into the house. The only sound I can remotely discern is the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the hallway. If there were ever any dogs, they must’ve gone the way of the machines in the front yard a long time ago, the lie outliving them.
‘We’re here to see Richard,’ Ryan says pleasantly into the beery miasma that surrounds the older man.
129
‘Down the shops,’ the guy says curtly. ‘Wait for him, if you like.’
Then he shuts the door, hard, in our faces.
We wander through the graveyard of dead and dismembered motorbikes, mostly Japanese, some bearing fancy European tags I can barely pronounce.
Forty minutes later, just as we’re about to give up and turn back the way we came, a red two-door truck pulls up the drive, a mud-splattered bike anchored to its open tray with cables. There is a slight delay, a detectable pause, before the driver jumps out and walks towards us; a young man with dark blond hair, shaved close to his skull at back and sides but forming a Mohawk or quiff at the top so a long fringe falls half over his face and his extraordinarily pale, ice blue eyes. He’s in layered, motto-covered skater tees — the sleeves pushed high up both arms to reveal forearms crawling with tatts — and cargo pants with more pockets than I can begin to count.
Some of the pockets jangle and hang a little low and I imagine more bike parts secreted in them, the boy half-made of metal.
He is much smaller and slighter than I’d anticipated, and he looks very young to me, almost as young as 130
Carmen does. Lauren and he would’ve made a cute couple, I decide. Like two dolls. A matched set. He couldn’t look less like his old man, and I wonder if every day, the old guy hates the very sight of him because he resembles his runaway wife.
Richard’s ‘Ryan Daley?’ is surprisingly tentative for an allegedly freaky daredevil of shit-your-pants proportions.
‘Rich,’ Ryan replies sombrely, holding out his right hand.
The two young men — so different in every way —
shake and hold firm for a moment, and I wonder whose grip is stronger. Neither looks away and their grins are momentarily fixed and glassy. Unspoken guy rituals are still mostly beyond my understanding and I watch, fascinated.
‘And this is?’ Richard Coates says warily after they let go of each other almost simultaneously, like a secret signal has been imparted, both flexing their palms and fingers a little.
‘Carmen Zappacosta,’ Ryan replies. ‘A friend of Lauren’s from way back, from when we lived in the city.
We just wanted to talk.’
Richard’s brow pleats as he inputs my name. ‘Lauren 131
never mentioned you, Carmen, but I’m always happy to talk. You sure, uh, chose the day though.’
‘Didn’t we?’ Ryan murmurs, looking down momentarily before meeting Richard’s eyes once more.
‘But Carmen kind of timed her visit to us for a reason
…’
I shoot a surprised glance at Ryan’s profile, but it gives nothing away. Probably just a figure of speech. The guy’s a good liar, convincing. I almost believe him.
He continues smoothly. ‘She just wanted to hear about Lauren from you. How you spent your last day together. It would kind of be, um, sort of … a closure
… from Carmen’s perspective. She’s come a long way to hear what you have to say.’
Again, I glance at him. He has no idea. Does he? I’m the one who’s supposed to be preternaturally good at reading people.
Richard waves us towards a reclaimed park bench that’s set up under a giant street lamp fixed into the middle of the yard on a concrete block. The lamp wouldn’t look out of place in a park, or out the front of a government building. But it’s evidently been placed here — with little regard for home décor — and jerry-rigged up with electrical wiring, so it can be turned on at 132
night to allow Richard to work on his machines.
I sit down on the bench while the two men remain standing. Ryan’s body language isn’t
‘We’re here to see Richard,’ Ryan says pleasantly into the beery miasma that surrounds the older man.
129
‘Down the shops,’ the guy says curtly. ‘Wait for him, if you like.’
Then he shuts the door, hard, in our faces.
We wander through the graveyard of dead and dismembered motorbikes, mostly Japanese, some bearing fancy European tags I can barely pronounce.
Forty minutes later, just as we’re about to give up and turn back the way we came, a red two-door truck pulls up the drive, a mud-splattered bike anchored to its open tray with cables. There is a slight delay, a detectable pause, before the driver jumps out and walks towards us; a young man with dark blond hair, shaved close to his skull at back and sides but forming a Mohawk or quiff at the top so a long fringe falls half over his face and his extraordinarily pale, ice blue eyes. He’s in layered, motto-covered skater tees — the sleeves pushed high up both arms to reveal forearms crawling with tatts — and cargo pants with more pockets than I can begin to count.
Some of the pockets jangle and hang a little low and I imagine more bike parts secreted in them, the boy half-made of metal.
He is much smaller and slighter than I’d anticipated, and he looks very young to me, almost as young as 130
Carmen does. Lauren and he would’ve made a cute couple, I decide. Like two dolls. A matched set. He couldn’t look less like his old man, and I wonder if every day, the old guy hates the very sight of him because he resembles his runaway wife.
Richard’s ‘Ryan Daley?’ is surprisingly tentative for an allegedly freaky daredevil of shit-your-pants proportions.
‘Rich,’ Ryan replies sombrely, holding out his right hand.
The two young men — so different in every way —
shake and hold firm for a moment, and I wonder whose grip is stronger. Neither looks away and their grins are momentarily fixed and glassy. Unspoken guy rituals are still mostly beyond my understanding and I watch, fascinated.
‘And this is?’ Richard Coates says warily after they let go of each other almost simultaneously, like a secret signal has been imparted, both flexing their palms and fingers a little.
‘Carmen Zappacosta,’ Ryan replies. ‘A friend of Lauren’s from way back, from when we lived in the city.
We just wanted to talk.’
Richard’s brow pleats as he inputs my name. ‘Lauren 131
never mentioned you, Carmen, but I’m always happy to talk. You sure, uh, chose the day though.’
‘Didn’t we?’ Ryan murmurs, looking down momentarily before meeting Richard’s eyes once more.
‘But Carmen kind of timed her visit to us for a reason
…’
I shoot a surprised glance at Ryan’s profile, but it gives nothing away. Probably just a figure of speech. The guy’s a good liar, convincing. I almost believe him.
He continues smoothly. ‘She just wanted to hear about Lauren from you. How you spent your last day together. It would kind of be, um, sort of … a closure
… from Carmen’s perspective. She’s come a long way to hear what you have to say.’
Again, I glance at him. He has no idea. Does he? I’m the one who’s supposed to be preternaturally good at reading people.
Richard waves us towards a reclaimed park bench that’s set up under a giant street lamp fixed into the middle of the yard on a concrete block. The lamp wouldn’t look out of place in a park, or out the front of a government building. But it’s evidently been placed here — with little regard for home décor — and jerry-rigged up with electrical wiring, so it can be turned on at 132
night to allow Richard to work on his machines.
I sit down on the bench while the two men remain standing. Ryan’s body language isn’t
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