“That makes me feel better,” I said.
“You know she said horses weren’t psychic? Well she did admit that she didn’t know how you got Baby to bow to the judges, she said Baby never does that with her. Mind you, the horse is supposed to stand motionless, so you probably lost points on that.” Jo frowned. “It seemed funny seeing Dad lifting you down at the end. That’s what he always does when Mum wins a competition…”
“Does she often compete?”
“A fair amount – it’s part of the training for the horses.”
We were silent for a moment.
“Mum also says that all the horses have always liked you – they’ve always reached out and huffed at you as you walk past, and you’ve always ignored them. She seems to be puzzling a bit about how you can be so cool with them and yet it seem to suit them so much. I was never any good at all. I disliked them so much they sensed it and wouldn’t do anything for me.” She shrugged. “I’ll stick to cars!”
“Me too,” I agreed.
So if I didn’t start my campaign on Wednesday another week would have gone by without having done a thing. I locked my bedroom door and got dressed in my scarlet high heels, my black lace patterned stockings, my little red skirt, and my skimpy little top. But I deliberately put very little make up on. I used a trick my friend Lisa had shown me to make my eyes look all wide and childlike. I wanted some dissonance going on. I wanted to look like an inexperienced child dressing up beyond her years, rather than get repeatedly picked up for being a prostitute. My page-boy hair cut did the trick on that. I looked ridiculously underage. I ought to try and get served at a bar just to try it out. I covered myself up with a long coat to try to get out of the flat undetected. Luckily Jo and Zanna never even looked up, because I don’t know how I’d have explained the shoes.
I went by bus to the town centre as fourteen year olds don’t have motorbikes. Then I switched on my earring and had the most boringly unproductive time trailing round all the twenty-four hour MacDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken type places. I’d decided that nine till half eleven was a convincing sort of time to be a naughty vulnerable kid out on her own. But by eleven I was wondering what had gone wrong. I alternated between coffee, which seemed a bit adult, but I needed to keep me awake, and coke, which based on Cody’s industrial consumption would be the most convincing, but I found absolutely disgusting. I also had to keep going to piss.
I looked hard at every group of Asian men that came in and felt really guilty about doing that. I felt like a racist. Occasionally one of the young ones would catch me doing that and give me a bit of a look. But no-one tried their luck with me. Other teenage girls, all in pairs or small groups, giggled their way in and out and ignored me. Staff ignored me with supreme boredom. Maybe I look too young? Maybe I need to be seen by certain men quite a few times hanging around alone until they were certain enough that I’m lonely and vulnerable and unprotected enough to make the approach? Maybe there were no grooming gangs in this town after all, just one girl’s manipulative fantasy? Obviously that would be the best outcome for the town, but I’d feel a bit silly if I had to do this all summer and nothing whatsoever happened.
I got home at midnight but was so caffeined up that I couldn’t sleep until bloody three am. Next time I vowed I was only going to pretend to drink the wretched stuff.
It was about four hours to Cowdenbeath. So we decided it was better to have a good night’s sleep at home on the Friday night rather than a poor one in a Travelodge half way up. We were keeping ourselves separate from the men, apart from the fact that they had offered to put some of our spares in the transporter. My car had four completely new tyres.
“And since Cowdenbeath had their new surface done, it’s so smooth there’s hardly any tyre wear at all,” Jo said approvingly. “I was talking to one of the Scottish drivers at Barford and he was most smug about how much money the new tarmac was saving him!”
The weather was dry, as the forecast had predicted, so we didn’t have to change the set up we’d put in place. In fact it was quite sunny and hot which would make the lap times slower. No better or worse than cooler conditions, it’s just that no records would be broken.
“Of course you and Pete are always having to start from the back and Dad is seriously under graded so he’s got that advantage straight off. Have you decided on a strategy?”
I nodded, but I wasn’t telling her what it was. I wasn’t nervous any more. I knew what I had to do, though whether I’d get a chance to execute it would be another matter.
Out on the track, Pete and I glanced at each other. I wondered what he was thinking. I’d have liked to snatch a word with him before the race but it would have been too obvious. As we drove a slow lap round and the commentator introduced us all I caught, “National Points Champion, 768, Eve McGinty, seen for the first time this year in a tarmac qualifier…” No chance of it going under the radar then.
I guessed whichever of us got away first, the other would follow through. Bumping our way through from the back wasn’t as easy in a sea of red and blue as it was in a normal mixed race where the lower grades mostly got out of the way or were too inexperienced to know how to stop you getting past. Ganging up would get us there faster.
The Clerk of the course was determined by the looks of it not to use too many flags. The jostling was severe, but most of the drivers who were in trouble did the sporting thing and took themselves off to the infield as soon as their car was causing problems for everyone else. I wondered if there were enough laps for me and Pete to make it up as far as to his dad. The Scottish drivers were driving hell for leather – they could drive this track with their eyes closed. Gradually we made some progress and worked our way through the scrum but there were only three laps to go and we’d only just got a sighting of his Dad’s bumper, although no-one had lapped us either, so we weren’t behind in the timing, just everyone else was bloody good and driving well here. Right, I really put my foot down. There was a bit of clear air here. Pete followed close behind. Paul would expect me to do a last bender on him, so I wasn’t going to wait as long as that. I crept up on the inside, a bit more, a bit more. Was he pushing it as fast as he could? Or saving something in reserve? I got my front bumper at exactly the right place on his left front rail, a third of the way back. I waited for the optimum moment when we were at just the right place for the best trajectory nearest the wall with no-one between him and it, and then I went in for the kill.
Behind me, on the last bend, Pete gave me a bit of a nudge but it wasn’t hard enough. We flashed past the chequered flag with myself still in the lead, but with at least four Scots ahead of us. I figured that neither me nor Pete were going to be caring about which one of us won any of the races except for the World Final.
As we drew up when the red flag was waved, Pete came alongside.
“You put my Dad into the wall,” he said in awed tones. “That could be a lot of work for him to sort out tonight.”
“Hope so,” I said.
He eyed me with conflicting emotions, and then I saw his eyes crinkling up indicating he was smiling under his helmet. “You’re fucking ruthless,” he said admiringly. “Bloody brilliant! Bet Dad has never seen that dangerous look directed at himself before. Now he’ll find out what it means.”
The only problem was, I thought, as I drove off the track, passing Paul’s injured vehicle with its bonnet into the concrete, if Paul had driven against Rob all these years, he’d be capable of being ruthless too, and he wouldn’t be pulling any punches from now on.
“Well!” Jo exclaimed as she came down from her lonely position on the stands. “Well!” She put her hands on her hips. Then she sort of gave a reluctant laugh. “Well that’ll teach him!”
I took my helmet off and pushed my hair back from my face. “He’ll come back twice as hard though,” I predicted.
“Keep out his way,” Jo advised me. “You always have to come up from behind. Stay just behind him and then he can’t get you.”
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I bit my lip. Hmmm. That was a strategy worth thinking about.
Three laps round Crimond, and Paul, who Pete reported, had worked half the night on the car, took himself off to the infield. Pete was fifth behind the Scots, and I was seventh, but I didn’t care. With the Final being on tarmac, I was the outsider. No-one was betting on me winning against the tarmac specialists. It suited me to leave them with low expectations.
How’d it go? Rob texted me afterwards. I was touched he had been interested enough to be bothered.
Stuck him in the wall @ Cwdn. Hard! He wrkd al nite on car but had 2 widraw after 3 laps @ Crim wi buggerd diff. I reported gleefully.
Nice work, Rob responded.
That felt good. Rob was the Mr. Baddie of the Stox world. Aggression was his middle name. And as for me, I’d never even pretended to be nice, had I?
I avoided the barn on Monday, but Jo popped up just to spy.
“Pete and Dad were standing around your car in heated discussion. But when Pete turned away from him he shot me a quick grin,” Jo reported.
“English Open at Coventry on Shale next week,” I mused. “Nice track that, shame it’s due to close.”
“I fancy your chances at that,” Jo said enthusiastically.
“And then we meet your Dad again for the next tarmac qualifier the following weekend. Shall we just move the tyres around, put a full set of new ones on, or stick with just a couple of key new ones?”
Zanna rolled her eyes, she just couldn’t get her head around how interesting tyres were. She lay down on the floor and started to a fast set of sit-ups. I lay down beside her and matched her rhythm with my own set, except I kept on talking about tyres as I did so.
Mid-week I made another fruitless round of the late evening venues in the centre of town. This evening I’d hot tonged my short hair into lots of silky ringlets, just in case my straight bob made me look like I was just too naïve. I got a few more glances, nearly twisted my bloody ankle down a drain hole, poured most of the coke away, and came back home without even a sniff of a bite. I deleted all the footage, documented my lack of success on the digital diary and gave up for another week.
Pete chose to come with us to watch me in the English Open. I think he fancied my chances too.
“Have you told Mum and Dad about your re-training or degree idea?” Jo asked him on the way down. We’d let him drive us.
“Yup.”
“How did they react?”
“Mum seemed a bit shell shocked,” he said with a grimace. “Dad…”
“Was pleased?” Jo assumed.
Pete frowned. He glanced in his mirror and indicated to go out to the middle lane to overtake a lorry. “Well I think so – eventually. He said nothing at first. So I said rather aggressively, ‘I’m going nowhere fast right now so I’ve decided a big shake-up is in order’. And then he finally nodded and said, ‘very sensible’.”
He indicated to go back into the left hand lane. “I thought they’d be more instantly pleased though.”
I looked sideways along at him from my position on the end. “Your Mum seems to have a bit of thing about all your recent announcements being caused by me…”
He smiled slightly. “Well she’s right there. You gave me the right good kick up the butt that I needed!”
Jo looked curiously between us.
“And maybe your Dad’s first reaction was to assume that you’d have to give up the Stocks if you went off to Uni,” I suggested.
“Well he might be right there,” Pete agreed. “I won’t have much time or money – though if Dad was willing to keep the cars up for me, then I guess I could carry on with the bare bones of it – go for a few championships.”
Jo and Pete retreated to the stands. “Good luck!”
I barely needed it. I led from the front from lap four.
Jo and Pete were touchingly ecstatic. Pete supported me through the scrutineering. They took lots of photos of me with the cup. Paul texted Well done! First title of the season!
No competition, Pete texted his Dad. She slaughtered them from the off!
“You are getting bloody good on the shale,” Pete said admiringly.
“Shame the World Final is on tarmac,” Jo responded.
We moved on to Stoke for Sunday, the Loomer Stadium at Chesterton. Might as well while we were so far South.
Basic facilities, but a recently improved and smoothed out track. Jo and Pete were reminiscing about the old days.
“You won’t remember how this place was just three or four years ago, Eve,” Pete commented.
“The track positively undulated.” Jo put in.
“Huge big bumps down the straight and on the bends,” Pete laughed. “With the cars literally bouncing down the straights and into the corners and rattling all the dentures out!”
“Dad’s opinion was that modern young drivers no longer appreciate good old-fashioned Stock car racing,” Jo put in drily. “The place went down a storm with the fans because the cars were being thrown around something rotten just like the good old days apparently.”
“Great spectacle for the fans maybe,” Pete complained, “but these days the modern F1s and 2s are set up for smooth tracks. The cars were being thrown up in the air on the straights with the engines hitting the rev limiter and then coming back down with a huge thump playing havoc with the drive shafts, the diffs and the general drivetrain. You dreaded driving here if you had another important race to go to the next day…”
“Anyway, every year they smooth it out a bit more,” Jo told me, “and they did major works on it early this year so you’ll have to report back to us.”
“It might need a full season of racing on it to help it settle in though,” Pete warned.
My opinion was that it was pretty good. I came home from the weekend with a quiverful of points and some more silverware. But all I secretly cared about this year was beating Paul and getting the Gold.
I had a bit of luck at last. I teetered upstairs in Kentucky Fried Chicken with a tray of fillet burger and chips and a large coffee and I saw a young girl sitting on her own in a corner. I headed for her, smiled cheerfully and sat down opposite without asking permission. “Love these fillet burgers,” I announced. “No bones. I hate bones don’t you?” I was trying to model myself on Cody’s stream of consciousness. When I was fourteen I had been repeatedly told by my friends that the way to open a conversation was not with some information about the new colour range in the Suzuki SV650, but I couldn’t remember what they’d told me about how to start instead.
The girl smiled faintly but didn’t tell me to piss off. She had a lot of make-up on, but it just emphasised her youth. Sleek, straightened, long chestnut hair. If anything she looked a touch relieved. She’d probably felt vulnerable sitting on her own. I chattered on, feeling a bit desperate, you can’t just suddenly ask a stranger, “So how often are you getting raped then?”
But suddenly she looked at me and said, “Kaz’s group?”
I stopped mid-sentence and stared at her. She pulled up her sleeve and showed me a pattern of three circular scars on her inner elbow. I’d forgotten that I’d worn short sleeves for just that purpose – to be recognised.
“Hussein’s?” I responded.
She let her sleeve fall back down again, listlessly put a couple of fries into her mouth and nodded.
“You don’t happen to know his surname do you?” I asked. “It isn’t ‘Malik’ is it?”
She shook her head. “I dunno. Never heard it mentioned.”
I thought I’d shut up and see what came out of a bit of tactical silence.
“I heard about Becki,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “You must have been gutted.”
I tried to look gutted. “Yeah,” I said, hoping that covered all bases.
“Kaz is an evil bastard,” she said expressionlessly.
Great, I’d initiated myself into the group run by an evil bastard.
“If I wanted to avoid running into Hussein,�
�� I asked, “where should I avoid?”
She thought about it for a bit. “Golden Disc area.”
My skin crawled. Hussein Malik had been a bouncer at the Golden Disc four years ago. Was he still working connections in the area?
“You know Jessica’s back in the psyche ward?” I took a punt to see what would happen when I mentioned her name.
The girl shook her head. “Sorry, don’t know her.”
That was the best news ever! It meant this girl couldn’t have been primed by her.
She glanced down at her phone and scraped her chair back abruptly. “Got to go.”
I looked up at her. “Could we see each other again?” I asked with a smile.
She slung her spangled sky blue bag on her shoulder. “Best not, you know what they’re like…”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You know we’re not allowed.” And she walked off. But not before I’d seen the key ring dangling off the zip of her bag that proclaimed the word ‘Stacey’ in big curly letters.
I watched her leave, her back was straight but her shoulders were hunched.
Then I went straight home.
The information I had gleaned was minimal, but I felt shaken. I had come round to the way of thinking that I was on a wild goose chase. But I’d just met a girl, who didn’t know Jessica, who had just confirmed the existence of groups run by Kaz and Hussein, and hinted at bad things happening in connection to them. I made sure I uploaded all the footage and I blogged it all for my digital diary. My skin kept crawling. Shit it seemed like some of this was real.
“Where’s next?” Rob asked.
“Birmingham. World Qualifier.”
“Hmm,” he said, uninformatively.
“Tough on the tyres unfortunately,” I observed.
“I’ve seen you win there though,” Rob reminded me.
“True,” I mused. “When Tyler had a broken hand… Any hints on how to drive to keep something in reserve for the tyres for the last few laps? How do I judge it?”
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