by Dai Smith
We wait an hour or so, and then Mitch says we ought to get back to Dai’s to make sure he’s got the lamb rigged up proper. As we leave Wayne gives Lizzie a squeeze, making her go pink and call him a wicked boy, and we tell her to lock up tight and not to expect Jaz back, because the barbecue’ll go on all night.
As soon as we turn into Dai’s field we know something’s wrong. The fire’s not even lit, Pete and Dai are shouting at each other in front of the bus, Karin’s screaming at Pete, and Jaz’s sitting next to Josie on the back step with his boots off and his head in his hands like he just died.
Josie comes running over. ‘They got the Guzzi! Just walked down while Jaz was asleep and we didn’t know who they were.’
‘Fucking left the key in it, didn’t I,’ wails Jaz. ‘Drove it straight off.’
‘Just as well,’ Karin snaps, coming up. ‘Carrying lump hammers, they were. Saw them.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ yells Pete. ‘Stupid cow.’
‘Thought they were a couple of Dai’s mates, shithead,’ Karin shouts back. ‘There’s always blokes in and out of here.’ She’s steaming with rage.
‘What I want to know,’ says Dai, scratching his beard and looking bewildered, ‘is how they knew to come here?’
Nobody bothers to answer him, it’s such a stupid question. Jaz’s got the only big Guzzi in town, and everyone knows he knows Dai, and where the bus is parked. I’m thinking about what’s strapped to the back of the Guzzi. No sign of a feed bag on the grass. Can’t decide if it complicates things or not.
‘We’ll go get it back,’ says Mitch, wheeling his bike round.
‘I’m coming,’ says Jaz, struggling to get his boots on.
Wayne gives him his helmet back and gets a spare from the bus. I remember what Lizzie said about Jaz staying out of fights, but I reckon it’s his bike and if there’s four of us no one should get hurt. Wayne gets on behind me, Jaz behind Mitch. I tell Wayne about the feed bag as we bump up the field and he says, ‘Uhuh,’ like he’s got to ponder it too.
We go to Tredegar first, the back mountain way. The way you’d go if you’d nicked a big spiteful bike and needed some easy miles to get used to it, then up into town, round the clock tower, and cruise the streets a while. See a couple of kids on Yams and ask them if they’ve seen a big Guzzi with two up, but they say they haven’t.
We stop in a lay-by the north end of town to decide where to go next. Jaz nods towards the Heads of the Valleys road up ahead and says they’ll go for a thrash, definite, they won’t be able to resist it. ‘Bet they total it,’ he moans.
‘Which way d’you reckon?’ I say. ‘Merthyr or Aber?’
‘Merthyr,’ says Wayne. Jaz and Mitch nod. Aber way the boys’d be heading back on themselves.
We eat up the miles for five minutes or so. Big bare road, the Heads, flattened spoil heaps either side, no trees, no hedges to hide behind. Then, up at Dowlais Top, just before the road sweeps wide of Merthyr, we get lucky. There’s a garage at the roundabout and on the forecourt there it is, the Guzzi, and beside it, two lads in helmets. But it’s not as lucky as it could be, because parked in front of the Guzzi there’s a cop car, and standing by the lads, two flat-top coppers. And shit, the feed bag’s still strapped to the Guzzi.
We slow right down to enter the forecourt and park the bikes a distance away. The cops have seen us and we don’t want them nervous, so after we’ve propped the bikes we take our helmets off. I lay a hand on Jaz, to stop him rushing over and saying too much. If the cops know the Guzzi’s stolen, and the boys tell them why, it could be in a lock-up for months while they argue about it.
Wayne’s thinking the same; as we walk over he hisses, ‘Don’t mouth off about nothing, right?’
The cops wave us to a halt a few yards from the boys. They don’t want us mixing with them till they’ve sussed us out. I’m trying to see what the lads look like under their helmets, in case we need to find them later.
‘What d’you boys want?’ one of the coppers asks. He’s a big red-haired fella. I recognise him, we’ve met him before.
‘That bike’s a friend of ours,’ says Wayne, smiling at him easy. ‘Just come to see how it’s doing.’
The copper stares at us. Not unfriendly-like, just letting his mind tick. I look past him to the feed bag. Feet and head and guts… it’s been a hot day…
The copper’s eyes settle on Jaz. A moment registering the bruises. Then, ‘You,’ he says. ‘You’re Jason Williams, aren’t you?’
‘Yep,’ agrees Jaz.
‘This your bike?’ He gestures towards the Guzzi.
‘Yep,’ says Jaz.
‘You give these boys permission to ride it?’
Jaz takes a while to think about this. Then shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
‘That’s what they say. That you said they could take it.’
‘We said a spin,’ I say quickly, before Jaz can foul things up. ‘Not all day.’
‘So you want it back, right?’ The copper’s voice says he doesn’t believe us, he knows it’s nicked, but he’s not going to push it.
‘Yeah,’ says Jaz, after catching my eye. ‘May as well.’
‘OK,’ says the copper, stepping back. ‘You take it across to the others. Then you lads go home, right? That’s thataway.’ He points back the way we’ve come.
We all smile and say, ‘Sure,’ and ‘Right,’ like we’re not going to cause him any trouble. As Jaz walks over to the Guzzi I call out, ‘Give the boys their bag. They’ll be wanting that.’
It takes a second for the Tredegar boys to grasp what we’re talking about. Then they glance at each other quick. They don’t know how to play it. Hope they’re as stupid as they look. Jaz unstraps the feed sack from the grab bar.
‘Shit,’ he says, acting indignant as he lifts it off. ‘You’ve scratched the paintwork, what d’you want to tie this on here for?’
The red-haired copper narrows his eyes at the lads. He’s picked up their confusion, but hasn’t read it right. ‘What you got in there, boys?’ he asks.
Jaz drops the bag on to the concrete. It hits the ground with an interesting squelch.
‘It’s not ours,’ one of the lads says, but it comes out rushed, and even I don’t believe him. Jaz says, ‘Well, it weren’t here this morning,’ as if it’s nothing to him, and dusts his hands off.
As the red-haired copper squats down to the bag his mate stabs a finger at Jaz. ‘Now hoppit,’ he says.
We don’t need telling twice. Reckon we’ve got about five seconds. We race over to the bikes and start them up quick, to drown out any shouts, and don’t look round as we fasten our helmets. Just a peek back as we roar out of the forecourt. The bag’s standing upright and open on the concrete. One of the lads has got a hand to his belly, the other’s turned away, pinching his nose. The red-haired copper’s on walkabout, arm across his mouth. Wish I had a camera.
We have to take it easy back to the field, we’re laughing so much. Wayne keeps hitting my shoulder with his helmet. ‘Oh, shit,’ he keeps gasping, almost knocking me off the bike. Jaz is arsing around on the Guzzi, circling all the roundabouts twice, punching the sky like he’s taking victory laps. Mitch sheepdogs us at the rear, lights blazing, grinning all over his face.
And when we get back, the bonfire’s lit, and Pete’s got the tup spitted above it. We can smell roast lamb from the top of the field. Everyone jumps up as they see the Guzzi and suddenly it’s a celebration, not a wake. The start of a magic night: stories to tell, evidence to eat, cops to watch out for, and scores even. Best barbecue for years.
WANTING TO BELONG
Mike Jenkins
Hiya! I’m Gary Crissle and this is my story, well some of it. I know my name sounds like rissole and rhymes with gristle, but if you’re smirking you wouldn’t if you saw me, cos I’m pretty solid, as they say round Cwmtaff. I’ve got boxer’s muscles and I’m tall as a basketball star.
Gary is short for Gareth. I like Gary because it’s more cool. Gareth
sounds a bit naff, though it makes me more Welsh. It wasn’t like a passport when I first came to Cwmtaff though. It didn’t matter to them.
I got Gareth from my mam, who comes from here originally. She’s small and blonde and nothing like you’d picture a typical Welsh woman to be. She met my dad at a disco in Cambridge. It must’ve been dark cos he isn’t exactly John Travolta. More like John Revolter, I’d say!
The Crissle comes from my dad of course, and isn’t the only thing he’s lumbered me with. There’s my teeth, which stick out like a cartoon rabbit, though my brace has trained them down recently. The first month at Pencwm Comp, I had it on. Imagine being from England and having an iron mouth as well. The stick I got was beyond. I never told anybody the name of the village I’m from, as it would give them more ammunition. It’s called Horseheath. They’d have me born in a cowpat! So Cambridge was enough for me. When people talk about racism, I know it isn’t all black and white.
(I’m writing now when I can. There’s a terrible routine to my life, but it helps to get things down.)
It seems that Mark Rees was behind most of it. Sparky they called him. He was a small, scrawny boy into everything he shouldn’t have been. Most kids in my class worshiped him, while most teachers couldn’t stand him.
Sparky loathed me from the start. He was always nicking my bag and hiding it, so in the end I stopped bringing one to school. He got the others to go ‘Oo arr! Oo arr!’ whenever I read in class and even called me ‘A posh twat’ which is a joke cos my accent is real country, though I’ve picked up some Cwmtaff recently.
The crunch came when Sparky and his gang decided to jump me on my way home. He didn’t like the way I was friendly with the teachers. He thought I was a crawler, a grass, but I never meant anything. I just wanted to belong.
Well, my mam was working all hours and my dad’s job at Hoover’s was under threat. Things were very strained in my house and I snapped at school that day. Although I’m strapping I’m not a troublemaker, but Mark Rees pushed me too far.
We had this supply teacher with a fancy voice, who was also from England. I felt sorry for him but couldn’t sit there like a stuffed parrot while our set played up. He tried to make contact when he heard me, and I replied to be polite.
‘Who do you support?’
‘Cambridge United. They’re great!’
‘Oo’re they? Oo‘re they? Oo’re they?’ Sparky started up a chant that all his mates copied and the poor wimpy supply screamed ‘SHUT UP!’ as sweat leapt from his face.
I lost my head. I clutched the paper in front of Sparky (with only the drawing of a magpie on it), crumpled it up and rammed it into his gob.
‘Out!’ yelled the supply, ‘both of you. Out!’
I suppose he thought he was being fair, but what happened after was that a Deputy, Mr Lloyd, found us in the corridor mouthing and shoving each other, and he blamed Mark Rees cos he’d got a reputation worse than Ian Wright.
I didn’t expect him to get revenge so soon. Him and his mates ambushed me in one of the alleys in Penôl estate, where we both lived. I didn’t stand a chance against six of them, though I tried my best.
‘Bog off back to bleedin’ England!’ Rees swore as he kicked me to the ground.
I made out I was hurt more than I was by yelling hell and this woman stuck her head over her fence to give off to Sparky’s mob. They gobbed at her and left me blacker than a copper’s uniform and bleeding like a beaten boxer. The woman was nice and offered me a cuppa. I told her no and stumbled home.
There were plenty in school who didn’t go along with Sparky, who knew he’d end up going down or killing himself in some stolen car. But in my form he ruled like one of the Mafia. His word was law.
I began to really resent my mother for being Welsh and for dragging us back here. My younger brother in Year 7 seemed to be having it easy though, cos he was sickeningly good at everything. He was called Ryan and was a left-winger and they nicknamed him ‘Giggsy’.
I wanted to impress upon Sparky and the boys that I wasn’t a swot. As my schoolwork went downhill faster than a freewheeling pushbike, my mam got a warning letter home. She threatened to ground me for at least a month that evening.
‘I ain’t staying in!’
‘Go to yewer room, Gary!’
‘I ’ate this crappy town and I wanna get back so I can see United every ’ome game. It’s your fault!’
‘Yewr dad’ll ’ammer yew when ’ee gets ’ome. Now do as yew’re tol’!’
‘Naff off woman!’
I slammed out and ran for my freedom. I ran towards town through streets which were carbon copies. I ran past the bus-shelter where Siân Jones and her friends stood smoking. I liked Siân, but the girls she bothered with bugged me no end.
‘’Ey Gary, wha’s up? Runnin from Sparky agen?’ They cackled like demented chickens. Siân looked on, sad.
I didn’t have a clue where I was going. All I ever did in the evening was have a kick around with Ryan and his friends. I thought of getting on a bus or train, but I was skint.
(Listen, I’ve got to go now and leave this for a while. Unfortunately, there are things to be done. Lights to be put out. Promise I’ll be back.)
Anyway, what did I do? I carried on striding down High Street, till I heard this familiar voice calling out—‘Gary! Gazza!’
Gazza? Was it really referring to me?
And there, sitting on a bench was Sparky, ready for the taking if I’d been in the mood. He was a tiny ant without his gang: could easily be stamped on. I crossed over to him, more out of curiosity than anything. His eyes were glassy and he giggled for no reason. I could see how other kids were attracted to his cheeky eyes.
‘All right? Where’s the rest then?’
‘Revisin f’the exams, o’ course.’ I could see he was talking bull cos of his grin. ‘’Ow come yew’re down yer. Not yewer scene.’
‘I’ve ’ad enough. I’m runnin’ away!’ Strangely, I found myself speaking like him.
‘This is-a cheapest way t’excape, Gary.’
He took out a carrier bag from under the bench and offered it. It contained a flagon. Sparky was a real alkie.
‘What is it, meths?’
‘Scrumpy Jack. On’y the ’ard stuff. Knock it back!’
He was standing now and practically pouring it down my throat. Before I knew it we were exchanging swigs and strutting through town. ‘Lookin’ f’action,’ Sparky said, though it was deserted as a wet winter Sunday.
‘Don’ worry Gaz, there’s always one fuckin’ plank-’ead!’
I didn’t know what he was on about, but the Scrumpy was doing its business and I was travelling far enough without spending a thing. I liked the way Sparky had changed towards me, though I couldn’t fathom why. Maybe it was the booze. If so, I didn’t want to be around when he got a hangover.
As we passed the taxi-rank and the station, he was babbling away like he did in lessons.
‘Gary, yew carn ’elp bein’ English. Listen! I really liked the way yew stuffed tha’ paper down my gob. Yew got style. We could be a team.’
He began to sound like some gangster film. Nothing seemed real till we reached the rough and ready car park near the railway line. Then he spotted something and flung the bag into a tangle of weeds.
‘Looks as if someone’s missed theyr train from Cardiff.’
His baseball cap was a buzzard’s beak, as he clawed in his jeans pocket. What he’d noticed in the distance was one particular car, not a new job, but an Escort GT all the same. I could make that out and I was no expert.
When he took out a screwdriver I was dead scared. In fact, I was nearly shittin’ my boxers! The cider hadn’t made me bold enough, but I couldn’t let on or Sparky would spread it round school faster than teletext. Instead, I made out I was a professional.
‘’Ow about goin’ fer a better one?’ I suggested, hoping he’d be diverted.
‘No way, Gazza. This one’s got no bells. Yew int scared, ’re yew?�
� He stared, grin gone, eyes full of purpose.
‘No way! Let’s go for it then!’
‘Yew wan-oo?’ He held out the screwdriver.
‘No thanks. You’re the best, Sparky. Everybody says.’
I thought of legging it rapidly, but before I could say ‘Here come the cops!’ he was into the Escort and he even had a key.
‘C’mon, Oo Ar ol’ son! Le’s mule!’
He called me Oo Ar pleasantly now. I felt accepted. As soon as I sat in the passenger seat he put his foot down and screamed away like the cops were chasing us already. I belted up, but didn’t feel exactly safe. Joy riding’s definitely not the word for it. I’d call it ‘mental muling’, except I’m not sure what that means.
He drove like a boy possessed, taking the roundabout by the Labour Club almost on two wheels. We flew under the railway bridge and out of town. The cider wore off in seconds. I knew he was more than half gone and though he handled the car like a bucking bronco, I could still see us getting thrown.
‘Jus’ drop me off at ’ome fer a change of pants!’ I gasped.
Luckily, the road was deserted as town had been. Everything was fast forward and my hands fumbled the dashboard for a hold button.
‘Where we goin’, Sparky?’ I asked, trying to sound super cool.
‘Oo knows? An oo fuckin’ cares!’
Then he lifted both hands and I closed my eyes and—