sex, this was the first
time I was aware of it.
I recall thinking that the cigarettes I was smoking, not my usual brand, were the only visible point of contact between me and the people here. I displayed the packet like a badge or VIP pass.
It lay on the table and every time I reached out to flick open the lid or picked it up to pull out another cigarette, I noticed that the same blue and white packet could be seen in dozens of other
hands, poking out of shirt and jeans pockets, in handbags, imagined it on tables in pubs and bars across this large and unfamiliar town, to which I would never gain, nor want, really, membership,
and so on me, this packet was a form of fake ID.
And each time, without fail, Carl would light my cigarette with a lighter he kept in his front jeans pocket. He was smoking too, though not as much as me, so he kept digging into his pocket for
the lighter and then replacing it. He could have put the lighter on the table, or I could have bought my own, because this one, a small transparent yellow plastic lighter, was nearly out of fluid
and was increasingly difficult to ignite, but our arrangement, the arrangement that surfaced, was that he held on to the lighter and each time I took a cigarette, he lit it for me. If we were
outside or sitting close to an open door in a breeze, I would cup my hand around the end of the cigarette and he would place his hand around mine with our fingers overlapping, his thumb resting on
mine, so that as I pulled air hard through the cigarette to get it alight, our hands were together in a kind of loose prayer position, protecting a feeble flame.
After two or three bars we drove out to the sea. Probably the intention was to have sex on the beach, but I don’t remember now if we did that or not because when we walked back up from the
beach something was happening that took over the rest of that night and most of my memories of it. The car park where we left the van from work had been deserted when we arrived, and unlit. Now it
was full of noise and light. There were cars all around the edge facing into the centre with engines running and headlights on full beam. Doors were open and people were either sitting inside or
leaning on their cars, some were sitting on roofs. I don’t know how many cars were there but I guess it was between thirty and forty. The night was cold now, so as well as the exhaust fumes
smoking up, there were frosty swirls of air lit up by the headlights like dry ice on a stage.
The show that everyone had gathered to see was what seemed to be a race between two cars driving in fast, tight laps round the space in the middle of the car park. I saw that the contest was not
so much a race as a fight and underneath the festival-like mood, the bright lights and the excitement of the crowd, I picked up a bass note of bloodlust. Something gladiatorial was taking
place.
The look on Carl’s face told me that the situation was not good. We were standing on the edge of whatever it was, and nobody, yet, had noticed us, but our white van – work’s
white van – was trapped at the back of the car park with no way out except by reversing into the middle of the ring interrupting proceedings and then requiring about six other cars to move to
allow us access to the only exit. The white van stood higher than the other vehicles and was the only one actually parked, with its engine off, and facing away from the centre; a tall, pale geek
ostracized by a ring of short school bullies. It seemed better not to associate with the weakling.
Carl explained what was going on. They’ve got two stolen cars, he said, and they are going to trash them. Trash them? Race them, smash them up and set fire to them. It happens here
sometimes, he said, I just never thought it would happen tonight. We’ll just have to wait it out, I’m sorry. He took off his sweater and passed it to me. It’s not your fault! I
told him, and gave it back but he insisted – he was good
time I was aware of it.
I recall thinking that the cigarettes I was smoking, not my usual brand, were the only visible point of contact between me and the people here. I displayed the packet like a badge or VIP pass.
It lay on the table and every time I reached out to flick open the lid or picked it up to pull out another cigarette, I noticed that the same blue and white packet could be seen in dozens of other
hands, poking out of shirt and jeans pockets, in handbags, imagined it on tables in pubs and bars across this large and unfamiliar town, to which I would never gain, nor want, really, membership,
and so on me, this packet was a form of fake ID.
And each time, without fail, Carl would light my cigarette with a lighter he kept in his front jeans pocket. He was smoking too, though not as much as me, so he kept digging into his pocket for
the lighter and then replacing it. He could have put the lighter on the table, or I could have bought my own, because this one, a small transparent yellow plastic lighter, was nearly out of fluid
and was increasingly difficult to ignite, but our arrangement, the arrangement that surfaced, was that he held on to the lighter and each time I took a cigarette, he lit it for me. If we were
outside or sitting close to an open door in a breeze, I would cup my hand around the end of the cigarette and he would place his hand around mine with our fingers overlapping, his thumb resting on
mine, so that as I pulled air hard through the cigarette to get it alight, our hands were together in a kind of loose prayer position, protecting a feeble flame.
After two or three bars we drove out to the sea. Probably the intention was to have sex on the beach, but I don’t remember now if we did that or not because when we walked back up from the
beach something was happening that took over the rest of that night and most of my memories of it. The car park where we left the van from work had been deserted when we arrived, and unlit. Now it
was full of noise and light. There were cars all around the edge facing into the centre with engines running and headlights on full beam. Doors were open and people were either sitting inside or
leaning on their cars, some were sitting on roofs. I don’t know how many cars were there but I guess it was between thirty and forty. The night was cold now, so as well as the exhaust fumes
smoking up, there were frosty swirls of air lit up by the headlights like dry ice on a stage.
The show that everyone had gathered to see was what seemed to be a race between two cars driving in fast, tight laps round the space in the middle of the car park. I saw that the contest was not
so much a race as a fight and underneath the festival-like mood, the bright lights and the excitement of the crowd, I picked up a bass note of bloodlust. Something gladiatorial was taking
place.
The look on Carl’s face told me that the situation was not good. We were standing on the edge of whatever it was, and nobody, yet, had noticed us, but our white van – work’s
white van – was trapped at the back of the car park with no way out except by reversing into the middle of the ring interrupting proceedings and then requiring about six other cars to move to
allow us access to the only exit. The white van stood higher than the other vehicles and was the only one actually parked, with its engine off, and facing away from the centre; a tall, pale geek
ostracized by a ring of short school bullies. It seemed better not to associate with the weakling.
Carl explained what was going on. They’ve got two stolen cars, he said, and they are going to trash them. Trash them? Race them, smash them up and set fire to them. It happens here
sometimes, he said, I just never thought it would happen tonight. We’ll just have to wait it out, I’m sorry. He took off his sweater and passed it to me. It’s not your fault! I
told him, and gave it back but he insisted – he was good
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