Seek Alternative Route
Buckley thumped his steering wheel in frustration. Ahead, the motorway was a bank of red lights as the traffic in all three lanes braked to a halt. He had been cruising comfortably at eighty, plenty of time to get to the meeting, and now this. A red triangle lit up on his SatNav. Congestion it said underneath. Seek alternative route.
He swore. He was miles from Bracknell. Cars jostled up behind him to fill his mirror. If he wasn’t at the meeting Stephens would push through his own plans for Europe. And everyone knew what that meant.
He scrolled through the numbers on his Blackberry. O’Connor would have to state their case. A shame the man was useless. Stephens would frown and question and O’Connor would roll over.
‘Hi Neil. Are you nearly here?’ O’Connor sounded worried. O’Connor always sounded worried.
‘I’m stuck on the bloody M4. Have you got the Powerpoint in case I’m late?’
‘I’ve got the one you emailed on Tuesday.’
‘Good enough. Just make sure everyone sees it. Especially Hampton. She’s the one that matters. She’s a bitch but she’s not stupid. If Stephens gets the nod we’re dead in the water.’
‘They’re both here already.’
‘Just tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He hung up and sat for a moment, fuming with useless anger. He knew how it worked. Decisions were made beforehand, or over coffee. The actual meeting was just for show. He had to get there in time.
He opened the car door and stepped onto the motorway. It was colder than he had expected. The air tasted of fumes. At least the rain had stopped. He peered up the huddled lines of traffic. Nothing moved. He held up his arms in a shrug of disbelief.
In the middle-lane, five cars back, Slaughtered Pig pulled out the earphones of his iPod. He sighed. At least he had plenty of time. It was hours before the night’s gig and they were on last anyway.
He leafed through the tattered road atlas he was using to find the night’s venue, the Independent Chapel in Reading. They had played there once before, years ago, when they were up-and-coming. Did that mean they were on their way back down now? Or, the thought that troubled him more and more, did it mean they’d never gone anywhere in the first place?
Up ahead, a suit had got out of a silver Mercedes and was gesturing at the traffic as if the whole thing had been staged to inconvenience him. He would have been powerfully built once, a rugby-player type, but now the curve of his belly protruded farther than his chest. Heart-attack shape. Pig grinned. The Merc had a personalized number plate, NE1L 3, the 1 written so that it looked like the letter I. Wanker. Did it rankle with him that he couldn’t afford NE1L 2 or NE1L 1? He had cruised by a mile or two back. Now they were almost together. It felt like a victory of sorts.
Pig rolled a twig-like fag, watching the man. All that singing and shouting. They hadn’t really changed anything had they? The world was still run by people like this, executives and bankers ruining everything. Still, he had tried. That was something.
The suit would have a mobile, though. Perhaps he could borrow it. Let the band know where he was. He waited a few moments then, with no sign of the traffic moving, stepped down from the van.
Buckley watched the low-life slam the door of his Transit van. On the side it said, painted in crude red letters, Catharsis World Tour. This was all he needed. The guy looked like he lived in the vehicle. His head was shaved, his ears and eyebrows studded with metal, his tee-shirt ripped and stained. Several teeth were missing. Lost in some brawl, no doubt. Or resisting arrest.
‘Looks like a bad one,’ the low-life said as he approached, indicating the lines of traffic with a nod of his head. ‘Gets worse every day, eh?’
Establish a rapport. Identify a shared problem. It was nicely done.
‘Too much traffic on the roads,’ said Buckley.
‘I’m Slaughtered Pig.’
‘Slaughtered Pig?’
‘Stage name. From an early review. The singer grunts and squeals like a slaughtered pig. You can call me Terry.’
‘Terry Pig?’
The man grinned. ‘Terry Burns.’
Wasters like this made him laugh, going about thinking the world owed them a living. ‘And your band’s called Catharsis, right?’ Buckley prided himself on being able to put people at their ease.
‘That’s it. Punk Rock stalwarts.’
‘Like the Sex Pistols?’
‘Kinda. That’s ancient history. We’re more thrash. Grindcore, you know?’
‘My son’s in a band.’
‘What does he play?’
‘Guitar.’
‘No, I mean what sort of music. Indie, dub, trance, metal, what?’
‘Rock. You know, pop.’
‘What bands he into?’
‘I took him to see Springsteen at Twickenham last year. The Boss, you know? Fantastic. The guy works so hard. Played for over three hours.’
‘I’m not really a fan.’
‘I’ve got some in the car. If we’re stuck here long you can listen to some.’ It was meant as a joke. He regretted it as soon as he’d said it. There were still no cars moving. Everyone had turned their engines off. The only sound was the ticking of cooling metal.
Christ. All he’d wanted was to borrow the guy’s phone, not move in with him.
Although actually, now that he saw the suit up close, he was beginning to feel sorry for him. You could see how unhappy he was. The features of his face were lost in fat, all those meals in expensive restaurants, networking, making deals. A life of meetings and sucking the cock of the next suit up. It was Pig’s idea of hell.
‘Going anywhere important?’ asked Pig.
‘Meeting. You?’ The suit wasn’t really interested, of course; his eyes wandered even as he asked.
‘Gig.’
‘Ah.’
Up and down the motorway, other drivers climbed out of their cars, like animals emerging from hibernation. Parents herded children off to the hard shoulder to squat awkwardly in the grass. An illuminated sign above the carriageway lit up, displaying the single word: Congestion. Pig flicked the end of his fag to the ground. This late in the year it was already beginning to get dark. The sun was just a formless smudge of white light in the sky behind them, giving off no heat.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ he said. Scum he may be but the guy looked like he needed it.
‘You have tea?’
‘In a flask.’
The suit nodded and turned to gaze up the motorway.
When Pig returned, the man was back in his car, door wide open, talking in angry tones to someone called O’Connor. He indicated the passenger seat with a nod of his head. Pig, grinning at being told what to do, walked around the car. The Merc would be warm at least. The leather of the seat was wonderfully soft. The suit finished his conversation and slammed the phone back into its cradle.
‘Not good?’ asked Pig.
‘Not good. Two years work down the drain. Apparently Hampton loved Stephens’ plans. Said ours were ambitious. Ambitious! Bloody cow.’ He was staring out of the windscreen, not really seeing Pig. His tie was loose now and rings of sweat crept out from his armpits. Pig poured tea into a plastic cup and handed it to him.
‘Black, no sugar I’m afraid.’
The suit turned to look at him, as if only then aware of his presence in the car.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the cup.
‘So, you lost a deal or something?’
‘A big deal.’ For a moment, Pig thought that was all he was going to say. Then he carried on.
‘It’s curtains for the whole division, now. We’re dead in the fucking water. Two years, maybe three, the whole thing will go tits-up. Without Europe we’re just backwater. We’re fucking toast.’
Pig sipped his tea, letting him rant. The guy needed to rant. He understood that feeling well enough. It was pretty much his entire act. He sat back, enjoying the enfolding softness of the car seat.
And here was the terrible truth. Although he had been the singer with Catharsis for ten years now, living the life, and although he had the words Punk Rock ‘Til I Die tattooed across his chest in red and black, sometimes, rattling back home at three in the morning, he fantasised about having a car like this. And a house with heating. And holidays. And a pension to look forward to rather than poverty. He actually found himself wishing he had a pension. Sweet fucking Jesus, how rock ‘n roll was that?
He knew he couldn’t be the singer in Catharsis forever. But what were the alternatives? He had lost too many friends to the twin evils of heroin and the rat-race. Sometimes it seemed one of them would get him in the end. Heroin was quicker but the other was just as effective. Worse really. The body survived but the soul died. A year, or two, or ten if they were strong, and they started to believe what they were doing mattered. That it was what they were.
He sometimes thought about all the kids who had come to see them play in the old days. You still saw a few, maybe, standing at the back. But most had been lost, that whole generation. It was like the First World War or something.
Pig poured them both more tea. ‘Listen, I’ve brought our latest CD. If you give it a go I’ll suffer Bruce-Fucking-Springsteen. Deal?’
The suit had visibly sagged since the ‘phone call.
‘Sure,’ he said.
They sat in silence, listening to Darkness on the Edge of Town. Buckley had forgotten how much he loved the album. Hadn’t listened to it for years, not properly. There was no comparison to Catharsis. Dear God, that had been like someone sandpapering away his brain. Still, you had to admire what Pig had done, making a career out of such a lack of talent. It was actually impressive. He was his own boss.
Buckley looked at the clock on the dashboard. They had been there for two hours. What time would he finally get home? What would Janice say when he did? She was used to it, of course. All the nights and weekends away. The trips abroad. He had worked bloody hard.
His gaze returned to the photo he had found tucked inside the Springsteen case. It was what, twenty-five years old? He had transplanted the CD from car to car, promising himself he would listen to it again. The colours of the picture were washed out but the detail was clear. What had happened to them all, those young men grinning and posing like idiots for the camera? Big Bob, always in his Motörhead tee-shirt. Gram holding Andy in a head-lock, pretending to strangle him. Buckley standing behind them, holding up two open cans of beer.
They had been to a rock festival, drunk warm bitter for three days straight and slept in Big Bob’s battered Datsun when it rained. The memories were vivid. Sometimes he could remember nothing at all of whole years since then. The photo was taken at a service station on the M6. They had laughed at the disapproving glares of the other motorists, the parents ushering children out of their path.
Big Bob had a guitar and Gram played the drums. They talked about starting a band. He had forgotten about that. He hadn’t spoken to any of them for years. He wondered what they would say to each other if they met again.
A police officer in a yellow jacket walked down the line of cars, stopping to speak to each driver. Buckley pressed the button to lower his window. Her name tag identified her as Gough. Young, but looked like she could handle just about anything.
‘Everything okay here, gentlemen?’
‘We’re fine, officer,’ Buckley replied. ‘When will we be moving?’
‘Going to be a while I’m afraid.’ She must have told the story a hundred times but she remained polite. ‘There’s been a bad accident three miles ahead. Fire has damaged the carriageway. We’re waiting for cranes. If there’s an emergency we can get you out but otherwise it’s best you stay with your vehicle.’ She glanced at the Volvo behind them. ‘We’ll provide food and blankets. It’ll be cold later.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Pig. ‘Got loads of blankets in the van. Heater doesn’t work. In the winter I get ice on the inside.’
‘This isn’t your vehicle, sir?’
‘No. I’m in the Transit back there.’
Gough looked away for a moment.
‘Could you get them, sir?’
‘What now?’
‘Please.’
Pig grinned. ‘Sure.’
When he was gone, the officer leaned in and spoke quietly.
‘This man is not causing you a problem is he?’
‘We’re just talking,’ said Buckley.
She didn’t look convinced. ‘If you need us, phone 999. You’d be surprised what goes on when people are stranded on a motorway overnight.’
‘I will, officer, thank you.’
She stepped back and wrote something in her notebook. Pig smiled at her as he returned, holding a bundle of blankets. They filled the car with the smell of dust.
‘She thought I was mugging you didn’t she?’ said Pig.
‘She did.’
‘Happens all the time. Mind you, this is a nice car.’
He was joking, Buckley could see that. His ferocious appearance was all just for show.
Buckley leaned back. ‘Feel free. It hardly matters now.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Pig.
‘Listen, do you want to phone anyone?’
‘Uh, yeah, that would be good actually, thanks.’
Buckley listened as Pig argued with someone in his band over who would do the singing. If that was the right word. He took the phone back off him when he had finished and said nothing.
So Greg could manage the vocals could he? The man had all the stage-presence of an armchair. Jesus.
Pig tried to put them out of his mind, think about something else. A tune had been buzzing round in his head for hours. He had the chord progression. E minor, A minor, D, E minor. Then E, C, D, for the chorus. The thing was, however much he played the song in his mind, he couldn’t make it sound like Catharsis. It was more … reflective. It was still noisy; it wasn’t fucking Springsteen for Christ’s sake. But it wasn’t a song Greg would like. He had quite a collection of them now. Enough for an album.
‘So your band can manage without you?’
‘So they say.’
‘Sounds like there are artistic differences.’
Pig laughed.
‘Thing is, I’m the only one left from the original line-up. They think I’ve gone soft.’
‘Didn’t sound like it to me.’
‘They’re just young.’
‘But they can’t kick you out surely? That must be against the agreement.’
‘There is no contract. This is a punk band, not a corporation.’
‘I wouldn’t let them walk over me if I was you.’
‘No. I’m sure.’ He really didn’t need advice from the man. ‘So what about you? Where do you go now this division of yours is fucked?’
‘Oh, something will come up. Irons in fires, you know?’
‘I could hear how much you hate them. You should get away. I don’t know, be your own boss. Whatever.’
Buckley looked at him but didn’t reply.
They ate the sandwiches and chocolate provided for them in silence. It was late now, nearly eleven. They still hadn’t moved. He had phoned Janice to tell her he wouldn’t be getting home any time soon. She had sounded tired.
He had been starting the car occasionally to give them some heat but now he was huddled under one of Pig’s blankets. They had both been lost in their thoughts for a long time.
‘So maybe you should go solo too,’ said Buckley. ‘Strike out on your own.’
Pig, not even opening his eyes, only grunted in reply.
At two in the morning, Constable Gough walked back down the line of vehicles. She shone her torch into the Mercedes. The businessman and the skinhead were sound asleep, the car’s seats fully reclined, a tattered blanket covering each of them. They breathed in unison. Shaking her head, she walked on to check the young family in the Volvo.
Four hours later, they finally began to creep forwards. Car and van overtook each other repeatedly as the three lanes of traffic built up speed. The sky ahead glowed with golden light.
Pig’s engine made its usual grinding noises, but he soon hit sixty. He tossed the road atlas into the van’s footwell. He knew where he was going now. He would come off the motorway at the next junction, but go round and come back on. There was no longer any need to get to Reading.
Buckley, in the outside lane, stretched some life back into his arms and shoulders. It was good just to be moving. He glanced out of his side-window, away from the narrow funnel of the motorway, out over fields and woods, catching glimpses of distant buildings in the half-light. He thought about his plans. He could be home in a couple of hours. He had a lot of calls to make. He and Janice needed to talk.
He watched Pig come off the motorway, his van ascending the slip road, curving up and away. Buckley grinned at the sight of him in his mirror and accelerated forwards.
Simon Kewin writes fiction and poetry. Some of it is fantasy, some of it is SF and some can’t make its mind up. His work has appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies. He lives in the UK with Alison and their two daughters Eleanor and Rose. He has a BA in English Literature and is currently learning to play the electric guitar. His web site is simonkewin.co.uk and he blogs at Spellmaking, Adventures in Writing: Fiction, Poetry, Stuff.
