At some time, he thought, south-east England formed part of an ocean floor. By some violent movement of the earth’s surface it was thrust steaming out of the water, except for the valleys which continued to be washed by shallow seas. During this period, before the ocean retreated altogether, sand and gravel was deposited by the massive shovel of nature on top of the other strata. On the North Downs of Junctions 1 to 5, site of the Dartford Crossing, chalk coagulated; thenceforth south to Junction 7, it was hard sand and grey Gault clay, extending from beneath the chalk which continued, cliff-like, to the north; from that point past Reigate to Junction 9, the North Down chalk re-emerged; the miles that followed, culminating in Junction 13, which lay poised just on the north bank of the Thames and beneath the busy umbrella of Heathrow, were comprised mainly of poor soil, interrupted by the silt of the rivers Mole and Wey; the next two junctions around Slough were largely gravel, webbed by an intricate network of half a dozen rivers; beneath the seven junctions thereafter – looking out towards High Wycombe, Watford, St Albans – were clay soils, beneath which in turn, buried deep like some horrid secret repressed, lay more tightly packed chalk; from 22 to 30, from Hertfordshire to Essex, the substance was clay, with gravel panned over the surface as if by some builder god; and from thence southwards, back to Junction 1, that arbitrary point of beginnings, the north bank of the Thames jutted to receive it, an isolated outcrop made once again of that fickle and persistent rogue, chalk.
Taken clockwise, the ancient rivers: Thames, Darenth, Mole, Wey, Thames reprised, Wraysbury, Colne, Chess, Gade, Misbourne, Lea and Roding; the modern canals, Wey, Grand Union, Lea Navigation; the rivers made by man to suit his vanity, Duke of Northumberland, New and Mardyke.
The Romans had built nine roads which crossed the M25. For their part, the Normans had established churches, parishes, parks, forests around its rim. Munificent Elizabethans had built here, on the clean, dry hills but a few hours’ ride from the city, retreats for the health, clear springs; later, unannounced travellers along the route would have swiftly and firmly been turned away by gamekeepers, shotguns nestling in their tweedy armpits.
In 1905 a Royal Commission had proposed an orbital road around the capital at a radius of twelve miles, which was to be populated by horses and wagons, lined by water troughs, and patrolled by wheelwrights and farriers in the event of breakdown. Then motorisation. The Great War. Between the wars, a policy was implemented to build ‘arterial’ roads aided by ‘cross routes’ passing from one artery to the next, resulting in the construction of an Inner Circular Road tracing a line past the Tower and King’s Cross, and a South Circular Road curving in a crooked smile beneath it. In 1939 the Evening Standard published a map projecting what they referred to as the ‘Great London Road’. Finally, in 1943, embedded within a planning document known as the Abercrombie Report, there appeared a new word, a landmark of a word, imported from America and Germany: the suggestion of the construction of ‘a possible inner ring motorway’. A motorway. A road for motor traffic only, with access possible only at certain points. On which all stopping would be flatly prohibited. The genie had slipped, belching exhaust, from the bottle, and never would he countenance being stuffed back in.
In 1975 construction started, amid heated clashes between green policy advocates and those of machines and speed. By the time the motorway was opened at the snip of Thatcher’s scissors in 1986, thirty-nine Public Inquiries had been held, spanning 700 sitting days – six days of Public Inquiry for every mile of motorway. It had only been when construction was already underway that the road was conceived of as a band, rather than two separate arcs, and given a single, unified name: the M25. Between this christening, made official by the Minister for Transport in the House of Commons in 1975, and the original suggestion, there had passed a full seventy years.
Harold finished his tea. Still the traffic had not moved, and the rain had not abated, and neither showed any sign of so doing. The sense of Godly peace had left his heart, but he had expected that; he had long ago arrived at the understanding that the Holy Spirit would come and go as it pleased, and that it was counterproductive to grasp at it when it came, or grieve for it when it went. He was not a lonely man. He washed out his rustic mug, dried it and replaced it in the cupboard; then he took one more swig of his single malt before clambering back through into the cab and returning to his rightful place behind the steering wheel, to sit quietly and gaze through the rain at the magnificent, stinking ribbon of the motorway.
Shampoo
Dave, shawled in darkness, was gazing through sheets of falling water at the unmoving traffic when through the crackle of the rain came the sound of someone fast approaching; then the back door was wrenched open and Stevie, sodden and chuckling, fell into the driver’s seat. He slammed the door; the atmosphere changed; Natalie groaned, changed her position, continued to sleep.
‘Been for a run, you dirty mank?’ said Dave.
‘It’s wet out there, dude,’ was all that Stevie said. ‘It’s wet out there.’ Then his mirth faded, and his laboured breathing subsided, and he removed his wet T-shirt and pulled on a hoodie; and a thick silence came in around them like the tide.
Dave had smoked more skunk. He let his head fall back like a cannonball into the headrest, tried to close his mouth but found that he couldn’t, then found that he didn’t care. He jerked his head to move his fringe back into position, then realised that he had only imagined doing so, and that his fringe was still hanging in a limp tangle on his forehead. He didn’t care. A snowstorm arose in his mind, and he remained there for who knows how long, thinking of nothing, watching the strange visions that emerged sporadically from its whiteness and disappeared again. Then came a darkness, blacker than anything he had experienced, and the strings of lights which formed multiple lines converging towards a single point in the distance were bright and pure and beautiful. The thought of Stevie and Natalie caused a dark well of energy to build up in his loins. He became one with the sheeting rain.
*
Dave had tried to be open-minded at first when Stevie had started on about the ‘piece of meat’. God, he had even, once or twice, joined in. But he had quickly lost his enthusiasm, while Stevie’s had only grown. It had seemed so – not sordid as such – so pathetic. It was sad, the way Natalie was simply giving in; it was sad the way they were all quite capable of being part of the festival village, listening to music, drinking, dancing, without ever mentioning what was going on by night in their tent. Stevie couldn’t believe his luck – he had blood in his nostrils and was taken by the thrill of the chase. Dave had been meaning to say something to him. But how could he change his tune now, having tacitly condoned his behaviour, even taken part in it? And anyway: why was it making him feel uncomfortable? Was he simply being prudish? It wasn’t as if Natalie was bothered. Most of the time she was asleep, or pretending to be, and not once did she complain or pull away. If she didn’t mind, why should he?
With a start, he realised he was giggling. Which was strange, because nothing had amused him. Apart from, perhaps, the awkwardness of the situation, someone giving himself a hand job with a stoned girl’s hand while his mate was sitting in the front. The rocking, the grunting, the long exhalation. The silence and, after a minute or two, the sound of Stevie wiping himself. Dave heard himself giggle again. He opened his eyes. Stevie was sitting beside him in the driver’s seat, his hood pulled over his head. Natalie was asleep in the back.
‘You’re proper biffed, mate,’ said Stevie.
Dave cocked the rear-view mirror and looked at Natalie. She was sprawled across the back seat, one arm dangling downwards to the floor, the other resting across her belly. Her large breasts were splayed, only partially covered by her T-shirt; her hair was hanging over her face, and she was breathing deeply. Water was dripping from a rusty crack in the ceiling, falling into her hair. On the floor was a cluster of screwed-up tissues, like so many white roses. Dave returned the mirror to its original position and she slid out of th
e frame and vanished.
‘You should have a go and shit,’ said Stevie. ‘She’s all yours. Ready and waiting.’
‘No thanks, mate.’
It had been strange to meet Stevie again at university. They hadn’t seen each other for several years – Dave had moved schools just before GCSEs, when his father was posted up north – and although Stevie was recognisable, he had changed. He was still small and skinny, with the same pale skin, the same tightly curling ginger hair, but there was more wiry strength about him, and his eyes had grown shrewd. Doubtless Dave had appeared likewise transformed to Stevie, as the first thing he had done, when they had encountered each other in the student bar, was to stand back and whistle softly.
‘Dave Shelton, isn’t it?’ he had said, without smiling.
‘Stevie,’ Dave had replied. ‘Is that you? What are you doing here?’
‘Sociology. You?’
‘English. I mean, I’m studying English. English and creative writing.’
‘It’s been a long time, Dave boy. Eh?’ A strange, mocking light had entered Stevie’s eyes; a delight, Dave thought later, in seeing the tables turning.
‘It . . . it has, Stevie. It has been a very long time.’
They stood there making small talk, with every word overshadowed by an event from years ago. It had happened at school, after some sports game or other. Swimming perhaps; one of the few sports events in which Stevie took part. He hated laddishness in all its forms, and sport represented everything that was a torment to him. This was, however, school, and sports could not be avoided for ever. On the few occasions when Stevie could not escape participation, he would try to blend into the background, get rid of the ball as soon as it came to him, and afterwards kept himself to himself in the changing rooms. Dave had noticed this. He had also noticed that Stevie would habitually wait until everybody had finished showering before he towel-wrapped his scrawny frame and slipped into the showers himself. Then he would slink out, dress hurriedly, and make his escape, if he was lucky, without being mocked.
The idea, which he had taken from a prank video, had seemed hilarious, and Dave – who, looking back, was anxious to impress the other boys – put it into action immediately. He waited until Stevie had disappeared into the showers (he almost didn’t notice him going in, even though he had been keeping an eye out). Then he beckoned everyone to gather around, and sneaked in after him. Stevie, as always, was facing the wall, head down, water spluttering onto his head and cascading down the channels of his body; his white buttocks were clenched, a thread of soapy water was streaming down between them and onto the shower floor, creating frothy bands around his feet. He had just applied the shampoo, and was rubbing the suds into his hair, rinsing it. He was even humming a tune. Stifling nervous laughter, Dave flipped open the cap of his own shampoo bottle and squeezed a worm of it onto Stevie’s head. Stevie didn’t notice; he continued to rinse as before. The froth proliferated. Dave leaned over and added another turquoise worm of shampoo. The froth proliferated again, and Stevie continued to rinse. Then another – he was rinsing more agitatedly now – and another. The bubbles and foam were multiplying furiously. After a few moments, Stevie let out a low moan. This shampoo, he mumbled, distressed. It’s not going away. Dave added another three loops of shampoo. The bubbles were magnificent. Now Stevie let out a wail: Come and help me. Come and help. This shampoo, I can’t get it out. It won’t come out. It’s not going away. Dave added another reckless spurt of shampoo, the biggest one so far. Stevie began to scratch wildly at his hair as if infested with lice, then raised himself on his toes and thrust his head directly into the showerhead. Tendrils of foam were coiling down his face, his shoulders. He wailed, wailed again: What’s happening? I’m going fucking crazy! It’s not going! It’s not going! Dave looked around. Everyone was laughing, holding their bellies, doubled over. Spurred on by the merriment, he turned back to Stevie and – to his shame – added another generous spiral of shampoo. Stevie, staring at the thick gluts of foam that were slipping down his shoulders and gathering around him like snow, yelled in panic and beat his hands against the tiles. People were laughing at him openly now, but Stevie did not hear them. Suddenly he let out a howl, so loud, so raw, that it killed the laughter. Then he began to beat his head against the wall, against the shower piping, until the white foam became streaked with crimson. Dave sprang forward and pulled him, naked, from the water flow, eyes wild, blood running in tributaries down his face. His mouth, a gaping crescent, was filled with blood and foam and water. It was just a joke, said Dave, just a joke. Calm down. Calm down. At first Stevie was unable to take in his words, kept trying to return to the shower. But when he finally understood what Dave was saying, he stopped perfectly still, the shower hissing behind him. He saw for the first time the press of people in the doorway of the shower, all staring at him. He was naked – white and naked, a prisoner facing execution. His hands slowly moved to cover his penis; the thin lines of blood multiplied across his face, his chest.
‘It has been a long time,’ Dave repeated uncertainly. ‘So. Sociology, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ said Stevie. ‘Took the easy option.’
‘You could have taken creative writing,’ said Dave, ‘that’s got to be even easier.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Stevie, ‘I’ve never been the creative type.
I don’t really feel I’ve got anything to say.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you . . . want a drink?’ said Dave.
‘Sure,’ Stevie replied. ‘If you’re buying I wouldn’t say no. Packet of crisps, too, please. Prawn cocktail. Actually, you know what? Two packets.’
‘Two?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t have any lunch. Thanks, Dave.’
The rain was still falling. They had been there for a long time, and Dave’s trip was wearing off. Stevie had pulled out his phone and was scrolling through something, his face under-lit by a pale blue glow. Like Gollum, thought Dave. He rotated the mirror and looked at Natalie again. She hadn’t moved. Same as before. He carefully watched her chest, and ascertained that she was still breathing. He moved the mirror back into position.
‘Hey,’ said Stevie suddenly, ‘I didn’t show you my new fail compilation.’
‘No,’ said Dave, ‘I don’t think you did. This is a new one?’
‘Yeah, new for this month. It’s hilarious.’
He propped the phone up on the dashboard. The compilation was thirteen minutes long, fail after fail after fail. It began with grainy CCTV footage of a man slumped against an automatic door, asleep – when the door opened, he cartwheeled onto the floor and lay there groaning. There followed a clip of a cat trying to leap from a branch to a wall, missing, and plummeting out of frame; then several shots of teenagers messing up skateboard jumps, and ending writhing in agony on the ground. There were also a couple of car crashes; a man attempting a wheelie on a green racing motorbike, then falling off while the machine shot into the distance; a few skiing accidents; a woman attempting to bounce from a trampoline into a swimming pool, and landing face down on the concrete; a BMX biker jumping from a low roof onto the pavement, his bike buckling under him, howling in pain. All the way through, Stevie laughed his manic laugh as if this was the first time he’d seen it. Dave laughed too, sometimes spontaneously – he was still stoned, after all – and sometimes out of a sense of obligation. They continued in this way until the video had run its course, and the screen of the phone went black. The car was quiet again. Still Natalie in the back seat hadn’t moved.
‘I’m bored,’ said Stevie. ‘Fucking bored. This fucking traffic jam.’
‘It isn’t the most exciting way to spend a Sunday evening,’ Dave conceded.
‘Why doesn’t somebody just sort it out? How hard can it be?
We pay our taxes, don’t we? And I’m starving. Plus I’ve got the munchies real bad.’
‘Actually, we don’t. We’re students.’
‘Have the munchies?’
Jam Page 11
