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Authors: Belinda Bauer
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Steven’s heart sink. But, because of Em’s trailer, he walked up to Ronnie’s house after tea.
Ronnie Trewell – popularly known as Skew Ronnie, because of his lifestyle as much as his limp – lived in a scruffy bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac that clung to the side of the moor. There was a garage almost the size of the house, where Ronnie hid his stolen cars.
Used
to hide them.
Ronnie had been rehabilitated, apparently, by attending a course in Tiverton where young car thieves were allowed to tinker with karts and then race them. Steven would have given his right arm to race karts, but it seemed he’d have to be pretty dedicated to a life of crime before he could hope for that kind of reward.
He knocked and Dougie opened the door. Dougie was Steven’s age. They skated together.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Yeah. All right? Ronnie in?’
‘Hold on.’
Dougie yelled for his brother while Steven stood in the dank hallway that smelled of old dog and chip fat.
Ronnie appeared in trackies and bedroom slippers, and the three of them went out to the garage.
The trailer was still there.
‘You want a hand taking that back?’ Steven said casually.
Ronnie shrugged. ‘They got plenty. They won’t miss it.’
The bike was still there too – in bits. But Ronnie’s enthusiasm for all things mechanical was infectious, and Steven was soon imbued with a sense of complete optimism about the task of reconstruction. Ronnie pointed out that the engine was largely intact, the tyres not perished, and the tank almost rust-free. The much-mentally-maligned Gary had, in fact, put all the smaller parts into plastic boxes and labelled them, and with Ronnie’s experienced eye for what went where, the three of them were soon making a bit of progress.
As night approached, the greyhound wandered in and out and peered knowledgeably at parts with its soulful marble eyes, and Ronnie passed round a can of Carlsberg. Although he knew it was nothing really, Steven felt it was a night he’d always remember – the harsh fluorescent lighting, the blue-green dusk framed by the black garage door, the machined metal between his oil-stained fingers, and the bitter bubbles on his tongue that tasted like the future.
At nine he stood up reluctantly and said he should be getting home before it got too dark.
Ronnie and Dougie spent a few minutes ripping the piss out of him for being a mummy’s boy, but he just smiled and rolled his eyes and brushed the garage dirt off the seat of his jeans.
‘Thanks,’ he told Ronnie.
‘Come up any time you want to work on it. You know where the key is.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Get home safe now!’ Ronnie and Dougie had a final laugh at his expense and then went inside and whistled for the dog.
Steven waited until everyone was asleep. Just after midnight he dressed quietly, took the torch from under the kitchen sink where his mother kept it for when the electric went out, and walked back through the silent village to Ronnie Trewell’s house.
The garage key was where Ronnie had told him it would be; the up-and-over door opened with barely a squeak, and the trailer rolled easily out on to the driveway.
So far, so good, thought Steven, as he closed the door and put the key back in the hanging basket that contained a bouquet of dead weeds.
The trailer was made of aluminium and was well balanced on properly inflated tyres, so Steven made good time down into the village, towing it behind him. But he’d hardly gone fifty yards up the hill towards Em’s house before he started to sweat and his hands to hurt from gripping the awkward metal so hard. He swung the trailer sideways so that it wouldn’t roll back down the hill, and stopped.
He had never considered that he might not be able to tow the trailer all the way to where it belonged. Now, if he couldn’t, he had blown it. If he couldn’t get it up this hill, he would be unlikely to get it back up the similar hill to Ronnie’s house. He couldn’t
Ronnie Trewell – popularly known as Skew Ronnie, because of his lifestyle as much as his limp – lived in a scruffy bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac that clung to the side of the moor. There was a garage almost the size of the house, where Ronnie hid his stolen cars.
Used
to hide them.
Ronnie had been rehabilitated, apparently, by attending a course in Tiverton where young car thieves were allowed to tinker with karts and then race them. Steven would have given his right arm to race karts, but it seemed he’d have to be pretty dedicated to a life of crime before he could hope for that kind of reward.
He knocked and Dougie opened the door. Dougie was Steven’s age. They skated together.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Yeah. All right? Ronnie in?’
‘Hold on.’
Dougie yelled for his brother while Steven stood in the dank hallway that smelled of old dog and chip fat.
Ronnie appeared in trackies and bedroom slippers, and the three of them went out to the garage.
The trailer was still there.
‘You want a hand taking that back?’ Steven said casually.
Ronnie shrugged. ‘They got plenty. They won’t miss it.’
The bike was still there too – in bits. But Ronnie’s enthusiasm for all things mechanical was infectious, and Steven was soon imbued with a sense of complete optimism about the task of reconstruction. Ronnie pointed out that the engine was largely intact, the tyres not perished, and the tank almost rust-free. The much-mentally-maligned Gary had, in fact, put all the smaller parts into plastic boxes and labelled them, and with Ronnie’s experienced eye for what went where, the three of them were soon making a bit of progress.
As night approached, the greyhound wandered in and out and peered knowledgeably at parts with its soulful marble eyes, and Ronnie passed round a can of Carlsberg. Although he knew it was nothing really, Steven felt it was a night he’d always remember – the harsh fluorescent lighting, the blue-green dusk framed by the black garage door, the machined metal between his oil-stained fingers, and the bitter bubbles on his tongue that tasted like the future.
At nine he stood up reluctantly and said he should be getting home before it got too dark.
Ronnie and Dougie spent a few minutes ripping the piss out of him for being a mummy’s boy, but he just smiled and rolled his eyes and brushed the garage dirt off the seat of his jeans.
‘Thanks,’ he told Ronnie.
‘Come up any time you want to work on it. You know where the key is.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Get home safe now!’ Ronnie and Dougie had a final laugh at his expense and then went inside and whistled for the dog.
Steven waited until everyone was asleep. Just after midnight he dressed quietly, took the torch from under the kitchen sink where his mother kept it for when the electric went out, and walked back through the silent village to Ronnie Trewell’s house.
The garage key was where Ronnie had told him it would be; the up-and-over door opened with barely a squeak, and the trailer rolled easily out on to the driveway.
So far, so good, thought Steven, as he closed the door and put the key back in the hanging basket that contained a bouquet of dead weeds.
The trailer was made of aluminium and was well balanced on properly inflated tyres, so Steven made good time down into the village, towing it behind him. But he’d hardly gone fifty yards up the hill towards Em’s house before he started to sweat and his hands to hurt from gripping the awkward metal so hard. He swung the trailer sideways so that it wouldn’t roll back down the hill, and stopped.
He had never considered that he might not be able to tow the trailer all the way to where it belonged. Now, if he couldn’t, he had blown it. If he couldn’t get it up this hill, he would be unlikely to get it back up the similar hill to Ronnie’s house. He couldn’t
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