501

by Robert Field

  ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘I was going to…’

  Going to what? Going to take them by the scruff of the neck, drag them out of the Fiat, kick the fuck out of them, make sure they know what it’s for? He wants to do all of this for me. Because of me.

  Big Dave, smouldering and handsome, takes another tug on his tuv and settles into the ride home.

  Now he’s thinking about me, wondering if I’m ready to see him, waiting for a call, a text, to break into my shame. This is in his head as he’s at the top of Hangman’s Hill, dropping the van into third, feeling the brakes for the long downhill drop, when a red Fiat, that red Fiat, flashes by and cuts sharply in.

  It cuts in so sharply that Big Dave Trinder stands on his brakes, blasts on his horn, and throws a string of fucks at the car. He flashes his lights and in return, in silhouette, he gets a turned head and two fingers.

  Then the red Fiat slows down, speeds up, slows down, playing a cat and mouse game as the rain lashes the road and the wind buffets the van.

  ‘Fucking prats. Fucking stupid prats.’

  The Fiat slows down again and Dave whips out to overtake, but there’s a taxi steaming up the hill and it’s a near miss in the rain.

  Then a cigarette butt, flicked from the passenger window, arcs towards him, and dies on the windscreen as the brake-lights flare up yet again. Only this time it’s much fiercer and Big Dave hits the anchors a fraction later, a fag paper of difference than before. But this time the Fiat’s braking for the sharp hairpin curve halfway down Hangman’s Hill. It’s braking hard because this is a deadly curve, an accident blackspot where bunches of flowers and scrawled cards spotlight lost control and violent death. But because he’s angry, and because he’s braking late, and because his pads are worn, Big Dave Trinder hits the back of the Fiat. But it’s more than that, it’s a shunt, a shove that pushes the red car out of its line. That’s all it takes, a dodgem collision, and the red car snakes once, loses it and flips. It crashes off the road, tumbles like a dice in a shower of sparks and smoke, and shards of mirrors and glass, and popping windows, and screeching of metal on tarmac. And it rolls and rolls to land on its roof, upside down, smoking in the rain. Now it’s thirty yards off the road and Big Dave is out of his van following the plough-lines of the accident.

  He’s thinking, ‘What am I going to see? What am I going to do?’

  But he doesn’t need to do anything because a flicker of flame dances inside the wreck. Then there’s another, and another, until the motor’s inside is lit up like a lantern.

  And now the silhouettes are bent and twisted and a hand is lifting and falling, lifting and falling. With every second that passes those tongues of flame grow brighter, stronger. They’re feeding on plastic, on petrol, on flesh that oozes fat and melts at their touch.

  They grow so quickly, so hungrily, so angrily.

  Now this is what Big Dave Trinder doesn’t want to hear, the sound that he will never forget: the screaming of the trapped, the screaming of the burning. The bonfire of the damned; the smell of roasting pork. He freezes, and his eyes and ears and nose fill to overflowing.

  Then there’s a dull thump of an explosion that blows out what’s left of the windows, and there’s a flaring of a bright intense light inside the Carcass of the car.

  Then there’s no noise except the crackle of the fire and the ping and rasp of metal in this parody of November the fifth. Big Dave is standing in the rain and Jackman and Robins have burnt to death in the trap of the twisted Fiat Punto.

  And now it’s too late to do anything, too late to save anyone.

  Even if he wanted to.

  Big Dave leaves the scene, climbs into his van with its crushed bumper and its scar of giveaway red paint. The front light’s out and the indicator is smashed. He drives slowly, carefully, numbly, until he’s off the road and into the back lanes.

  Then he pulls into a gateway, rolls himself a tuv, lights up, takes a huge swig of Red Bull and phones my number.

  I say, ‘Just come, Dave. Just come.’

  So Dave comes, drives his battered, dented van with its guilty red scar and its one front light. He drives through the wind and the rain onto our site, onto our atchin-tan.

  Dad says quietly, ‘Did anyone see you, Dave?’

  Dave thinks, remembers the vehicle’s roof sign.

  ‘A taxi,’ he says. ‘A taxi.’ A full beam warning and the cursing of the horn.

  He looks at me, and his worry, his tiredness, is spread over his face. In spite of all this, of all that’s going on, I’m glad he’s here, sitting in our wagon.

  Then Dad says, ‘You’re going to have to go home, Dave, before the gavvers get there.’

  Dave says, ‘I don’t want to go anywhere, Henry.’

  I say, ‘Let him stay, Dad.’

  But what my dad, my wonderful dad, is doing is putting together is an exchange, a replacement of numberplates: his innocent white van for Big Dave’s guilty one in a swap of identical twins. Because of Dad on this dark wet night, Big Dave won’t be standing in the dock waiting to be judged. Then it’s a shower for him – God knows how he fits into that cubicle – and I’m thinking he’s washing away the evidence like I did on That Night, and it seems like it’s a sort of justice, an evening up of the score. So while Dad burns Big Dave’s clothes and trainers he sits in our kitchen in Dad’s too-tight trousers, too-tight shirt and too-small socks, and sips another brandy.

  ‘I’ll probably get stopped for drink-driving; that’ll be a turn-up.’

  He laughs but it’s a bitter laugh.

  When Dad’s done, Big Dave loads his tools, his paperwork, his cans of Red Bull, his tax disc into Dad’s/Dave’s van. Then, not caring that Dad’s here, he holds me, hugs me, and he says, ‘I love you, Pegs. Whatever happens, I love you.’

  Then he kisses me softly, gently, and he drives away in his counterfeit van. The rain’s turned to a heavy drizzle and I watch him until he’s out of sight.

  Dad puts his arm around me. ‘It’ll be all right, my Peggy.’

  I say, ‘I know it will.’

  And that’s a truth.

  Mum sleeps through it all but she’s awake at dawn when Dad’s loading up Big Dave’s van on the low trailer. He’s sheeting it over when Mum, rubbing her eyes and standing on the top step in the rain, asks, ‘What’s going on, Henry?’

  ‘Lydia, there’s been a bit of trouble.’

  I make Mum a cup of meski while Dad tells her, spells it out to her. She listens quietly, cuts me a look at the mention of Jackman and Robins, at what’s in Dad’s voice. I nod and it’s enough for her to know.

  She says wearily, ‘I thought we’d left all the drama behind us.’

  Dad says, ‘Don’t worry, we will. Just this, that’s all. Just this one thing and it’ll be done.’

  He puts his arms around Mum, holds her, loves her, calms her.

  Just like Big Dave Trinder did to me.

  So Dad takes the evidence to Isaac Stanley’s scrapyard to be crushed into a cube of untraceable metal. There’ll be no questions asked and it’ll be in the furnace before you can turn around because Isaac Stanley’s one of us, a romanichal, and blood is so much thicker than water. He’ll look after us, cover for us, in the way of the Travelling People.

  It’s still early when Mum and I have a bit of toast and tea and I’m thinking that the police will be outside Big Dave’s. They’ll be looking at the van, looking at the front light, then the front wing for the damning of red paint. They’ll be shaking their heads.

  Then they’ll ask:

  Were you were on the road from Reddyke last night, about ten?

  Yea.

  Did you see a red Fiat Punto?

  Don’t think so.

  Only someone saw a white van driving dangerously.

  Wasn’t me.

  There was an accident. Seems like the car was shunted off the road.

  So.

  Jackman and Robins. You know them?

  Sort of.

  Sor
t of?

  You know why it’s sort of.

  Oh yes, your girlfriend. Drawn out like it’s a motive. Anyway they were killed. Burnt to death. Not nice that, is it?

  Suppose not.

  You wouldn’t know anything about it?

  No.

  We’ll be in touch, Mr Trinder.

  Look forward to it.

  So they’ll check out the van again, double-check the tax disc, and maybe sneak a sly look at the tyre treads; then they’ll shrug, shake their heads, and go to the next on the list. And they don’t know that soon, very soon, Dad’s/Dave’s van will be joining its twin in the graveyard of vehicles.

  Just in case.

  Of course, on their rounds they’ll have to come to us because of That Night. And of course they’ll ask about Dad’s van. And of course Isaac Stanley and Dad have covered their backs.

  ‘Scrapped it a couple of weeks ago. Got the ticket inside. All right?’

  And of course it’s DC Williams and he’s brought his swagger, and his dislike of the gypsies, with him.

  ‘Mr Smith, is there’s anything you think we should know?’

  Dad reckons he should stop pestering us and try and catch some real criminals.

  DC Williams says, ‘If you’re not careful I might have a good look around here.’

  Dad says that we ain’t got nothing to hide and he can do what the fuck he likes.

  Mum says, ‘Henry, please.’

  But DC Williams has nothing; he’s come here on the off chance that something might slip out, that connections might provide clues.

  I don’t even have to dig to know; it’s written all over him. Even when he says, ‘I’ll be back,’ like Arnie in that film, it’s not a threat. Because when he’s worked all of this out, when he and his girlfriend have found their way through the maze, the evidence will be in tin cans, steel beams and roofing sheets.

  And DC Williams will make a point of calling round on any off chance that there might be something for him at our site. He’ll pester for a while, sift over our scrap pile of lead and copper and cast; look for anything that might link us to crime. He’s like the gavvers that used to move us on in the old days.

  He’s the bogeyman of the Travelling People.

  Monday night darts in January.

  The George versus the Dragons.

  Lena.

  Dandy says, ‘You look nice.’ I’m putting on my make-up, leaning into the mirror, and I know he’s giving my bum the once-over.

  ‘Only nice, Dandy?’

  ‘More than nice, Lena.’ He’s suddenly serious. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  Then he says, ‘I spoke to Mikey today.’

  I’m painting on my lip-gloss and my hand freezes into stillness.

  ‘This afternoon the phone rang and it was Mikey.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me about school, about his football team.’

  This is hurting Dandy, talking about the things he could be sharing. He’s frowning now and the tell-tales of his age are crinkling under his eyes. But he’s as handsome as ever, even with a touch of grey in his hair. It makes him look more like George Clooney than Clooney himself does.

  ‘And Mum? Did you speak to Mum?’

  ‘We said hello,’ he says, ‘and we said goodbye.’

  Trapped behind his words is:

  Mum saying goodbye, a suitcase in one hand, holding onto a crying, bewildered Mikey with the other.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she says to Dandy. ‘Never forgive you.’

  She spits out the words at him, and there’re the same words for me.

  And then she’s gone, leaving the door unshut behind her and all the neighbours’ curiosity wafting in.

  But what I’ll never forget from that day is the look of utter desolation on Dandy’s face. He loves her, he truly loves her and it’s all done, all finished; the life with Mikey; the life with Mum.

  And all because of me.

  So I’m ready to go and I know that I’m young and clean and pretty and, when I kiss him goodbye, he holds me close, tastes my lips, smells my hair.

  ‘You’re more than gorgeous,’ he sings to me, ‘and I’d do anything you want.’

  This was our song and he did everything for me.

  And to me.

  As I’m walking to the pub that song keeps playing through my mind and each line brings back a scene from our affair, our loving time. It should have been a happy place, somewhere to keep my memories, but I keep seeing Mum with her head in her hands.

  ‘How could you, Andy? How could you, Lena? How could you?’

  I could say that I was young and foolish and that Dandy took advantage of me. But it wasn’t him; I know that, and I think Dandy knows that. But we never talk about it, never mention the guilt that keeps us company in our house.

  So he’ll sing the song to me and I’ll get a delicious thrill at the words, and I’ll know that it was all worth it to get what I wanted: the gorgeous man that Mum brought home.

  I’m first at the pub and because it’s quiet I sit at the bar and chat to Danny. He’s funny, is Danny; he laughs and flirts with me, buys me a drink.

  ‘What’s it worth, Lena?’

  ‘What do you want, Danny?’

  ‘What you offering?’

  ‘Let me think. Mmm. What would please an old man.’

  ‘Cheeky little madam.’

  Danny looks but he’s never touches. Underneath his chat, his bluster, he’s got a heart of gold.

  The other girls turn up and we leave with Danny for the Dragon Inn. Katy calls it the Dragon’s Den, and they have a team that doesn’t lose very often. (Not like the poor Drummers who we beat seven nil last week) When we arrive they’re practising hard and pushing each other on.

  ‘Good shot, Sall.’

  ‘That’s the way.’

  ‘Keep it up.’

  ‘I bet that’s what you say to your old man.’

  ‘Mind I don’t say it to yours.’

  They’re a lot like us, this team; this kidding, this laughing, this joking. This escapism of a Monday night.

  Anyway, Katy wins the toss and we play like a bunch of plebs to lose the team game by a mile. It doesn’t alter Irish’s manner; she’s in a funny one tonight; she’s laughing one minute, and snappy the next.

  And drink! She pours it down her throat. She even buys herself one between rounds. It’s a good job she’s throwing first in the singles because she’ll be seeing double before she’s down to a double.

  How she wins, no one knows. Her darts float into the treble eighteen, the treble sixteen, then the double ten and out.

  ‘One up to Saint George,’ Irish laughs. ‘One up to the Dragon slayer.’

  Then she does a strange thing; she raises her glass in a toast and, in her broad out-of-place accent, she says, ‘To Saint George and England.’

  Scottie Dog says, ‘You silly Irish twat, Irish.’ Then she adds, ‘But a drink’s a drink and I’ll join yer,’ and she empties her glass.

  Maggie slows down the action, plays her usual steady game and plugs away a win. Pegs loses a close one. Scottie Dog falls behind and never catches up. Every time she misses she calls the dart a ‘fucking tart’, and the next one’s even worse. So she’s a hopeless case and suddenly we’re behind; one down and two to go; me, and then Katy.

  I go up to throw and I know that I’ve got to win to give us a chance of the game. I’m nervous as hell and my first throw only scores a twenty-six. I think that’s bad but my opponent hits a seven. Her every score is below mine, her nerves are shot, and I smooth down to an easy win.

  I’m loving this night with the girls, I’m loving the admiring glances from the lads. I’m loving the glow of winning. But I’m not loving the alcohol because my stomach’s a bit queasy; it’s soda-water and lemon tonight.

  Scottie Dog says, ‘Yer shouldn’t swallow, Lena,’ and laughs herself silly at her own joke, until Irish reckons Scottie Dog hasn’t munched on anything since n
ineteen seventy-five.

  Scottie Dog says that was a vintage year, the last year they made real men.

  Katy laughs a strange, bitter laugh. ‘That can’t be true, it’s the year Jerry was born.’

  Then we have one of those silences when no one knows what to say.

  So the score’s three games each and you’d think that we’d get a captain’s game from Katy. Well, we think right because this is the new confident Katy: Katy with a new figure, a new hairstyle, a new purpose. And a new lover: Johnny James.

  He’s all right, is Johnny but if I was to flash a bit of leg on the bar-stool he’d have a good look. Like all of them. Like Danny when I slide off the stool and show him a bit more than I intend.

  ‘I can see next week’s washing,’ he laughs.

  Katy’s darts flow. She’s got winner written all over her and Scottie Dog and Irish are celebrating two throws before Katy fires out.

  ‘Yeees,’ hollers Irish.

  God, she’s noisy tonight. I mean she’s always been noisy, but lately it’s like she’s got to try harder, like there’s something she’s trying to push under the water.

  Dandy says that I think too much, that a pretty girl like me shouldn’t analyse things so. I know what he means but there’s lots of things in my head that swim around like…

  My sixteenth birthday on this Sunday…

  It’s a lovely warm summer morning. I’m awake before anyone else and I go downstairs and put the kettle on. It’s barely seven o’clock and already the day is bright. I make a cup of coffee, pinch one of Mum’s fags and sit outside the patio doors. From the open bedroom window above my head I hear Mikey stirring. He’s nearly a year old and he’s just becoming interesting. He still smells of poo most of the time but he’s trying to walk and he laughs at things I don’t see. I think I’ve started to love my little brother.

  Dandy’s voice drifts out of the window, drifts down to me.

  ‘You have a lie in, Mandy; I’ll make Mikey’s bottle.’

  I hear him come down the stairs into the kitchen, hear the kettle clicked on. Hear Dandy whistling the song that’s always on the radio, the song that the girls at school sing behind the young English teacher: ‘Because you’re gorgeous, I’d do anything for you.’