Free Jam by Jake Wallis Simons Page B

black cloud had slipped in front of the sun, and it felt as if the whole of England had been cast into shadow. The air thickened. And, after all this time, she remembered the curse.
    How could her hangover be worsening? This fucking traffic. A few cars along, she caught sight of an Oriental woman in a Prius. There was something horribly lonely about the woman, about this whole thing really. All along the line she could seemen – not women, men – popping up like meerkats, half-in and half-out of their vehicles, hair ruffled as if just out of bed, gazing pointlessly into the blackness. Then she saw the Waitrose van, and a small group of people clustering around the open door of the driver’s cab. And she decided it would be a good idea to join them.

Piece of meat
    â€˜Well, that was a great success and shit,’ said Stevie, dropping back into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. ‘Operation Munchie. Way to go.’
    â€˜It was your idea,’ said Dave.
    â€˜Bollocks it was,’ said Stevie, laughing. ‘Get some munchies from that van? Bollocks it was.’
    â€˜Whatever.’ Dave began to scroll vacantly through Facebook on his HTC, and Natalie struck a lighter and applied the flame to the spliff. The tip glowed orange, then dimmed, then glowed again.
    â€˜After you, madam,’ said Stevie, ‘wouldn’t mind a puff.’
    â€˜You’re supposed to be driving,’ said Natalie, coughing, ‘you can’t.’
    â€˜Just one toke,’ said Stevie. ‘We’re not going to move for ages.’
    â€˜You don’t know that,’ said Natalie.
    â€˜You just want to keep it all for yourself,’ said Stevie. ‘Selfish sket.’
    â€˜Relax,’ said Dave, pocketing his phone and taking the spliff from the girl. He was in an awkward position, twisted round in the front seat. His eyes were stinging. ‘There’s more than enough to go round.’
    â€˜I’m feeling quite sort of lean already,’ said Natalie, flopping back in her seat. ‘That’s good blow. Where did you get it, Stevie?’
    â€˜Good blow, eh?’ said Stevie, and laughed his wild laugh.
    â€˜It’s different to the stuff we’ve been having so far, isn’t it?’ said Natalie. ‘Tastes more tangy.’
    â€˜It’s skunk, that’s why,’ said Stevie. ‘We’ve been breaking youin slow. This stuff’s strong as fuck. Off the scale. There’s this bloke who comes round halls every couple of weeks and shit. Josie’s mate, you know.’
    â€˜The little bloke?’ said Dave. ‘The black one? With the hair?’
    â€˜He has got hair,’ said Stevie. ‘If he’s the one you’re talking about.’ He laughed again.
    The car, an arthritic Ford estate splattered with mud, creaked with every movement like an old suitcase straining at the seams. It was full to the roof with backpacks, duvets, a rolled-up tent in a brightly coloured fabric tube and crates of beer.
    â€˜I can see the road and everything here,’ said Natalie, bending over in a strange way, as if her head had become too heavy for her body. ‘Through the floor.’ She was shining a torch downwards. The others craned to see; sure enough, in a nook just under one of the front seats the rust had opened a hole the size of a thumbnail. She pressed her fingers into it and some fragments of metal flaked away. Now it was the size of a whole thumb, and the tarmac was clearly exposed.
    â€˜Hey, stop trashing my fucking car, bitch,’ said Stevie in a high-pitched American accent. ‘You’re trashing my fucking car.’
    More laughter. The spliff did another round or two before smouldering and going out. But the smoke remained in the vehicle, gathering around the ceiling in peaceful clouds. From the outside, wisps could be seen filtering through the cracks where the doors were not properly aligned with