’ He blew a thin jet of smoke horizontally in front of him and watched as it dispersed gradually in little feathered clouds. For a moment he fancied that a face appeared in the smoke, a female face with hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. Then the smoke cleared, but the face remained.
‘Hello,’ said the woman. ‘Sorry. Can I . . . are you . . . any idea what the hold-up might be?’ She was slim and pale, with dark smudges under the eyes and an oversized woollen jumper that reached almost down to her knees.
‘We’ve heard various theories,’ said Max, after sizing her up. ‘Crashes, flooding. That sort of thing.’
‘A chap further down said he thought it was a terrorism thing,’ said the woman. ‘Have you heard anything about that?’
The men exchanged looks.
‘If that was the case we’d know by now,’ said Jim. ‘It’d be all over the news. Someone would come and tell us. A police officer, like.’ At this, Max and Shahid scoffed.
Max glanced over at the Chrysler, craning his neck. Through the windscreen he could still see Ursula. Still asleep. Still in the same position. ‘Where you from?’ he said.
‘London,’ said the woman. ‘Fulham. You?’
‘Ealing,’ said Max.
‘Oh, I used to live in Ealing. Near the Broadway?’
‘Not far. Between there and the North Circ.’
‘Yeah, I know. Nice round there.’
‘I was just saying I’d love to move out of London, in a way. But it’s in my blood too much.’
‘You’ve got to get out a lot,’ said the woman. ‘You can only survive in London if you get away on the weekend. My parents live in East Sussex, so I’m lucky.’
‘That where you’ve been?’
‘No, no. Wedding. Hence the fact that I’m rather . . . delicate today.’
‘Must have had a good time, then,’ said Max.
‘Disaster, actually,’ said the woman. ‘Complete and utter fucking disaster. I completely humiliated myself.’
‘I’m sure nobody will mind,’ said Max. ‘Everyone’s a bit silly when they’re drunk.’
‘Trust me,’ said the woman, ‘I made a complete arse of myself. It was not funny in the least. At least, not to me.’
‘I feel your pain,’ said Max. ‘I’m Max, and this is Waitrose Jim and Shahid.’
‘I’m Shauna,’ said the woman, glossing over Jim’s nickname. ‘How do you do?’ Nobody moved to shake hands. With a quick flick of the wrists, Shahid flipped his hood up.
‘So, where are you guys off to?’ said Shauna. ‘Not that anybody’s off to anywhere, of course.’
‘We’re not together,’ said Max. ‘We’ve only just met in the jam. I’m on my way home. At least I was. I imagine you guys are as well, aren’t you?’
The other men nodded.
‘I can’t wait to get home,’ said Jim wistfully. ‘When I was a kid, and we got stuck in traffic, my mum would let me press all the buttons on the dashboard and pretend the car could fly.’
‘Are you with anybody?’ said Max. ‘Boyfriend or anybody?’
‘No,’ said Shauna. ‘Just me on my lonesome.’
‘Have a cigar,’ said Jim.
‘Um, no thanks,’ came the reply. ‘But I’ll have a cigarette if you’ve got one.’
‘Oh well. So, do you think we’ll be here all night?’
‘Surely not,’ said Max. ‘You never get traffic jams that bad.’
‘What if we are, though? It’s been hours already. And it’s getting cold. Loads of people won’t have eaten. We’ll all get dehydrated at the very least. I’ve a good mind to call 999. But I can’t get any reception on my phone. It’s a bit like that book, isn’t it? That one with the father and son . . .’
‘The Road,’ said Max.
‘That’s the one. It’s just like that.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s nothing like that. There are no cannibals here for one thing.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Shauna. ‘If this carries on, and there’s no chance of getting any food or drink, I wouldn’t put it past people.’
‘The Road has a happy ending, anyway,’ said Shahid. The others turned to him, surprised. ‘It’s a shit ending, if you ask me,’ he added. ‘Just my opinion.’
‘I just have this awful thought, I can’t get it out of my head,’ Shauna continued. ‘We’re on the M25, right? So it’s circular. What if the entire ring road is solid? What if the traffic jam goes all the way round the M25 and joins with itself at the other end?’
‘It can’t,’ said Max.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not logical. Look at the opposite lane. See?’
‘It’s deserted.’
‘Exactly. That means that up ahead there’s an obstruction that’s crossing both sides of the motorway.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Think about it. If the traffic was solid all the way round, it would be solid on the other side as well.’
‘I’m too hungover for this,’ said Shauna, passing her hand across her brow. ‘My head’s killing me . . . and I’m totally out of supplies. No water, no painkillers, no olives . . .’
‘Don’t you find they help? I always have a craving for olives after I’ve been drinking. I fantasise about them. Oh, olives!’
‘It’s the salt,’ said Shahid. ‘That’s what your body needs. The salt.’
‘You know what the best hangover cure is?’ said Max. ‘Watermelon juice and milk.’
‘Not mixed together, surely,’ said Shauna.
‘Yeah, mixed together. It’s great.’
‘Oh god, that makes me feel ill,’ said Shauna. ‘Doesn’t it curdle? Ugh.’
‘I’m telling you,’ said Max. ‘The milk lines your stomach and the watermelon juice takes the heat away. Everything you need.’
‘That’s nasty,’ said Shahid. ‘What you need with a hangover is salt.’
‘I agree,’ said Shauna. ‘Crisps would do, if olives weren’t available. Oh for some crisps! And some olives! And some water!’ Her eyes wandered to Jim’s van.
‘Before you ask,’ said Max, ‘He can’t open the van for anybody. For any reason.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The van. It’s a no-no.’
‘Oh god, sorry. I wasn’t even suggesting that,’ said Shauna. ‘I was just prattling on. Making conversation. Jesus.’
‘No, no, no, I didn’t mean it that way,’ said Max. ‘Sorry. I was just pre-empting any embarrassment.’
‘You’ve done a good job of that,’ said Jim. ‘Christ, go on then. I’ve got a few things. Emergency rations, like.’ He reached under the seat, pulled out several packets of crisps and a few bottles of Coke. They were received with cries of delight.
For a few moments nobody spoke, and the crunching of crisps and the hiss of Coke bottles opening filled the air. Then there was the sound of a door slamming nearby, followed by footsteps. All four looked up, mouths full: a wiry man in faded jeans and a rumpled T-shirt was swaggering towards them. One of his hands was running across the shaven dome of his head, and he was grinning. He was being doubled, trebled, stretched, warped by the car windows around him.
‘Oi-oi,’ said Rhys, fixing his eyes on the group. ‘What we got here, then?’