Roadworks

by Gerard Readett

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  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  8.45 a.m.

  Raymond Baudouin looked at his watch. He was going to be late. A Canadian supplier was to phone him at the office for an important discussion in less than twenty minutes. Since he arrived early at the office, he regularly scheduled such conference calls. His Canadian clients would be calling at one o'clock, their time. They provided services to international clients, and therefore had a team that worked late into the night to keep in touch.

  He glanced at the wreckage of what used to be his brand new car, still stuck in the lift. He pulled out his mobile phone to dial the Police. His call was immediately placed in a queue, and he was informed that he was number twenty-two in line. He broke the connection, and tried the Transport Authority, but they, too, were busy.

  What am I going to do? he thought. He could stay with his car, and wait for someone to come along and help him. By the looks of things, that could become a long wait. Otherwise, he could abandon his car, or more precisely its remains, and head on to the office. That would mean sorting out his insurance claims with the Transport Authority later in the day.

  He looked at his mobile phone. Of course, there was another possibility. He could ask someone at the office to redirect the phone on his desk to his mobile. Then just like that, when the Canadians phoned, the call would be transferred. Unfortunately, no one appeared to be in, or else nobody was picking up the phones.

  He headed towards the metro station further along the road. Usually, he took the underground for one stop to reach his office, but as he approached, he saw a crowd coming up the steps out of the station. He stopped a man in overalls to ask what was happening.

  "The metro's down, mon vieux," he was told in French, "looks like you'll be using up the soles of your shoes today."

  Raymond looked down. His brogues were not new, but he had polished them two days ago, and they shone. The workman walked away from him. His shoes were heavy-duty boots, used either on work-sites or for cross-country hiking. Evidently they were more appropriate footwear than Raymond's shoes.

  The Transport Authority was going to have much to explain today. My car's been eaten by a lift, he thought angrily, and now they're going to keep me from getting to work in time.

  He gritted his teeth as he dialled the Transport Authority phone number.

  ***

  "Good morning, Transport Authority, Hugh speaking. How may I help you?" I answered in French.

  "To start with, it's a very bad morning. Firstly one of your bloody car parks ate my car---"

  "I'm sorry. Did you just say 'ate'?"

  "Yes, 'ate' as in eaten. It got stuck in the lift."

  "Okay. We're aware that we've got serious malfunctions in the car parks. Don't worry. You will be fully reimbursed. If you would be so kind as to leave your name and work phone number?"

  "Hang on, I haven't finished. The metro system is down, and I'm going to be late for work."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but we have problems with the metro system, as well. I know it's no consolation, but I doubt whether many people are going to arrive on time today."

  "Well, what are you doing about it? Aren't you supposed to be on top of problems like this?"

  "Yes, sir. We are giving everyone the same advice. Walk to your office, and we'll do our best to sort out things from here. We hope to have everything cleared up before the end of the afternoon."

  "Great. And how do I get home?"

  "Unfortunately, I cannot say, yet. We will probably implement a temporary measure, like a bus service. If you leave your phone number, we can call you back when we have the details."

  "Okay."

  I entered the name and phone number of a Raymond Baudouin into the growing problem report. It was going to be a long report, but I wanted to make sure it contained everything and everyone who had a legitimate claim. Right now, though, I needed a smoke.

  Martin opted to stay in the TMC and help Patrick, while I led Pierre and the rest of Support out. In the smoking room, with everyone sitting in front of their cup of coffee, I lit a cigarette and breathed in, thankful for the soothing feeling that seeped through me.

  All through my explanation, they remained still. One of them pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes, and passed two of them out. Hands trembling, he tried to light his with a box of matches, but only succeeded in breaking the matches. I reached out to lend him my lighter as I continued.

  "Right now we have all traffic levels at critical, except Level 1--parked cars."

  Pierre is quick, but he prefers explanations to be clear, concise and conclusive. He has been here since the inception of the Transport Authority. Many people from our department, and from others, badger him daily with questions. It takes a lot to bring him to boiling point, but some manage, people like Nys. On the other hand, Pierre does not have time, during a crisis, for confused or misguided descriptions.

  Deciding to play it safe, I enumerated the problems we had. "Level 3- the train tracks at all the P&Rs are out of order. Level 2--most of the metro lines have no power; worst of all, Ring line is dead. Level 1 - the cars already inside the city cannot get into the car-parks. None of the city car-parks are working, and a huge traffic jam is building.

  "I would say, by now," I checked my watch, "there are approximately between one and a half and two million motorists driving around the city, or immobile in traffic jams with their motors running. And to top it all, we have serious accidents at fifteen of the eighteen major crossroads."

  Pierre frowned, deep in thought. "What of the other three crossroads?"

  I let out a sigh, and shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, one of them is still free of accidents. Since last Tuesday, the other two have road-works. The roads have been ripped up to build the two new metro stations. No traffic there, I'm afraid."

  Shivers ran down my spine as the full import of what I was saying sunk in. My face must have betrayed the helplessness I felt, because more than one of them turned white.

  "Even if we wanted to relieve the traffic in the city, we couldn't. All the exits are blocked by the tankers."

  After a slight pause, Pierre came to a decision. "We have to get those car-parks sorted out. Until then, we just have to get the mainframe to shuffle the traffic around the city---"

  I cut him off. "The mainframe won't be much use. It can't handle situations with no options. It needs a destination for all traffic it diverts, otherwise it refuses to work. That's why we had to help the ambulances manually. The computer won't divert cars from one road to another, especially to one with above average usage."

  Pierre sat in stunned silence, waving at the cigarette smoke when it wafted his way. I was glad that he was the one who would have to fill in the department head. Not only did we have health hazards at each accident site, but the traffic jams lead to another nasty predicament -- pollution levels. It wouldn't be long before we had a friendly visit from our local Bourgmestre.

  "And another thing." I had just remembered something that had crossed my mind earlier.

  "What?" snapped Pierre.

  "If you wanted to paralyse the city, how would you go about it?"

  "Don't you think we've got enough..."

  "Bear with me. It may be important. How would you stop the city? Set up a complete gridlock?"

  Pierre squinted hard at me for a moment, then thought it over. There are not many people he would listen to after such a statement as the one I made, though he knows whom he should take seriously.

  "I would stop all commuter trains, then the metro lines, then the cars. After that, it would just be a question of stopping egress from the city---" He trailed off as he realised that his scenario perfectly matched today's events. Two minutes later, he was in the department head's office.

  This day was becoming really nasty. It had begun quietly enough, but as I well knew, it was an unpredictable job.

  ***

  Dark, black smoke rose from the crossroads below. The fire
had spread from the tanker as the burning fuel leaked out. The smoke was so thick that it hid most of the crossroads from sight. The first thing the fire brigade had done when they arrived was to move drivers and passengers upwind of the fire. One on side was a small park on a hill that overlooked the scene. They had left two medics with the crowd, and headed back to see to the fire. The medics went around checking for symptoms of smoke inhalation and shock.

  Susan looked down glumly at the burning remains of her car. By the looks of things, she wouldn't get much work done today. She hadn't been able to get to work, and her laptop computer was still in her car.

  She surveyed the other destitute passengers, those who had been behind her when the tanker exploded. The road they were on was downhill from the fire, and their cars had suffered the same fate that hers had.

  Most of them looked tired and haggard, but someone stood out. It was the young man in the harsh business suit who had probably saved them all by reading the sign on the tanker. His jacket lay smouldering at his feet. The back of his white shirt was blackened and torn. That didn't stop him from looking bright and chirpy. He definitely seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Susan got up and walked over to him. He looked up at her, smiling. She thought she saw him wink at her, but seeing the shadow she cast over his jacket, she realised he was squinting to see her against the glare of the morning sun.

  "Hello. Do you mind if I sit here?"

  "Not at all."

  "I'm not sure..." she trailed off. "Umm, in all the confusion... I think you pulled me to the ground when the..." Susan looked at him for confirmation.

  "When the tanker blew. Yes, that was me."

  "Umm. I'd like to thank you."

  "What for?"

  "Well, saving my life."

  The young man laughed. "I wouldn't go quite that far. The explosion didn't kill me. I lost my jacket," he pointed to the smoking pile before him, "to a piece of flying shrapnel. If I hadn't covered you when the tanker went up, you would only have lost that dress. So, I will accept your thanks, but only for saving you from the embarrassment of running around in your underwear. Nothing more."

  She tried to picture herself taking off her burning dress, amid the bemused crowd of glum drivers. She imagined how embarrassed she would have been, and then how relieved to see no one was paying attention to her. She felt a laugh rise up from her chest. It was partly the humour of the imagined situation, and partly repressed shock. The young man beside her was smiling wryly. He must be having the same thoughts, she realised. She couldn't contain herself anymore.

  She burst out laughing, and the young man instantly joined her. Several people turned round to look at them disapprovingly, but that just added fuel to the incongruous situation, and made them giggle all the more.

  A medic noticed them, and ran over with a worried look on his face. The young man spluttered as he waved the medic away. "We're ----fine. Just letting off steam."

  Susan pointed at the smoking jacket, and spurted, "Steam". That set both of them off again, bringing tears to their eyes. Susan wiped her eyes dry, but the tears just kept coming. She realised she was no longer laughing, but crying. Placing her hands on her face, and her head between her knees, she started sobbing quietly.

  ***

  Complaints were poring in, jamming the TMC phones. Not only was Senior Management getting upset, but every Tom, Dick and Henriette with a car phone were ringing in to give us pieces of their minds, and not the best pieces, either.

  After a short chat with his colleagues, Martin had come back inside to help us. Patrick seemed to be handling the abusive calls well. After the first insult, he just hung up, scratching his dishevelled hair in frustration. Sighing quietly, he sagged forward until his head rested on his arms. I felt a twinge of pity, which I immediately crushed, remembering my first days here.

  Despite our demands for better training techniques, invariably new trainees were put through the shredder on their first few days. They were left to their own devices while the controller on shift got on with the routine. The lack of staff and the daily workload made it extremely hard to squeeze any organized training in. The only kind of teaching we could afford was on the job. If the controller on shift was too busy, the trainee either sorted out problems as best he could with the limited knowledge he may have acquired, learning something new with each problem solved, or he handed in his notice at the end of the day. We lost many prospective colleagues that way. Not everyone is cut out for such a stressful kind of accelerated learning.

  Although Patrick would remember today, if he got through it without too much damage, then working here during normal days would be a breeze.

  The phone fell from his hand; another disgruntled customer. Immediately, it rang again. The little light, indicating that a call was waiting on line one, blinked angrily, but he just stared at it glumly. Reaching over him, I picked it up, was treated to more foul language, and hung up. I looked at him, and shrugged.

  He mumbled something I couldn't hear.

  "What?"

  "Mind if I take a break?"

  "No, go ahead."

  I sat down and began to update the reports, giving as much detail as possible. Whatever the outcome, with incomplete or confused reports the Transport Authority would be at the receiving end of many negligence charges. This was damage control duty. Even if we finished the day without making any unforced errors, there were going to be some changes in our organisation.

  Someone had to take the rap for this. I was just ensuring that the changes were kept to a minimum. Knowing the head of our department, he would fight every change requested by senior management and the Bourgmestre's office, but inevitably he would have to bow to some of their wishes.

  Who knows? Maybe they would make him replace Nys. Do us all a great favour.

  No. If they suggested that, he would defend Nys as ferociously as any of us. Pity.

  "What's this screen for, Hugh?" Patrick was back, pointing his steaming coffee at a large console, off to one side of the room. It was another system we were obliged to check constantly. The Transport Management Centre Website had become a focal point for city information. The Bourgmestre also used it as a means for assessing the quality of our services.

  People could leave e-mail messages, giving their opinions on our work. Each time a new message arrived, the PC emitted a loud beep. Considering the amount of complaints received on a daily basis ever since the installation of the site, my colleagues and I had decided we could do without sound, and always turned the volume down. Officially, we still monitor it as conscientiously as the other screens in the room.

  "Hmm? Oh that. It's our Internet PC. Why?"

  "No reason really. What are all these messages?"

  Without bothering to get up, I knew what those messages said. "That's our Internet mailbox. Anyone visiting our Website can leave a message. Don't bother with that. It'll be just more of the same."

  He sipped at his coffee thoughtfully as he scrolled through the messages. I left him to it, and got back to my reports. If that was the way he wanted to spend his break, then he was hardly as clever as I thought.

  After hanging up the phone, Martin gently massaged his neck, then moaned tiredly. "That was Blue Eye Security. They're still having problems with the car parks. They've got some cranes out there, but they can't work without damaging the lift cages. Even if they clear the wrecks away, the car parks will still be out of use for some time. They estimate at least for the next eleven hours."

  Rolling my eyes, I glanced at the ceiling. It was divided into rows of domed depressions, somewhat like inverted alcoves. I dare say it was supposed to have a soothing effect on the psyche of employees, or some such garbage. Some of the domes contained smoke detectors. Although part of my mind was busy contemplating the weird architecture, I could not help but be preoccupied with the problems at hand.

  Incongruously, a preposterous idea popped into my head, obliterating all other lines of thought. "Martin, why don't
we tell all motorists to leave their cars where they are, go to work on foot, and come back to the traffic jam at the end of the day? Make the city the biggest car park in history."

  The strain was evident in Martin's laugh; there was a definite note of hysteria to it. The stress was beginning to show. I was already half way through my daily pack of cigarettes, and it was only eight-fifty. Martin laughed at my weak joke, and Patrick was away surfing the internet. We all knew very well that the pressure would remain until something was repaired, either the P&Rs or the car parks. If the car parks were first that would give us another twelve hours of traffic jam. We just had to hope it would be the P&Rs.

  The Website PC emitted a sharp bell sound. Strange, really -- we must have received many complaints by E-mail today, but never once did the PC make a sound. I had checked, and the sound was turned down this morning.

  "HUGH!" Patrick yelled, scaring the daylights out of Martin and myself. Having both flinched and recovered simultaneously, we glanced at each other questioningly, then at Patrick.

  His face was as white as a bottle of tippex, his mouth opening and closing silently. I rushed to him, worried that maybe the strain had been too much for him.

  "Hey, are you all right? Patrick?" No reaction. Shaking him had no effect either; his eyes never left the screen. I turned to see what they were fixed on.

  My legs gave way, and I grabbed Martin's arm to steady myself.

  Conspicuous among the many other messages due to the large bright red lettering was one that was neither an insult nor a complaint. It read:

  Dear Transport Authority,

  If all has gone well for us, you won't be able to say the same. The troubles you have been experiencing are all our doing, and if our demands are not met, there is more to come, and believe me it won't be as pleasant. 30 minutes from now you will receive a disk from TNT, the parcel service. View it with care, we will be in touch.