The traffic began to move. Popper turned the key in the ignition, and the Golf sprung immediately to life. With a vast growl and turning-on of lights, the motorway awakened. Popper’s Golf moved, and the camper van moved, and the Smart car moved, and the Prius, and the Ford estate, and all the other cars. Around him surged a wave of emotion of which he was oblivious, and in the distance a flurry of exultant honking caught on, then died away.
The line of traffic moved for a few seconds in formation, a human settlement migrating, and then, as if newly awakened to their autonomy, the cars began to go at their different speeds, and weave into different lanes.
People’s minds turned once again to the future, near, middling, and far. Shauna was driving slowly now, slower than she could ever remember, talking to Monty as if they were old friends. Hsiao May, alone in her Prius, overtook her easily and gradually faded from sight. Harold, for a while, chuntering along in his camper, sat behind Shauna and Monty; but within a few minutes he had fallen way behind. The footballers, now, were in custody, being taken to the nearest police station; Rhys and Chris were arriving at hospital, accompanied by the police. Natalie, in the front of Jim’s van, was cruising at a high yet constant speed in the fast lane, rushing smoothly into the future as she opened another packet of Oreos. Stevie and Dave, still cursing under their breath, worried that their car was about to break down. Max, in the ambulance with his family, slipped in and out of consciousness. And Popper made headway in the middle lane, driving his car consistently, moving neither to the left nor the right.
Once again anonymity reigned. Once again cars, and the people in them, moved too quickly for colours and patterns; once again this was a world of glimpses, grime, and the relentless roar of machines, capped by a sky that was moving from pink to grey to yellow to blue. Another day.