And there he is.
Standing upstairs, peering from behind the curtains of the front bedroom.
I blink, my heart pulsating, and I stop dead, frozen between an open car door and the driver’s seat. It’s definitely him. His round, thick shoulders, that cream knitted sweater he wears whenever he feels the cold working in his roof office. His hair, styled specifically to look slightly messy on top.
‘Nick?’ I whisper.
Except Nick doesn’t live there. So who is that man?
6
Jim
‘Just sign here, here and here.’
I’m trying to pay attention, but there’s a massive distraction in my way.
A brand-new BMW M3.
A five door, nineteen-inch alloys, three litre turbo engine, high-performance saloon. The interior is fitted with black leather racing seats, a nine-speaker sound system, built-in satnav; the dashboard’s made from black carbon fibre and chrome. The seats are heated.
The producer tosses me the keys.
‘It’s all yours. Congrats.’
I climb into my car. My gleaming white car. The soft heated seat engulfs my body and I take my fleece off, chucking it onto the back seat, feeling the sheer comfort of the leather close to my skin. The powerful rev of the engine is euphoric.
Driving away from the studio’s underground car park, the producer’s scowl gets smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror. I focus on the road ahead like I’ve never focused before. No traffic signal can be ignored, no other driver taken for granted.
Cruising down the Dock road, I turn up side streets and drive in circles, bringing myself back onto the Dock road again. Tunes blast from the speakers: Daft Punk; The Doors; a bit of Bowie. I swing by my flat above Wong’s chippy, park around the corner and run like the wind to get changed, throwing on the first t-shirt and jeans I lay my hands on. Getting back inside my car is like receiving a huge hug; I can’t bloody believe it. I run my fingertips over the interior features, the music pumping. It’s not that far to Snowy’s. I’m going to cruise, take my own sweet time.
Twenty grand. Derek Higgins reckons that’s what I’ll get if I sell it. How much will it cost to take my ma to Florida to see my sisters? Does she even have a passport? I do, but it’s never been used. Neither of us have ever been abroad.
Actually, with twenty grand, I could work for free for a while, become an intern. It wouldn’t be irresponsible of me to do that with twenty grand in the bank, would it? Even at my age? Like taking a step back to go forward, starting over again.
After my degree, I got a job in the mailroom at a publishing company, home to a whole host of local lifestyle magazines. My plan was to start by sorting letters and move into writing features, maybe even become editor. Only, a problem swamped me: competing with those who could afford to work for free. Thanks to their smug faces, any chance of escaping stamps and pigeonholes was as likely as me finding a golden ticket in an invoice. I wasn’t like them, you see. The way I was brought up, you worked to earn, even if it meant a pittance, and I wasn’t going to suck up anyone’s arse for free whilst scrounging off my hardworking family. So, even when I arrived early and stayed late, just to make contact with the editors, I was dismissed like an opened, redundant envelope. I was the mailroom fella. Why would they give me a shot? So I thought fuck it. And quit.
‘But, you’ve got a degree, son,’ my dad had said.
‘A lot of people have degrees, Dad.’
‘You got a First.’
‘It doesn’t mean I’m qualified for much, though.’
‘But surely it qualifies you for something?’
‘And I’ll find something soon, Dad. Promise.’
Oh, Dad. I’m sorry. Salty, hot tears well up, but I blink them away, swallowing hard.
Fireworks are beginning to explode across the city. From the comfort of my driver’s seat, I watch as mini rockets dart through the sky, whistling, fizzling. Even if I keep the car, this is still a new start for me, isn’t it? I mean, driving to work every day in this awesome beast would at least get the day off to a bloody great start.
I turn into Snowy’s road, crawl up beside his house, put the handbrake on. God. Even that feels good.
‘It’s yours?’ Snowy’s hands are plastered to his neat black hair. He loves new stuff. Trainers, tablets, the latest smart telly. Situated in a new-build development, his whole house is a show home minus the plastic fruit. He gets a new car on a lease every two years, but not one in this sort of league.
‘It’s mine.’
‘So, you’re saying you gave two birds in town your phone number and now suddenly you’re the owner of this fucking beauty?’
‘You couldn’t write it, mate.’
‘You fluky bastard.’
Circling my prize, Snowy’s jaw is so far dropped that his usual smiley, squinting face is unrecognisable. He runs his index finger across the bonnet.
‘She’s exquisite,’ he says.
‘Quite. I just can’t believe I’ve got me own wheels,’ I say. ‘For years, I’ve sat stationary, watching everyone else driving, going through the tunnel, wondering where they’re going … and now, I’m going somewhere.’
Snowy laughs. ‘You’re a deep fucker, mate,’ he says.
‘And you, Brian Walsh, are blessed with the intellectual capacity of a jellyfish.’
‘What you got against jellyfish, eh?’
‘Oh, I didn’t say they don’t play a sophisticated role in the ecosystem.’
‘Okay, you’ve lost me now. As per usual. And I need a drink. Got some tins on ice in our new freezer.’
‘Can’t drink, lad.’ I jangle my keys, dangling them like a carrot. ‘I’m driving.’
We snigger, before pushing each other back and forth, the odd mock punch thrown in, until we both hug unashamedly. Neither of us has a brother, but that’s okay, we’ve got each other.
‘It couldn’t have happened to a better fella, mate,’ Snowy says, his grip still tight.
‘Cheers.’
‘I mean it, Jimbo. If anyone else pulled up outside me house having won a dream car for doing absolutely fuck all, I’d be fuming, mate. I’d wanna rip their smug head off and feed it to the dog. But, you. You, Jimbo. I’m over the moon for you. I am. Truly. What did your ma say?’
‘Haven’t told her yet.’
‘This is boss. Just so … boss. Fucking hell, mate, you’re making me cry here.’
I don’t admit that I nearly cried earlier. It’s different for Snowy, who blubbers often and always quite comfortably has, and who’s now blowing his nose on a fresh, clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket.
‘You soppy get,’ I say.
‘Fuck you. Anyway, why don’t you leave the car here tonight? Get smashed.’
‘Nah, I’m off work tomorrow. Doing the Sunday shift instead. Double time.’
‘All the more reason to get smashed, then. What’s wrong with you? You pregnant?’
‘Look, I don’t wanna waste me day in bed hungover.’
‘Ah, yeah. It really sucks to be you,’ Snowy chuckles, pulling a stupid face. ‘I mean, you’re a boss drunk. A riot. But you’re a fucking bastard with a hangover.’