Golden Hour (7 page)

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.

“Get the van.”

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.

It's just on midnight and the MV
Seven Sisters
is churning past the lights on the end of the jetty and entering Newhaven harbor. It's been a smooth crossing from France. The truck drivers and the car drivers have all descended to the car decks, while the few foot passengers remain on the top deck, pressing themselves to the iron railings, watching the lights of the town approach.

“I'm hungry, Mum. When will we be home?”

A boy of about six clings to his mother's legs, barely able to stand with weariness.

“Not long now, darling.”

“Can I have a chocolate milkshake when we get home?”

“When we get home it's straight to bed for little boys.”

The boy starts to cry.

“Don't cry, darling. We're almost there. You've been so good.”

A young man standing beside them says without turning his head to look at them, “Is crying bad?”

The mother becomes confused.

“No, not really,” she says.

The young man has long hair and a beard. He wears loose soft clothes, and has a small backpack by his sandalled feet. He looks down at the boy with intent, dark eyes.

“Then you can cry all you want,” he says.

The boy tugs at his mother's hand.

“Mum,” he says. “Is he Jesus?”

“No,” says the mother. “I don't think so.” To the young man, “You're not Jesus, are you?”

“Would you like me to be?” says the young man.

Now he's turned his gaze on the mother. She's in her late twenties, fair, pretty. She gives him a cautious smile.

“Not really,” she says.

The big ship starts to roar and judder as the engines are thrown into reverse. The quayside rotates round them.

“Back from holiday?” she says.

“My life is a holiday,” he says.

“Lucky you. I can only manage a week. If you can call it a holiday with his lordship here.”

“His lordship? Your son is a peer of the realm?”

“He's a peer of something.”

She laughs, relaxing under the young man's gaze. She can sense that he finds her attractive. For her part she finds him bewitching. The way he says funny things without smiling. The way his eyes hold hers without looking away.

“Backpacking,” she says, glancing down at the bundle by his feet. “I did that once. Me and a friend went to Rhodes. Those were the days.”

“These still are the days,” says the young man.

“Mum,” says the child, pulling at her hand. “What's his name?”

“I don't know his name,” she says, giving the young man a quick smile. “We'll have to ask him.”

“Toby,” says the young man. “What is your name?”

This is addressed to the young boy, but in a serious, almost formal manner, as if he really wants to know.

“Harry,” says the boy.

“Well, Harry,” says the young man called Toby, “if I tell you something very special, will you remember it?”

“Yes,” says Harry.

“You have a very beautiful mother and she loves you very much. But she has her life and you have yours.”

Harry pulls his mother's hand once more.

“What does that mean, Mum?”

“Nothing,” says his mother. “Nothing at all.”

But she's holding tight to the ship's rail and not looking at the young man who said she was beautiful.

Now the ship has docked and the ramp is being lowered. Orange lights flood the concrete quay. The smell of exhaust fumes as the great trucks come rumbling out of the lower decks. The big blue trucks of J. C. Fiolet, the big red trucks of Norbert Dentressangle.

The foot passengers pass back into the boat's interior and bump their wheeled suitcases down an iron stairway. The mother and child go first, the strange young man following. Out on the quay there's a white bus waiting to carry the foot passengers the short distance to Passport Control and Customs. Gulls sweep overhead, mewling their harsh cry. The air is heavy with diesel and salt.

On the bus the little crowd of foot passengers slump with weariness. The young man remains standing.

“So where do you go from here?” says the mother.

“I have no idea,” says the young man.

“You must have some idea. You can't go nowhere.”

“No,” he replies, in that careful thoughtful way he has. “I can't go nowhere. But I can go everywhere.”

His eyes are on hers, looking down at her. Again she gives a quick uncertain smile.

“You're a joker,” she says.

“I am.” He doesn't smile back, just holds her eyes. “I'm a joker.”

The bus stops and they all get out. They file past a booth
where a man checks their passports, then through the Customs hall alongside slow-moving cars. Then into a bleak terminal building, and so out the other side into an immense and mostly empty car park, lit orange by streetlights.

Harry and his mother go to a waiting car. The driver doesn't get out to greet them or help them with their bags. The young man, his pack now on his back, walks alone up the pavement past a fenced-off compound. The concrete yard beyond the fence is cracked, and weeds grow thick in the crevices. The windows in the abandoned industrial building are arched, as if it wants to be a church, but the glass is broken. Creepers have climbed the drainpipes and started to crawl over the corrugated iron roof.