“Fiesta.”
“Year?”
“Ninety-one.”
“XR2?”
“Yeah.”
Of course it was, cruiser, no doubt. Burning up and down country roads like a fucking goon. I turned away so I could roll my eyes undetected and led Captain Comb-over to the corner of the yard where engine parts were haphazardly piled under handwritten signs that denoted the manufacturer. “Might have one in this lot.” I pointed at a particularly jumbled stack. “Have a root around. If you find what you need, come get me and I’ll give you a price.”
“You want me to find it myself?”
I took a slow spin around to face the dude again. “Yes, mate. Just like Tesco. I’ll be in the cabin.”
It amused me far more than it should’ve to walk away whistling, but I knew a wanker when I saw one, and there was no way I was getting my hands dirty when I could happily watch from indoors with a brew in my hand.
I retreated to the cabin and stuck the kettle on, only half watching Comb-over pick his way through the piles of junk. My phone buzzed with a text. With its cracked screen, only half the message was visible. Just as well. I didn’t need the daily reminder from the bank that I was terminally overdrawn.
Boredom had me swiping through the rest of my texts, a task that took approximately ten seconds as the only messages I had were two-word grunts from my brother, and essays from my mother that I deleted without reading. I really didn’t give a shit that she was having the time of her life in Spain with her ex-pat new fella. That she was happy was enough—I didn’t need the details.
A crash from the yard brought me back to the present. I glanced out of the window just in time to see Comb-over jump back as a water pump fell from the precarious stack he’d built from his rummaging. My boss—Dench—had warned me a hundred times not to let customers fuck around on their own, but I didn’t give a shit about that either. As far as I was concerned, if they dropped something on their head, it was natural selection.
You’re an arsehole.
Yep.
Comb-over finally found what he was looking for without killing himself. Curious as ever, Grey sauntered out of the shadows to investigate the gap left by the collection of parts scattered around the yard. My little pal was a ninja, silent and sharp. Comb-over didn’t see him. He stepped back and tripped. A laugh bubbled in my chest, but before it made it out of my mouth, dude bro stuck his foot out and kicked Grey with the toe of his clown shoes.
Grey screeched and disappeared under the wreckage of a written-off car. I burst from the cabin to check he was okay, but fury consumed me, and I was on Comb-over before I truly knew what I was doing.
I barrelled into him. He went flying and landed on his arse in the mud. For a moment he sat there, stunned, then his expression morphed into a rage that matched mine, and he sprang to his feet. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“You kicked my cat.”
“So? It was in my way.”
“And now you’re in mine.” I pulled my arm back and struck hard. My fist hit his face with a satisfying crack, and he staggered back where he’d come from, hands flying to his cheekbone as if he expected to find his entire face caved in. Drama queen. I could’ve hit him harder. I damn well wanted to. “Get the fuck out of here before I kick your teeth in.”
He didn’t need telling twice, but as he scrambled into his knobhead truck and sped away, instinct—and experience—told me I hadn’t heard the last of him. That one way or another, punching his lights out was going to come back to haunt me.
I tried real hard to give a shit.
Failed, and crawled under the battered Astra to check on Grey.
He was crouching behind the damaged exhaust pipe, eyes wide and spooked. I held my hand out and whistled, but he looked at me like I’d shit in his shoes and asked him to dance.
Worse than that, he was afraid of me.
Anger rattled me again. I wriggled out from under the car and considered tracking Comb-over to whatever branch of JD Sports had thrown up on him, but there was a clear obstacle stopping me: I didn’t have a car. Fuck, man, I barely had shoes. Despite the cut I was taking from my boss’s cash transactions, I was broke.
That pissed me off even more. Ignoring the fact that the yard was open for business for another hour, I shut the gate and locked up. If that dicksplash came back, I didn’t trust myself not to brain him. The safest place for me was the pub.
I left Grey to simmer down and hoofed it down the road to the Gordon Arms.
The bar was busy enough for me to slip in unnoticed, but quiet enough that I didn’t have to wait to get a beer. I gulped half of it down in one long swallow and settled into my favourite stool, pondering if I had enough change in my pocket to scrape three pints together before I went home with a bag of chips and a buttered roll. Fuck it. If I didn’t, I’d scrap the chips. A liquid diet had never done me any harm.
Liar.
My attention-seeking shoulder throbbed on cue. I rubbed at it and drank more beer. After slugging the cat kicker, I wasn’t in the mood for an ibuprofen and an early night—
“There you are.”
A large hand clapped me on the back, sending cheap lager up my nose. I coughed and glanced up. Dench loomed over me, making good use of his local nickname: Hench Dench. And by his expression, he wasn’t about to buy the next round.
I shrugged his hand off me. “Congrats. You found me. Is it my turn to count rusty nails again?”
“Shut the fuck up. Why’s the yard closed?”
“Cos it’s ten past five.”
“Don’t get tricky with me. You shut up shop an hour ago, leaving me to deal with the coppers and that boy racer you decked.”
Shit. “I didn’t deck him. And he kicked the cat. What was I supposed to do?”
“That grey rat you’ve been feeding?”
“That’s the one.”
Dench’s glower deepened. “I don’t give a toss about that stinking cat. All I know is I’ve had to give that greaseball a free water pump and a cam belt to stop the coppers taking a proper look round my yard, and it’s all your fault. I’m done with you, kid. You’re out of strikes.”
Truth be told, I’d been out of strikes months ago when I’d put diesel in his petrol van on purpose, but his righteous malevolence still stung. Dench was well known for lumping anyone that got on his nerves. Who the hell was he to tell me I shouldn’t?
Your boss, remember?
Yeah, well. Not anymore. “Stick your strikes up your arse, mate. Dickhead had it coming. Pay me through the end of the month, though, yeah? I know my statutory rights.”