latest illicit prize, Ronnie got a lump in his throat the size of a locking wheel nut.
He didn’t blame Jonas; didn’t hate him. He knew that that was the way things were. People lost stuff; eventually they wanted it back. Jonas was just the middleman.
And he was a good middleman. He seemed to understand that Ronnie was more than just a thief. He seemed to understand that he
cared
.
Once, as Ronnie stood misty-eyed, watching a powder-blue Triumph Stag (with freshly re-chromed wire wheels) driven away on a low-loader, Jonas had patted his shoulder kindly. ‘This has got to stop, Ronnie,’ he’d sighed – and Ronnie had thought bitterly that Jonas was finally showing his true blue police colours. Then Jonas had added, ‘All this hard work going down the drain.’
He’d managed to get Ronnie on to a police-subsidized karting course, where his twin talents of mechanics and driving very fast led to him shining, instead of shaming his family.
The Stag was the last car Ronnie Trewell ever stole.
But this had been the first. This half-burned-out once-red Mazda MX5 convertible.
Ronnie had never gone back to the woods to see it, so it was left to Davey and Shane, among others, to find it and play in it. Although ‘play’ was not a word they would ever have used – even in their own heads.
Rally Crash was their favourite game – where one would sit behind the wheel, on a cushion stolen from Shane’s mother’s bedroom, and pretend to mow down the other, who was a hapless spectator at a hypothetical rally. This game involved much loud verbal gear-changing and last-minute shouts of warning from the driver, and cries of terror plus spectacular dives into the undergrowth from the victim. Then the driver would get out and pronounce the spectator dead, or the spectator would use his last breath to reach out and strangle the driver in the ferns.
Just depended how they felt.
The other game was Getaway, where both Shane and Davey robbed a bank – which was the big stump about fifty yards off – then had to dodge police snipers and gas grenades to make it to their getaway car, all the while spraying bullets from their AK-47s. The roof was burned off the Mazda so this game allowed them both to devise ever-more dangerous methods of getting into the car – the ultimate being a spectacular, testicle-threatening slide across the blistered boot.
If Davey and Shane weren’t at Springer Farm, they could almost always be found deep in the woods in Ronnie Trewell’s burned-out car.
Today they were bored and fractious. Things had started well. They’d robbed the bank two or three times – each time stealing the five £20 notes they’d found but not yet settled on how to spend. But after that things had gone awry when Davey had mown Shane down into a patch of nettles, for which he quite unfairly blamed Davey, given that – at the end of the day – the car
was
stationary.
They’d fought briefly over that and told each other to piss off, then sat together in the Mazda in bolshy silence.
Out of nowhere, Davey’s mouth dropped open. ‘I have an
awesome
game!’
Shane was on board instantly – everything forgiven – before he’d even heard the idea.
‘Kidnap,’ said Davey. ‘Like those kids.’
‘Cool! How does it work?’ said Shane.
‘One of us sits in the car and the other has to creep up and kidnap him.’
A slow smile spread across Shane’s features. ‘That
is
awesome.’
‘I know,’ said Davey, getting out of the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll be the kidnapper first.’
‘OK,’ said Shane. ‘But if I see you coming, I win.’
Davey frowned deeply at this amendment to the non-existent rules of the un-played game, but finally nodded his approval.
‘OK, but don’t
lie
.’
‘OK,’ agreed Shane, because he often did lie, so that was fair comment.
Davey ran into the woods and then carefully circled around until he was about forty yards behind the Mazda. He knelt in the ferns and found a couple of
He didn’t blame Jonas; didn’t hate him. He knew that that was the way things were. People lost stuff; eventually they wanted it back. Jonas was just the middleman.
And he was a good middleman. He seemed to understand that Ronnie was more than just a thief. He seemed to understand that he
cared
.
Once, as Ronnie stood misty-eyed, watching a powder-blue Triumph Stag (with freshly re-chromed wire wheels) driven away on a low-loader, Jonas had patted his shoulder kindly. ‘This has got to stop, Ronnie,’ he’d sighed – and Ronnie had thought bitterly that Jonas was finally showing his true blue police colours. Then Jonas had added, ‘All this hard work going down the drain.’
He’d managed to get Ronnie on to a police-subsidized karting course, where his twin talents of mechanics and driving very fast led to him shining, instead of shaming his family.
The Stag was the last car Ronnie Trewell ever stole.
But this had been the first. This half-burned-out once-red Mazda MX5 convertible.
Ronnie had never gone back to the woods to see it, so it was left to Davey and Shane, among others, to find it and play in it. Although ‘play’ was not a word they would ever have used – even in their own heads.
Rally Crash was their favourite game – where one would sit behind the wheel, on a cushion stolen from Shane’s mother’s bedroom, and pretend to mow down the other, who was a hapless spectator at a hypothetical rally. This game involved much loud verbal gear-changing and last-minute shouts of warning from the driver, and cries of terror plus spectacular dives into the undergrowth from the victim. Then the driver would get out and pronounce the spectator dead, or the spectator would use his last breath to reach out and strangle the driver in the ferns.
Just depended how they felt.
The other game was Getaway, where both Shane and Davey robbed a bank – which was the big stump about fifty yards off – then had to dodge police snipers and gas grenades to make it to their getaway car, all the while spraying bullets from their AK-47s. The roof was burned off the Mazda so this game allowed them both to devise ever-more dangerous methods of getting into the car – the ultimate being a spectacular, testicle-threatening slide across the blistered boot.
If Davey and Shane weren’t at Springer Farm, they could almost always be found deep in the woods in Ronnie Trewell’s burned-out car.
Today they were bored and fractious. Things had started well. They’d robbed the bank two or three times – each time stealing the five £20 notes they’d found but not yet settled on how to spend. But after that things had gone awry when Davey had mown Shane down into a patch of nettles, for which he quite unfairly blamed Davey, given that – at the end of the day – the car
was
stationary.
They’d fought briefly over that and told each other to piss off, then sat together in the Mazda in bolshy silence.
Out of nowhere, Davey’s mouth dropped open. ‘I have an
awesome
game!’
Shane was on board instantly – everything forgiven – before he’d even heard the idea.
‘Kidnap,’ said Davey. ‘Like those kids.’
‘Cool! How does it work?’ said Shane.
‘One of us sits in the car and the other has to creep up and kidnap him.’
A slow smile spread across Shane’s features. ‘That
is
awesome.’
‘I know,’ said Davey, getting out of the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll be the kidnapper first.’
‘OK,’ said Shane. ‘But if I see you coming, I win.’
Davey frowned deeply at this amendment to the non-existent rules of the un-played game, but finally nodded his approval.
‘OK, but don’t
lie
.’
‘OK,’ agreed Shane, because he often did lie, so that was fair comment.
Davey ran into the woods and then carefully circled around until he was about forty yards behind the Mazda. He knelt in the ferns and found a couple of
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