鈥溌45鈥.. Jeeesus Peter you鈥檙e a
soft git, Joe鈥檒l be pissing himself for a week laughing
at us鈥.
鈥淚 know but sure she鈥檚 driving alright 鈥︹.
sure there鈥檚 even petrol in her鈥.
鈥淛oes told you that 鈥︹︹. bet you
a fiver the petrol hands broke鈥.
鈥淲hatever - sure the money鈥檚 gone - c鈥檓on
to see what she can do鈥.
Without another word Seamus, complete with crutch, hobbles
towards the aging Ford Siera. Dumping his crutch in the
back he awaits the familiar rush. He doesn鈥檛 wait
long. Starting in the gammy leg, crawling, it envelops his
whole self. His legs, arms, hands and head buzz in anticipation.
A buzz that not even the local community police could beat
out of his system.
鈥淟et her at it Peter, go man for fuck sakes go鈥
With the needle hitting the high red on the rev counter
Peter slips the clutch. Screaming bald tyres spin relentlessly,
a desperate search for tread. She takes hold, awkwardly
fighting for direction. Oil, rubber and petrol 鈥 as
one 鈥 leave a telltale of resistance. The acrid smell
a final act of defiance.
鈥淲hat about that Seamus鈥.
Seamus doesn鈥檛 answer, Seamus is lost. His craving
hungrily devouring all. Forty, Fifty, Sixty gathering speed
they travel the well-worn street. Only a few take notice,
children mostly, staring wondrously from their playground
of cracked pavement. The adults, they鈥檝e seen it all
before. An impediment in their daily struggle. Poverty and
unemployment, that鈥檚 what鈥檚 at their door, until
joy-riding knocks 鈥 it doesn鈥檛 list.
Sideways through every bend. Oncoming traffic show courtesy
and pull in 鈥 a courtesy only afforded to emergency
vehicles in other parts of town 鈥 but not here, self-preservation
dictates courtesy here. This is the circuit, anything goes.
Peter's hand rests comfortably on the hand brake. Seamus
waits. The routine鈥檚 simple. Down Oaks Road, you should
be hitting eighty before you drop it down to about fifty.
Pull the hand brake and swing the steering wheel. The more
experienced, like Peter, like it to be neat. Only when high
on glue or canned up can you be forgiven for not making
the complete 360 degree revolution. Experience is written
all over the road. Then it鈥檚 back up Oaks Road with
the right foot, back, flat to the floor an another 3-60.
With anticipation at its height, Peter makes his well-rehearsed
moves. Using the gears as brakes and the engine roaring
for mercy, he pulls the hand brake. The thud steals through
Seamus. 鈥淎 stinger鈥? he screams above the engine.
鈥淭he hand brakes鈥 fucked and the brakes鈥
blurts Peter, futilely pumping the foot brake like an over
enthusiastic drummer in a heavy rock band.
At sixty five they meet the crossing traffic on the roundabout.
Perfection in slow motion. People going into town, buses,
taxis, cars. Expressionless faces stare. Calmness descends,
that calmness that comes with inevitability. Crunching,
scraping, screaming, there, but not there, just beyond there.
Peter鈥檚 gammy leg twitches. The buzz gone. The crutch,
catapulted through the dash, stares without compassion,
stares into the void, stares at its companion, stares at
death.
