Dean drives his van up the Offham Road and waits at the junction to pull out onto the main road. A blaze of approaching headlights. Terry’s in the seat beside him. A truck rumbles by.
“Done this before, Tel?” says Dean.
“Not as such,” says Terry.
Out on the A275 between night trees, the van’s engine struggling, needs retuning. Needs scrapping, more like, but where’s the money coming from for new wheels?
Dean has a plan, a dream you could call it. Buy a new van, new tools, set up as a Mr. Fixit, come to your house, fix anything. Fencing, walling, drive maintenance, rubbish clearance, all the little jobs the big boys won’t touch. His name and mobile number on the side of the truck: Dean Keeley, No Job Too Small. Sheena thinks it’s a good plan, she’s backing him all the way. Not like there’s much work going on the building sites these days.
“You’re lucky you got out,” he says to Terry, meaning out of Landport. “Nice place you’ve got now.”
“It’s okay,” says Terry.
“Doing good for yourself.”
“Tell you what, Deanie,” says Terry. “Makes no fucking difference where you live, they still treat you like dirt. They’ve got the money and you don’t, that’s what it’s all about. You and me, we could work till we drop, we’d never make that kind of money. And you know how they get it? They’re born with it. They’re fucking millionaires from when they’re babies.”
“But at least you’re picking up a few jobs round your way.”
“Oh, right. His lordship tips me a tenner to chase away his rabbits. Her ladyship never says a word to me, not even a fucking nod. I’m telling you, that woman can’t even see me. And guess where all her money comes from? From her dad. Like I said, fucking millionaire babies.”
“Just luck in the end,” says Dean.
“We do what we can, don’t we, mate? Even up the odds.”
Ahead on the left looms the cut into the hillside that’s the old chalk pit. The van’s headlights sweep the high grimy white cliffs. The windows of the Chalk Pit Inn glow bright and cheerful. Half a dozen cars parked outside.
Terry jumps out.
“Give me half an hour,” he says.
Dean swings the grumbling van onto the road again and heads back into Lewes. Just before the Neville Estate begins he turns off up the rutted track that climbs the hill to the racecourse. Up here on bare downland there’s not exactly any roads, you just drive. He follows the tire marks in the beam of his lights, careful to stick to the run where others have been. Just before the training gallop he swings the van round full circle to look back down on the lights of Lewes. Here he settles down to wait for Terry.
Towns look different at night. And different from high up. There’s the castle, you can usually find that, high on its mound. And the river, and the lights of the Malling Estate rising up the flank of the Downs beyond. This is the landscape of his entire life.
Maybe I should have got away long ago, run away to London, made my fortune. Some chance. I got away all right, to Rochester Borstal, to Camp Hill. At Camp Hill they give you a whipping you don’t forget in a hurry.
When Dad was on the booze any little thing would set him off, and then I was for it. Send me up the road to fetch Granddad’s belt. Bring it home, bend over. Eight whacks on the bum. Then take the belt back to Granddad. Granddad never said a word. Funny, that, how he never said a word. You’re ten years old and you’ve got a dad who belts you and no one ever asks why. You don’t even ask why yourself.
Terry’s always been a good mate. He knows I need the money, but I promised Sheena no more hooky business. A promise is a promise. All I’m doing is bringing the van onto the racecourse so Terry can have a ride home. That’s all. Terry gets that.
“You’re not breaking any promise, Dean. You’re just helping a mate.”
So Dean watches and waits. A half-moon low in the sky, some stars. His phone rings. It’s Sheena, wanting to know when he’ll be home.
“Just having a drink with Terry,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”
Never before been anyone who wants him to come home.
“Love you, hon,” he says.
“Love you, babe,” she replies.
No one knows him the way Sheena knows him. No one else in the world he trusts, unless you count Brad. But Brad’s a loner. You’d never say hand on heart that Brad loves anyone. He’ll pull you out of a burning house. He’ll take a bullet for you. But you’ll never see him smile and you’ll never hear him cry.
He sees headlights coming up the track, and there’s this roaring animal of a car shuddering to a stop in front of his van. He gets out.
“Fucking hell!”
“This,” says Terry, “is a four-wheel-drive turbo-charged ”92 Cozzie with whale-tail spoiler. And there’s only seven thousand of them in the universe.’
“And you’re going to roll it?”
“That’s the job, kiddo.”
“You saw Jimmy Dawes?”
“I saw Jimmy Dawes and I didn’t see Jimmy Dawes. He comes into the pub to buy a packet of fags and I go outside and there’s the Cozzie with the keys in the ignition just like he said, and I’m away.”
“And you’re going to roll it.”
Dean strokes the sleek spoiler. Seems a dumb way to make a few grand, but what do I know?
“What’s she like to drive?”
“Like sweet fucking,” says Terry. “Ride of your life.”
He gets back into the car and eases it up the track while Dean watches. There’s a slope down to one side of the track, and that’s where the Cozzie’s going to roll. Lie it on its back and it’s a write-off. That’s official, insurance rules.
Terry cuts the engine and gets out. The Cozzie’s right by the edge of the slope. It’s not like he wants to go down with it. But the ground is rutted, and the wheels won’t roll.
“C’m here, Dean! Give us a hand!”
Together they push the car sideways on to the slope.
“You wearing gloves, mate?”
“Course I’m wearing gloves. I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay, okay. Just looking out for you. Give it some welly, now.”
They push some more and the car gets two wheels down the slope and starts to tilt. Then all at once it’s rolling. They stand back, hearing it bump down the slope. There’s some louder thumps, not as much as you’d think, then silence. Too dark to see how it’s landed.
Dean goes back and drives the van round so its headlights shine into the valley. There lies the Cozzie, wheels in the air. Terry jumps into the van beside Dean. Dean’s impressed.
“How’d you know she’d roll?”
“That’s a steep slope, mate. Send her down sideways, she’s going to roll.”
Dean drives them back through town, taking Terry home to Edenfield. Once they’re out the other side of the tunnel Terry pulls out his phone and makes a call.
“Jimmy?” he says. “Job done.”
Dean can hear the sounds of the voice on the other end but not the words. He feels Terry tensing up beside him.
“You can’t do that,” Terry says. “You can’t do that.”
He listens some more, then he ends the call without another word, thrusting his phone deep into his pocket.
“The fucker,” he says. “The fucker.”
“What?” says Dean.
“He just fucked us.”
“How? What’d he say?”
“He said, I quote, You call me again, I’ll get the police on you.”
“The police?”
“He said, I quote, I got witnesses you left the pub just before my car was nicked.”
“I don’t get it,” says Dean. “That’s what he wanted.”
“He fucked us,” says Terry savagely. “That’s what he just did.”
“But why? You rolled it like he wanted.”
“Oh, sure. Too fucking right. So now he’ll claim on his insurance and get his five grand. And we get fucking zip.”
“But he can’t do that!”
“He just did it.”
Dean takes in the full scale of the calamity.
“So we don’t get paid?”
“Good old Deanie. You’re there, mate.”
Dean is shocked. You don’t just break your word. There are limits.
“Fuck all we can do about it,” says Terry.
“Break his fucking legs,” says Dean, his outrage growing.
“This is Jimmy Dawes, right? He’s got family.”
Dean knows. You don’t pick a fight with the Dawes boys. So that’s it. It’s over. He had this sweet dream they’d drive over to Jimmy’s place and Jimmy’d come out smiling, a fistful of fifties in his hand.
I should have known. I never get the luck.
They drive up the main road to Edenfield in silence. When Dean drops Terry off at his house, Terry squeezes his arm and says, “I’m sorry, mate.”
“Not your fault,” says Dean.
But he’s choked.
“I’m just a fucking loser,” he says. “Always was. You should have got someone else.”
“Luck of the draw,” says Terry. “You’re no more a loser than me or anyone else.”
“I’ve been shat on all my life,” says Dean. “I’ve done time. I’ve tried doing myself in. I can’t win, Tel. They won’t let me. I’m fucked, mate. Always have been.”
“Except you’ve got Sheena.”
“I’m telling you, if I lose that woman, I’m out of here. I’m gone. I’m finished.”
“Want to come in for a beer?”
“No. I’m off home.”
That’s when Terry gives him this look that comes out of nowhere. Like he actually cares.
“I’m going to see you right, Dean,” he says.
“Forget it.”
“So you can buy that ring.”
“Not your problem, mate.”
“I’m on this job, gutting this house. I could do with a hand. I reckon I can get you a couple of days at a hundred a day.”
“You reckon?”
“Why not? Gets the job done faster, doesn’t it?”
“I’m up for that. Cheers, Terry.”
“I’ll give you a bell first thing in the morning. Now fuck off home to your woman.”
Dean gives him a wave and drives off. As he drives he thinks about how Jimmy Dawes screwed them over and he can still hardly believe it.
He must just think we’re dirt under his feet.
He gets home and parks the van by the recreation ground. The lights are still on in the house but Sheena’s gone to bed. He shuts the house down quietly and goes up to their bedroom. She’s not asleep.
“How was Terry?” she murmurs.
“Terry’s good,” he says.
He undresses and washes and gets into bed. He feels her warm soft body roll close against him. This evening his big chance has gone bad and all his plans are shot to fuck, but what remains is that look on Terry’s face, and the way he’s trying to help.
Terry gets it. He knows what it means to me.
Knowing someone understands you turns out to be stronger than knowing someone else thinks you’re the dirt under his feet.