The Orbital Road

'The Orbital Road' is taken from the collection 'An A-Z of Possible Worlds' from
Roast Books

Not every road has its own fan club but the Great Orbital deserves one. Built for
practical reasons, it is nevertheless an object of astonishing beauty; a coronet
of high grade asphalt encircling the city. It has seven broad lanes in each
direction, sliding like water through the gentle countryside of the river basin.
The sweeping bridges and plunging underpasses, the glittering catseyes and the
smooth, sound absorbent surfacing make it a pleasure to use. At night, the
plentiful sodium lamps that loop above the carriageways, form a vortex of orange
light and in low visibility, fog detectors flood the lanes with a lambent blue
glow. There are twelve tubular service stations, positioned around the perimeter
like numbers on a clock face, glass towers of calm and comfort with relaxation
lounges, health centres and viewing galleries.

Fans of the road or 'Spinners', as they call themselves, are less concerned
with the convenience and function of the Great Orbital, than with the pure bliss
of driving on it. Their monthly magazine is full of tips for the best times to
travel and the ongoing debate over which affords the most pleasure – clockwise or
anti-clockwise circuits. Regular complaints appear on the letters page from
‘Orbital Widows', whose husbands prefer going for a spin to spending time with
their families. Occasionally, a child grumbles that he or she has become an
‘Orbital Orphan' but such protests are rare. Most children enjoy taking a trip to
a service station for a swim or a burger and many take part in the drawing and
writing competitions inspired by the road.

The Orbital Calendar is published in panoramic format. Each month is

illustrated by a photograph taken by a spinner, with a short eulogy in italics
along the bottom. For instance, January last year shows a bright, frosty morning,
the asphalt glimmering with dew, the lamps cooled to a pink flush. Below, the
words say:

The lanes glide into the distance like promises. Concrete rainbows pass
overhead and I am being carried through the hills on a glossy black halo.

March's picture is of a heavy downpour in early spring. Lightning illuminates

a distant cloud and a couple shares an umbrella on a footbridge. The caption
reads:

Rain beats on the roof but I am safe and warm, listening to the steady
breathing of my windscreen wiper.

< 2 >

April shows a busy road on a grubby evening with the photographer's words:

Rush hour. We travel together. Gently, the collective headache is smoothed

away by silken miles of asphalt.

August's photograph is of a heat haze shimmering in the distance. The spinner

has written:

I wind down the window and the breeze washes over me, warm and leathery. The
liquid road flows beneath the car and I am cruising on it, waiting for my junction
like a ball on a roulette wheel.

December has an existential edge. There is an abstract impression of night

driving, a sodium dusk sparkling with the starbursts of tail lights. The words
say:

Catseyes glitter like primal stars in the darkness. Everything is connected

and there is no god. I am spiralling off the face of the planet and into the void.

The Great Orbital had not always inspired such raptures. When the proposed
route was first announced, it was vilified for being too large for the expected
volume of traffic, too insensitive to the topography of the area and too
extravagant for the public purse. Indignant articles booed the first bulldozers,
protesters prostrated themselves before the vibrating rollers and the press
photograph of the year was awarded to the shot of a campaigner being surgically
removed from a steaming slick of tar like a pelican on a polluted beach. It was
all in vain. The Ministry of Transport forged ahead with its project and
eventually the city was collared by a smart new motorway. Yet despite the growing
popularity of the road, the ministers, who could have been claiming credit for its
success, were uncharacteristically silent.

Privately, they were worried. Without informing the public, the Ministry had
already launched an inquiry into why, on a highway designed to be the safest of
its kind in the world, there had already been so many accidents. It didn't make
sense. The steadily curving lanes maintained a free flow of traffic even at peak
times, yet there were frequent crashes all around the perimeter that involved no
more than one or two vehicles and often resulted in fatalities. For no apparent
reason, cars suddenly veered off the road like particles being flung out of orbit,
taking with them whatever had the misfortune to be in their path. Although the
volume of traffic had remained largely stable, the emergency services were
reporting an alarming increase in the number of such incidents.

< 3 >

In vain, the investigation team sought to identify black spots on the road
but the accidents followed no apparent pattern in location or time of day. The
crashes contained all the symptoms of a driver falling asleep at the wheel but as
a complete circuit of the Orbital took around two hours, this was hardly an
adequate explanation. Witnesses could only describe how they had seen a car
suddenly swerve off the road, not slowing down until it had smashed into the
nearest obstacle. The drivers themselves were invariably killed. Those who
survived were in no fit state to answer questions, for, to date, they had all
fallen into a similar, vegetative state.

If the problem was not with the road, it must be with the motorists. The
Transport Minister commissioned an urgent survey of the driving habits of those
using the Great Orbital. Their responses to detailed enquiries about visibility,
signposting and surface tread yielded nothing but praise. It was the initial,
routine question, 'what is the purpose of your journey?' that elicited the most
unsettling replies. As expected, most people were going to work, delivering goods
or on a leisure outing but a significant minority said they were, 'just driving
round'. A few admitted that they simply could not resist an extra lap before
turning off. In the middle of the afternoon, some of them had still not made it to
work. Others claimed they had 'just missed' their junction, for the second or
third time and one man, questioned in the early hours of the morning, confessed
that he had finished work at five but had been 'lapping' ever since. Police
traffic patrols were instructed to look out for anything unusual in the conduct of
motorists on the Great Orbital and the Ministry commissioned a second, more
detailed, questionnaire.
 This time, psychologists were sent out with the investigation teams to ask
more pertinent questions and try to ascertain if there was a clinical explanation
for such compulsive behaviour. Several drivers were identified as suffering from
what was privately dubbed 'Orbital Syndrome'. The following extracts from their
interviews were presented to the Ministry of Transport at their next meeting:

Male, forties, Marketing Manager:

'I like to drive round twice on my way home. It relaxes me and helps keep the
car running smoothly.'

< 4 >

Female, thirties, PR Consultant:

'It sounds silly, but I have this idea that if I don't drive a couple of laps
each day, the road will go all lumpy and potholed like the other ones round here.
As I pass under the gantries, I check that my speed is exactly sixty and if it
isn't, I must drive another lap as a sort of punishment. I have to keep it steady
otherwise the car will break down and the whole road will melt back into the
fields.'

Male, twenties, Investment Banker:

'The trouble is I just keep missing my turning. And then I'm in the doghouse
at home. My girlfriend thinks I'm having an affair but really, I get on the road
and I want to carry on driving forever. It empties my mind; makes me feel safe.'

Female, thirties, Probation Officer:

'Well, the world's round, isn't it? And the sun, the moon, flowers, wheels,
faces. One way or another, everything's circular. Even seasons and tides and blood
are circulating. So when I'm driving round this road it's like there are invisible
ribbons connecting all the vehicles to the clock tower in the centre of town and
we're just spinning round and around, like we're doing a pagan dance (giggles).
You think I'm off my head, don't you?'

Male, thirties, Van Driver:

'There's something about this road that makes me feel proud, if you know what
I mean. Proud to be human, to drive a car that's faster than the fastest creature
in the world, on a road that's smoother than ice. I mean, when I'm on the Orbital,
no one can tell me what to do. I own this car. I own the road. I own the whole
universe, dammit. That's how it feels, anyway.'

Male, thirties, Proofreader:

'To be honest, it's my life. I mean, it's the best road in the world, isn't
it? I'm lucky to live in the country that built it. My taxes paid for this. I've
moved nearer so that I can drive on it every day, even though I don't actually
need to. It makes me feel at peace, not afraid of death or anything. It worries me
that they might build another one somewhere else. Then I'd be really torn. But for
now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be. I spent my holiday here last year.'

< 5 >

Female, fifties, Chemistry Teacher:

'I have the sense that I'm going somewhere and nobody can stop me. I know I'm
not really, but I could be and it could be anywhere. On the Great Orbital
(laughs), I call it the Great Possible actually, I feel as if I'm touching
infinity.'

The Ministry avoided making a public statement, because they had no idea what
to say. Traffic continued to pour round the Great Orbital, oblivious to the
growing number of police cordons and emergency vehicles on the hard shoulder. The
craze for driving round and round for no reason was escalating.

While the experts were evaluating the responses from the second survey, an
incident occurred that provided the police with their first direct witness. A
couple in their thirties had been on their way to visit friends one Saturday
afternoon. There had been light showers in the morning but then the sky had
cleared. It was just after two o'clock when, without any perceptible lapse in
speed, their car catapulted across two lanes of traffic, crossed the hard
shoulder, plunged down an embankment, turned over once and crashed into a
telegraph pole. Despite severe injuries to her legs and pelvis, the female
passenger had managed to clamber out of the vehicle just before it burst into
flames. The fact that she was unable to walk and had been crawling on the ground
at the time of the explosion had protected her from the worst of the blaze but her
boyfriend was cremated at the wheel.

As soon as she regained consciousness, the police interviewed her. Although

she was in a state of shock and heavily sedated, her account was clear and
detailed. As they listened to her recorded statement, the investigation team had
the ominous feeling that she was telling them something they already knew.

"We left the house just after ten," she began, her words slightly slurred,
her voice flat and mechanical. "We'd already had a bit of an argument. My
boyfriend was waiting in the car, revving the engine. That really annoyed me
because we had loads of time. Anyway, when I got in the car, he drove off at top
speed in a huff, slamming the gears and over braking at the lights. We joined the
Great Orbital at junction seven but instead of heading south for junction five, he
took the northbound carriageway and began driving the wrong way without saying
anything. At first, I was furious because he'd rushed me just to sit in a car but
he said it was a lovely day for a drive and told me to stop nagging. I was pretty
upset. I mean, we get on all right, usually. I'm not a nag and he's never accused
me of that before. So I shut up and decided not to say a word unless he did, even
though I was dying to point out that it wasn't a nice day at all. It was miserable
and overcast, drizzling. But I didn't want an atmosphere all day so I kept quiet
and actually began to enjoy the drive. We sat in silence but the silence grew
friendlier, if you know what I mean. What I'm trying to say is that he wasn't
angry or upset or anything when, you know, it happened."

< 6 >

Here, the tape was turned off to allow the witness time to compose herself
before she could resume her statement.

"Thank you, I'll be all right. It must have been around noon when we reached
junction five. I had cheered up by then, humming, looking out of the window and
crunching sweets really loudly. We still weren't talking much. Not at all, in
fact, but as I said, he wasn't annoyed anymore. As we approached our junction, I
checked my watch to see if we'd be late. That's how I know what the time was. It
was nearly twelve so he'd been going some, I know, but you can get away with it on
that road. I was fine and he was fine but then, without saying anything, he just
whizzed right past junction five. 'That's our turning,' I said. I think I tried to
make a joke of it, like, ‘whoops, there she goes. Now we'll have to drive all the
way round again!' I expected him to laugh or curse. I wanted to say, ‘What's going
on? Get off the road, you silly arse, I've got better things to do than sit in a
car all day' but I didn't want to upset him. I thought, perhaps he's pretending it
doesn't matter. He's irritated because he's missed the junction. You know what men
can be like about directions. When he didn't slow down at junction six, either, I
thought he was sulking and was going straight home. In that mood, I wouldn't put
it past him. I decided I could drop him off and drive back in the car myself.
They're my friends, you see. He doesn't really get on with them."

"But then we sailed right past junction seven as well and this was when I
started to worry. He seemed kind of tense, crouching over the wheel and staring
into the distance like a zombie. He didn't blink or anything. I tried to reassure
myself that he was having a joke with me, driving twice round the Orbital because
I didn't want to go round even once. Not a very funny joke but anyway. I looked at
the time and saw we'd be about two hours late, which, unfortunately, isn't that
unusual for us. So I deliberately made a big thing about settling back and
pretending I was having a great time to show that I couldn't care less but if he
noticed, he didn't let on."

< 7 >

"So we drove for another whole circuit. I think he even slowed down a bit,
just to annoy me. We were probably still breaking the speed limit but not by much.
It took us about two hours and in all this time, he didn't move or speak, just
stared ahead. It was ten to two when we approached junction five again and by now,
I was pretty anxious; frightened, to be honest. I was quite scared of him. All I
can say is, he was right out of character. It wasn't like him at all but I suppose
everyone says that, don't they?"

"You can guess what happened next. We stormed right past junction five again.
I totally flipped. I started yelling that I wanted to get out of the car. I waved
my hand in front of his eyes but he didn't react. Not a flutter. It was like he'd
gone into a coma. And the next thing I knew, he drove straight off the road like
he wanted to kill me."

At these words, the witness broke down and sobbed. An off-mic voice could be
heard trying to comfort her. Only a few more phrases were audible, as if she had
her hands over her face.

"He wanted to kill me! He must've hated me! It wasn't him driving. It was
like somebody else." With an effort, the witness succeeded in composing herself
enough to blurt out the last few sentences and it was these that chilled the
investigators the most. "He wasn't even that badly hurt," she whimpered. "He was
sitting upright in his seat when the car exploded. His eyes were still open. If
I'd have known he needed help, do you think I would have left him there? I would
never get out of a car if I thought he was too hurt to walk. I didn't want him to
die. I love him! What am I going to do without him? He wasn't injured in the
crash. When the car overturned, he didn't even bang his head like I did because he
was sitting so rigid, I don't think he even came off his seat. I didn't know the
car was going to explode."

Another voice cuts in from behind the speaker. "That's enough now, please,"
it says and the tape ends.

< 8 >

A medical advisor to the investigation team was adamant that, if the woman's
account was accurate, the symptoms she described were nothing like epilepsy or
heart failure. When pushed, he admitted that the victim might have suffered a
narcoleptic fit, but stressed that this was extremely unlikely in one who had
never displayed any previous tendencies and was not on any drugs or medication.
Unfortunately, the body was so badly damaged that the post-mortem could throw no
further light on the case. The coroner agreed that, in this instance, a verdict of
accidental death should be recorded. There were no reasonable alternatives. Nobody
wanted unpleasant rumours to leak into the public domain before they knew what
they were talking about. Much as they would have liked to dismiss the crash as a
freak accident, the people at the Ministry knew in their hearts, that it was part
of a wider pattern and the statistics were inexorably rising.

The alerted traffic patrols were reporting frequent sightings of motorists

hunched over their wheels, tense and unblinking, apparently in a stupor similar to
the trance that the crash survivor had described. If they tailed them, they
invariably drove for several laps round the Orbital Road before turning off or
stopping at a garage to refuel. But since they were not breaking any rules, the
police couldn't follow every suspect vehicle indefinitely. They did, however,
begin to compile a list of the registration numbers of 'at risk' cars and within a
month, or a week, sometimes that very day, a disturbing proportion of them were
involved in an accident. Since membership of the Spinners Club was still
accelerating, The Ministry of Transport realised that it would be immoral to avoid
warning the public about events on the new motorway any longer. If the crash
survivor had known about Orbital Syndrome, she might have been able to take some
kind of preventative action. They issued the following statement:

'In the interests of safety, we would like to advise motorists against

driving for multiple laps around the Great Orbital Road. Such behaviour is
irresponsible and potentially dangerous. Recently, there has been a spate of
accidents caused by tiredness resulting from this trend. If you feel yourself
compelled to drive more often than is necessary or know of anyone suffering from
such a condition, please consult your doctor or contact the helpline number below.
Help us to help you to keep your roads safe.'

< 9 >

The press accused the Ministry who had made the announcement of
scaremongering and vagueness. Furious, the Spinners protested that their harmless
hobby was being treated as an illness and jammed the helpline with complaints
about the infringement of their human rights.

It was not until an article from a medical journal found its way into the
national press, that people began to take the situation seriously. Particularly
disconcerting was the tone of the author, who referred to a condition, called
Orbital Syndrome, as if it was a well established disorder that the professional
subscribers to the journal were already familiar with.

Sufferers were all survivors of crashes on the Great Orbital Road, who had
sunk into a similar, cataleptic state. Neither awake nor asleep, they sat all day,
faintly rocking, their right feet at a forty-five degree angle from the floor,
their arms stretched out rigidly before them, their hands clamped to an invisible
hoop. If their clenched teeth, profuse sweating and occasional moans were anything
to go by, they were in severe physical discomfort. The specialist who had written
the article described how he had succeeded in relieving his patients from some of
their pain by seating them in softly vibrating chairs. He also advised using a
strobing orange light during the hours of darkness. Although the author admitted
that, throughout this treatment, his patients had made no progress towards
regaining consciousness and seemed to endure intense cramps when the chair was
turned off, he had discovered a temporary alleviation from their immediate
distress. His charges remained incapable of speech, sleep and rational thought but
for as long as their chairs vibrated gently under them, they seemed to be
comfortable, even at peace, with their condition.

The report spread deep concern throughout the populace. The Ministry of
Transport lost control of the public mood and could no longer protect its precious
motorway. People began to worry about a strange virus that was infecting them, or
a pollutant that was contaminating their drinking water. Many motorists developed
an irrational phobia of the Orbital Road, as if its graceful curves had the power
to erase their minds and entice them to their deaths. But the Spinners scoffed at
the news and continued to enjoy the gradually emptying road with gusto.

< 10 >

Almost nobody ever uses the Great Orbital for its intended purpose anymore.
Terrified motorists are unable to drive on it without being spooked by visions of
flaming cars, smashed windscreens, scorched bodies draped across crumpled bonnets,
slow motion crash test dummies of real flesh and blood and row upon row of blank
faced casualties, nodding to themselves in their specially vibrating chairs.
Instead, they are taking long and circuitous routes to avoid the jinxed motorway
at night or alone or altogether. The traffic that should be flowing freely in and
out of a clean and prosperous metropolis is congesting the suburban roads so
severely that access to the city has become even more difficult than it was before
the road was built. But the Great Orbital is still full. It has become a
destination in its own right, somewhere to go for people who have nowhere to go. A
steady stream of cars cruise round and around it, their drivers looking neither
left nor right, intent on the distant horizon while within its circumference, the
once great city languishes and fades. Slowly, its blood supply is being cut off by
an implacable asphalt tourniquet.