‘Well?’ said Shauna, as Popper returned and sat on the barrier next to her. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘Who? That chap there? Monty?’
‘Yes, him. Monty.’
‘Decent enough.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’
‘But I’d say he’s got his own problems. Debt problems, probably. Or a divorce. With kids.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. Something in his general outlook, I suppose. His demeanour. You get to know how to read men like those.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mention. I’m an army officer.’
‘So you’re in charge of men like that?’
‘Known shedloads of them,’ said Popper, sliding a cigarette from the packet and placing it between his lips. ‘A good sort, really. Seemed like he was thinking of the wider good, you know, the way he came to get some cigarettes for his mate. He’d probably make a good soldier.’ He looked her in the eye, and Shauna, certain that he could see into her soul, blushed. And then he had taken a light from Jim and was smoking, and she looked at him again, and once again was struck by the feeling that something deep inside Popper wasn’t right. Something in the way he hunched around the cigarette, the way he pulled so aggressively on it and let the smoke leak out in front of his face. Something in his preoccupied eyes. There was a silence.
‘Look up there,’ said Shauna. ‘Do you think anything’s watching us?’
‘You mean God?’
‘No, not God. Not a creator – more of an observer. Not like an astronaut, or an alien, or anything. Something with a completely different perspective, who can see everything and everybody equally. Something that might care enough about us to notice our existence, but not enough to have it eclipse the importance of everybody else. Something who can see us in proportion, in the context of the world at large.’
Popper looked up into the blackness for a while.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I do.’
Max had all but forgotten about his wife, his daughter, his daughter’s friend. So it was with a start that he looked up and saw Ursula sitting up in the passenger seat, rubbing her eyes, and looking bewilderedly around. He got to his feet.
‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘The wife’s woken up again.’
‘Bring her over,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.’
‘Thanks, but my daughter’s asleep in the car. And that other monstrous child. Anyway, my wife wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t get this.’ He lumbered off, opened the door and disappeared into his vehicle.
‘Good bloke, that,’ said Jim.
‘I thought he was a bit of a prick,’ mumbled Shahid.
‘We all have our moments, mate,’ said Jim.
‘This fucking jam,’ said Shahid. ‘On and on and on. We’ve been here for what, four hours? Five? Feels like a fucking week.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve just about forgotten what normal life is like.’
Just when it seemed like nothing would ever happen again, a man could be seen walking casually along the hard shoulder towards them. He was of late middle age, with a round belly tautening his shirt and a pair of slacks that flapped as he walked. The lower part of his face was covered in a bearish beard; it was perhaps this, combined with his manner of walking, which gave him the impression of a pilgrim.
‘Evening,’ he called in a light Scottish burr, raising a hand. ‘Just thought I’d come and see if anybody knew what’s going on.’
‘Not a clue, mate,’ said Jim, as if to spare him the inconvenience of continuing. ‘I don’t think anybody knows anything, to be honest.’ But the pilgrim went on undeterred, and comfortably entered the circle of the group.
‘I have to admit, I’m struggling,’ he said. ‘I’m gasping for a pint. And I’ve got a camper van. I don’t know how you folks are surviving at all.’
‘No way – a camper van?’ said Shahid.
‘Aye,’ said the man, eyeing him levelly. ‘A camper van.’ He turned and pointed into the distance. ‘That greenish one there.’
‘I’m not opening the van,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s get that clear from the start, like.’
‘Mine?’ said the pilgrim.
‘No, my one. That one. There.’
‘That delivery van?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s yours? But why . . . oh, I see,’ said the pilgrim with a chuckle. ‘You’re afraid I’m trying to get at the groceries. Times like these do make people predisposed to suspicion.’
‘Right,’ said Jim. And then, after a pause: ‘Sorry.’
‘The traffic is horrendous,’ said the pilgrim, ‘but just look at this wonderful piece of engineering. We never get the opportunity to appreciate it normally. Not up close like this.’
‘What do you mean, engineering?’ said Jim.
‘This. You know. This. Spectacular, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The M25.’
This was met with silence.
Popper, who had been watching the newcomer, got to his feet. ‘Tom Popper,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘They call me Popper, or Pops. Occasionally Poppy.’
‘Harold,’ said the pilgrim, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘They call me . . . well, Harold.’
‘Far more sensible,’ said Popper. ‘Allow me to introduce Shauna, Jim and Shahid. Those two chaps over there are his friends, but I’m afraid I can’t remember their names.’
‘Kabir and Mo,’ said Shahid sharply.
‘Quite.’
‘Have you heard anything about the hold-up?’ said Shauna.
‘Not a sausage,’ said Harold. He breathed in deeply, as if savouring the air, and breathed out again. Suddenly he caught sight of something behind them. He craned his neck, nodded, and gave a little wave. ‘Well, well,’ he said.
A diminutive female figure stood behind a Prius in the middle lane. Only her head and shoulders were visible; they could see that she was Oriental. She threaded her way through the traffic to join them.
‘Goodness, I am glad it’s you,’ said Harold. ‘For a moment I thought I was waving at a total stranger.’
‘No, it is me,’ said the woman, without any trace of an accent. ‘And it’s you.’
‘Aye, it is me,’ said Harold.
‘And who is me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Who is me? I mean, I know who I am, but who are you? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name,’ said the woman.
‘Harold Ritchie,’ said Harold. ‘Professor of history.’
‘Do you remember who I am?’
‘I have to confess I don’t.’
‘Ling Hsiao May,’ said the woman. ‘Entomology.’
‘Of course,’ said Harold. ‘How rude of me.’
‘That’s your camper van?’ she said.
‘It is, it is. You’re welcome to pop in for a cup of tea. If you get bored, you know. Or if it rains. It’s starting to feel like rain.’
‘Of course. And a stove, and a wee fridge. The works. You’d be very welcome.’
‘So you’re colleagues,’ said Popper. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Indeed we are,’ said Harold, ‘though our paths have not really crossed, save for the occasional departmental meeting. Nevertheless, it’s very nice to see a friendly face.’
‘It has been a night of coincidences,’ said Popper. ‘Shauna and I discovered that we have a mutual friend.’
Shauna coloured, then nodded. She was looking increasingly worse for wear; the dark smudges under her eyes were deepening, and she persisted in massaging her temples.
‘How rude of me,’ said Popper. ‘I haven’t introduced us to . . . Ping, was it? Or Ling?’
‘Hsiao May,’ said Hsiao May.
‘Quite.’ He proceeded to introduce himself and the other members of the group with eloquence.
‘You’ve got one of them electric cars, innit?’ said Shahid, suddenly turning to Hsiao May.
‘Me?’ said Hsiao May.
‘Yeah. It is, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s a Prius.’
‘That’s the one. A Pious.’
‘A pious?’
‘That’s what my dad calls them.’
‘I thought he worked for the Guardian,’ said Shauna acidly.
‘He does,’ said Shahid.
There was a pause, which was broken by the sound of running. They turned to see Stevie dashing at full pelt down the hard shoulder, all angular elbows and flailing feet, a foolish smile spread across his face.
‘What are you doing, mate?’ called Jim.
‘Any chance of a Crunchie and shit?’ called Stevie, and laughed. Then he ran off, swerving crazily along the tarmac.
Jim shook his head. ‘That boy’s a right strange one,’ he said.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just open that van,’ Shahid broke in. ‘We might be here all night without food or drink.’
‘Will you stop going on about that fucking van,’ said Shauna. ‘Honestly. Honestly.’
‘I just can’t understand it,’ said Shahid. ‘It doesn’t make sense, that’s all.’
Jim began to form a response, but Shauna stopped him. ‘Rise above it, Jim,’ she said. ‘Rise above it.’
‘We should have a game of footy, innit? Pass the time,’ said Shahid. ‘I’ve got a ball in the car. Me, Kabir and Mo against the rest.’
‘You can count me out, I’m afraid,’ said Harold. ‘I’ve got a gammy knee.’
‘Girl’s blouse,’ said Shahid.
‘Oh, I rather take that as a compliment,’ said Harold.
But before the idea could be further explored, the flow of their conversation was interrupted by a smattering of rain, which increased quickly in intensity until it became a downpour. As one, and with much cursing and covering of heads, the group dispersed, leaving threads of nascent relationships and discussions hanging in the air. And so Jim went back to his van; Shauna went back to her Smart car; Shahid and his friends to his grandfather’s old Peugeot; Popper to his Golf; Hsiao May to her Prius; Harold to his camper van. One by one, they threw themselves into their cocoons of metal and plastic, slamming heavy doors on the world. In seconds, no trace was left of their gathering.
The rain was lashing mercilessly across the landscape now, bowing the heads of trees, stippling the flanks of cars, making intricate designs on windows, and washing the tarmac into a sleek river. Like animals in their holes, their nests, their burrows, their caves, the beleaguered inhabitants of the traffic jam had no choice but to give themselves over to solipsism.