Straight Arrow - I don't really know what inspired it, the hero's personality is a mish-mash of various characters from a variety of sources. After writing it, I realised I hadn't given any of the key people names; when I went back to add them, I thought that it really didn't matter. First time I have ever done that, but it really wasn't deliberate.
Once I came out, I knew that I never wanted to go back.
I mean, I had no complaints; the food was good, I made some mates, and I'm big enough and ugly enough to look after meself. All the same, I'm gonna enjoy freedom, and I'm gonna go try and go straight. I have no thoughts of revenge at all; it was me own stupid fault. I only went and blagged to me girl about the job, who in a fit of unheard of conscience told her old man, who told the Law. I got a ten year stretch for possessing an unloaded gun, oh, and a bit of aggravated burglary, and although I was only in for seven, 'cause of good behaviour, I was a bit of a joke inside, like, why did I need a gun with my physique? And at least have it loaded, looks more impressive on the charge sheet. The girl never apologised, never visited me inside and went off with a stockbroker; but I swear I am not bitter.
The screw actually smiled at me as I left, and he even called out a good luck to me as I heard the big door slam shut for the last time. Actually, all the screws in there were good sorts, no power crazed sadists at all. I had slung the aging rucksack containing my meagre, and only, possessions, over me shoulder, and I trudged down the road to catch the bus to where Tim had said a job, a real job, was waiting for me.
He's diamond, is Tim, known him since I was a kid - he's a few years older than me like, an old friend of the family. He said he was gonna persuade his boss to give me a job at the garage he works at, and since I knew he could talk the hind legs off a donkey, his boss would probably give in within five minutes of listening, just to shut him up. Anyway, Tim had said that Dave, the garage owner, was willing to give me a chance, so to "integrate me into society" as he so eloquently put it.
I could see though that Dave was having second thoughts when he first clapped eyes on me. I s'pose I couldn't blame him; faced with me built like a brick privvy and a face like one of those vegetables that Esther Rantzen used to hold up in that consumer show. That dates me. Tim was there and jabbered something at him, and he composed himself, welcomed me into the gang, and said that Tim would be my mentor and I may as well start in their quick-fit brakes and clutches side of the business. I think he was grateful that he could pass responsibility, and blame for any failure, on to someone else.
I'm giving them no cause for complaint though, why should I? The flat above the garage was vacant, and Dave saw the sense in having someone in there for security reasons, though whose I don't know, and I live there rent and rate free, only having to pay for outgoing phone calls, and feeding meself of course. Any mucking around and I'll be homeless and jobless. It suits me great, I have so few overheads, why muck around? First stuff I bought was new duds, I wanted to start looking respectable. New bed, TV, video, living room suite, so forth. For the first time in my life I felt good, like, independent and almost normal.
Dave recognised I was a quick learner; 'fore long I was a dab hand at most clutches and brakes and he's talking about sending me to college to learn some of the finer points of being a mechanic. I have to admit to griping a bit at this, but he insisted, so I promised to do me best, though memories of school always give me hives; he said that it's all different now, more practical and vocational, whatever that means, and he thinks I'll be OK.
In fact, Dave grew to trust me so much, that one Friday I was on me own; it was Tim's day off and Dave had gone to have some nooky with the daughter of some trader, whilst the wife was in Spain. It was quiet anyway, and I was contemplating which stale biscuit to have with a fresh cup of char, I'm looking forward to my virgin Auto Trader, when in comes a Ford Fiesta, the driver gets out and the years roll back.
Recognised the car and him straightaway, and of course he knew me. Last time I'd seen him he was across a court room as he relayed the testimony that his daughter had told him. His jaw dropped open and his hands rose to his face, looking for all the world like that painting by Munch. The Scream, that was it. You see, I do have some knowledge of culture. I saw a copy of that painting on the wall of the governor's office when I was on remand. I think he saw it as some sort of joke.
I keep my composure though, I make like he's just another punter, as if I don't remember him. He eventually relaxes, the hands came down, and a mild expression of relief crosses his face that says that I don't remember him. I don't think he really believes himself though.
"Exhaust, is it?" I says. No, I'm not a mind reader; despite the ears like cauliflowers, the whole county could hear how bad it was blowing.
"Er, yes.." he says. He looks like he's considering running back to the car and driving over the hills and far, far away. Would still be able to hear that exhaust though.
I hold out my hand for the keys and he hesitates, and I put on a slightly exasperated expression, I'm getting so used to the reaction from the 'clients'. I'm not gonna waste money on a face lift, or watchamacallit....Botox, that's it.
"Won't get far with the job if it's not on the lift." I says.
"Of course. Here you go." He hands me the keys, gingerly, as if he might have got an electric shock if he allowed any contact with me hands.
I drive the car onto the lift. As I fumble with the electronic controls, I tell him it will take about half an hour. I went into the inner sanctum for the tools and a new exhaust and I came back and found the forecourt devoid of life. Good. Can't stand it when the punters look over me shoulder, criticising me, telling me to be careful with their pride and joy, so forth. I finish the job in just under half an hour, the same satisfaction washes over me with the knowledge of a job well done, but I need something else from the tools and parts section, I'm pretty sure it's there, I go and find it, and as I come back, the car still on the lift, he's standing there, looking just as nervous as when I first saw him.
I have the item in my right hand, behind my back. He's waiting for my first move. I make a draw that Clint Eastwood would have been proud of and produce it, quick as a flash.
I was expecting a reaction, but his was quite dramatic. His jaw drops open again, and I swear, the front of his trousers went a darker shade of navy. By chewing on my tongue, I was just able to prevent myself from laughing. I mean, what I was holding could hardly be construed as being a weapon, though I suppose it was heavy enough if you aimed right.
"Brake pads." I says.
"B-b-b-brake pads?"
"Yeah. It needs them."
Unfortunately, he finds some courage, and witters something about me trying to rip him off. I sigh, and produce a pencil torch out of my jeans.
"C'm 'ere." I beckon him towards the car and shine the torch behind the wheel. He sidles up, still unsure, but he still keeps his distance so that he can only just see what I am trying to show him. "See that? Almost as thin as a pancake. Bloody hazard that is, could have a serious accident. Straight arrow."
He nods wordlessly. After what seems to be about half an hour, but was probably less than a minute, he finally agrees for me to fix the brakes. He mutters something about it being his daughter's car and she's expecting it back before the end of the day. I assure him that it was a quick job, another half hour, tops.
It was a bit more than half an hour, it seemed that the bloody wheels had not been removed since Blair's first term, and I would try and have a word about those tyres an' all. On second thought, p'raps best not to, he already reckons I'm trying to rip him off. Car was close to the next MOT anyway, I could see that by the sticker all responsible citizens seem to be putting in their cars these days. Might even be this garage he brings it to, but I can't do MOT tests yet, not at least until after I've done that bloody college course. Anyway, I had another hot cup of tea, I had found a packet of biscuits that had not yet fossilised, had located the section in the Auto Trader that I was most interested in - cars for hire - and had just settled in the broom cupboard Dave laughingly calls his office. Of course, he chooses this moment of perfect tranquility to cough just outside the entrance. I sigh, and remove the car keys from the hook where I've left them, and groan as I heave myself from my position of comfort. I've been on my bloody feet all day. I rip the invoice off the printer and hand it to him.
The expression of nervous anticipation turns to calm surprise. Dave always did aim to be the quickest, and the most reasonably priced business in the area. Even won an award for it. Mind you, it was presented by some Smashy and Nicey type from Swinging Radio Local, a photograph on the wall of his office bearing testament; the DJ's ridiculously goony face grinning as he stared straight into the camera as he shook hands with Dave, who looked like a man being sent to the gallows. Still, it was an achievement, I s'pose.
I allow myself a quick smile looking at him, no wonder he had been a while, he'd gone home to change his trousers. It wasn't that far really, as of course, I knew where he lived. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and counted out some notes. Stupid bleeder obviously didn't trust me with his credit card, so he'd probably made a special visit to the bank. Hey look, I wanted to say, I was an armed robber, not a fraudster, and I've never trusted credit cards meself, 'specially after the stories that Access Arnie told me when I was inside.
He handed it over, told me to keep the change (did I look like a waiter?) and I handed over the car keys in exchange. He actually smiled and bid me a friendly goodbye, and actually whistled as he got into the little car and drove off. Amazing how a good deal makes you happy. Though it coulda been the fact he didn't have to face me again. Little did he know.
I looked at my watch. Four o'clock. Nearly time to lock up, though I thought I'd have that cup of char before I went and wait for the boss to ring from whatever hotel he'd booked himself and his bit of skirt into. Dave trusted me, as I said, but all the same he'd wanna give out some orders, nag me into making sure all the tools were put away, make sure everything was locked up tight, can't even trust the punters these days, yahdeyahda.
Money in the strongbox, I settled back down again in the office, returning to the page that I was on in the Trader. I was looking at Bentleys and Rolls Royces for hire. Expensive, but if you wanted to travel in style. Mercedes looked good too. There was a brief twinge of guilt in my stomach as I contemplated whether I should have warned my customer in advance about the extra trouble coming his way. Trouble for him, hopefully a new beginning for others.
I turned my thoughts to a more pleasant subject; the girl that visited me every month when I was inside, who saw beyond my recidivist features and saw the man within; gentle and fair, when the mood takes me. Lovely girl she is; sweet, kind, believes in me and willing to encourage me to be an upright and honest citizen. I phone her every day; Dave was suspicious at first at the amount of money he had to dock from my pay for the calls, the briefest of thoughts that I might be using it for less than honest activities, but I told him about her, and he laughed and said I was just a puppy dog underneath the hard exterior. Just about got enough for a decent engagement ring for her; I'm going to look in town tomorrow and surprise her tomorrow night. Don't believe in this modern thinking that both choose the engagement ring; I'm an old fashioned romantic at heart. I'm even gonna get down on one knee. Maybe take her to a posh restaurant. That'll clean me out, but she is worth every single penny.
I had just fixed her sister's car, the very same ex-girlfriend, brought in by my future father in law. They will get used to it after time, I'm sure. Well, you gotta let bygones be bygones ain'tcha?
