NO LIGHT/
MIGHT
ESCAPE
by
Joe Hakim
Published by Night Publishing, Smashwords edition
Copyright 2011, Joe Hakim
ISBN 978-1-4580-9291-5
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All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.
To discover other books by Joe Hakim please go to http://www.nightpublishing.com/joe-hakim.html.
I
SELLING AN ENGINE
I’m at my mate Rob’s house. It’s my night off, and he’s just finished work, so I go there for something to do. Do something other than my girlfriend for a change.
Rob and I sit and smoke a couple of joints and listen to old-school rap like NWA and Public Enemy. We talk about the good old times, even though we’re still in our twenties.
Word.
Rob recently split up with his girlfriend, so he’s pretty fucked up. Although I’m sure he’s past the worst of it, he’s let himself go. He was attempting to completely renovate his house, but after she left it all fell apart, and the work remains unfinished.
“I just don’t give a fuck anymore,” he says.
The easiest part of doing up a house is the ripping everything out bit.
There’s a knock at the door, and Rob ‘screens’ the caller. The wall that separated the living room and the dining room has been knocked out, making the downstairs of his house one huge room. Even though we’re sat in the back of the house, the massive living room window clearly displays the fronts of all the houses on the opposite side of the terrace. You can also see everyone that walks past, and every car that creeps up the one-way-too-thin road, punctuated by speed bumps.
It’s like having a massive plasma screen television set into the wall, but the channel is permanently stuck on the ‘World Outside’ show.
“Come in,” Rob shouts, and the front door opens.
A lad that I’ve never met before walks in. He’s wearing a Le Shark pullover, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Nike Air Max trainers. As soon as he speaks I realise that he’s a traveller.
“I came around earlier,” he says. “My Dad wants that engine yer said yer were flogging.”
“Soz,” Rob says. “I was offered a bit of overtime, and I really need the cash, so I was late getting in.”
“But he needs it for tomorrow.”
Rob thinks for a minute, takes a toke, says, “I’ve got an idea. Ring yer Dad.”
The kid takes his phone out of his pocket.
“I’ve got my van on the road, so I’ll take the engine round now,” Rob says. The kid presses a button on the phone and then puts it to his ear.
There’s a pause. “Fuck it, I’ll take it round tonight,” Rob says.
“How will you get in it in the van?” I ask.
“Fuck knows,” he replies. “I haven’t even got an engine hoist.”
“What’s an engine hoist?” I ask.
I am completely useless in all mechanical situations and scenarios. I could write what I know about cars and engines on the back of a post-card. I don’t even have a driving license.
I remain in the house and roll joints while Rob and the kid, who goes by the name ‘Pikey Dave’, drag this engine across the yard from the garage to the van. This is no easy task. Rob’s yard is littered with several vehicles, all in various states of repair; a couple of jeeps; a couple of BMWs; a transit van. The van is the only thing that runs. It’s also the only vehicle that’s taxed and tested.
Roadworthy.
The easiest part of doing up cars is the ripping everything out bit.
They push the engine to the back of the van on a trolley. It starts chucking it down, making everything a little more difficult. I make them both a cup of tea and go outside to offer my assistance.
“The plan,” Rob explains, “is to get the engine as close to the van as possible. Then we strap a couple of ratchet straps to it, and the we lift it a bit at a time, taking the slack off the straps as we do, y’know, in case we have to let go of the engine.”
Turns out, the engine is heavy. Very heavy. “It’s a Escort TDI engine,” Rob tells me.
“What does TDI mean?” I ask, and Pikey Dave looks over at me.
“Turbo Diesel Intercooler,” he says.
“I have a plan,” Rob says.
We’re outside and it’s still raining, and Rob decides that the only thing to do is to use a jack to do the majority of the lifting. He balances two bricks on top of the jack, and Pikey Dave and I tilt the engine while he shoves it under. We somehow manage to tip the engine onto the jack, balancing it on the bricks for extra height.
As Rob slowly pumps the lever on the jack, the engine lifts off the ground. I’m stood at one side trying to hold it steady. “Let’s walk it over to the lip of the van, carefully,” Rob says, and we rock the engine from side to side and push the jack along underneath.
“That’s it, steady,” Rob says. “Improvise, adapt and overcome, that’s what a task like this needs, a bit of military precision, summat like that.”
Rob spent his teenage years in the army. Years he refers to as the best of his life so far. He still has his regiment photos hung on the wall. He was discharged for undisclosed reasons.
“Right,” he says. “You two hold it steady while I attach the ratchet straps.”
The rain slaps the back of my head. I shift my hands to adjust my grip. My nose is running but I can’t touch it. I’m stoned as well. An eternity passes, and my shoulders and fingers start to feel like wood.
I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
If either Pikey Dave or I lose our grip, then the engine will tip over. My hand, arm and leg will be crushed underneath it as it hits the floor.
“Right, they’re on,” Rob says, jumping from the van. “Let’s fucking do this.”
We push and push, nudging the engine in. It falls off the bricks and slams down hard into the van. “Tighten the fucking straps,” Rob shouts, and Pikey Dave grabs hold of the ratchet.
Eventually, we manage to get the fucking thing in.
We have a quick breather, and then Pikey Dave gets on his bike. He’s off to see his girlfriend, an hour too late. “My dad will still be awake,” he says. “He’s got an engine hoist, so don’t worry about lifting it out.”
He turns to me. “I bet you’ve never done that before, eh? See yer,” he says, and then he peddles off.
‘Let’s drop this fuckin’ thing off,’ Rob says.
So we drive onto Spring Bank, and head towards the traveller’s site that’s located just off Cleveland Street.
Rob’s van has something wrong with the fan belt, so it emits a constant high-pitched whine. During the daytime it’s drowned out by the noise of all the other traffic on the road, but in the dead of night it sounds like a banshee approaching.
“Beware, the squealer is out on patrol,” Rob says.
Rob doesn’t own a thermos, so he has a large mug of tea balancing on the seat next to him.
“Once you’ve gone over a couple of speed bumps, the excess spills out, and you’ve got a calm tea for the rest of the journey,” he explains.
We take a detour through the town centre, but the engine in the back isn’t tied down properly. Every time we turn a corner the whole van sways.
“Got to be careful not to tip the fucking van over,” Rob says.
We arrive at Cleveland Street. It used to be a huge car park, and there are a couple of rows of caravans and mobile homes.
A temporary terrace.
The screaming fan belt heralds our arrival. We drive over to a caravan and park up. The guy’s already outside, waiting for us. I climb out of the van, feeling a bit conspicuous. It’s the dope. According to Rob, the older travellers frown upon the use of drugs. They don’t want unnecessary trouble brought to their community.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
“We’ll be fine,” the guy says. A young lad appears, pushing an engine hoist. My mate opens the van door and they wheel the hoist up to the engine and attach it, and then they lift it out, quickly, without any trouble.
The easiest part of selling an engine is the getting it out of the van bit.
We set off. As we leave the site, I take one last look at the caravans, and Rob turns to me and says, “Y’know, I think I might be turning into a PTP.”
“What’s a PTP?” I ask.
“A part-time pikey.”
fuck the jazz age
I realised too late that inverse-vanity is worse
than standard, as I meandered through the
conversation like someone deranged. I
scraped the barrel until my fingers bled, but
eventually I ran out of things to say. It was
unfortunate that you caught me like that,
self-pity oozing out of every pore like swamp-gas
sweats. I smiled and tried and hide the nerves by
trapping my hands between my thighs. The
minutes ticked by, and I lobbed my silence at you
like a heckle that stops the routine. You’ve
been talking long enough, I thought, I should step
back in, but I was waiting for the bell in my head
to ring to signal the start of the round. I’d been sat
down for too long to get up, and I twisted my
foot into the carpet, trying to make it through
the moment – hoping that you would forgive me
for all the things I wanted to, but had yet to, do to
you. But maybe that was just the drink not-talking.
at withernsea
Barren beach apocalypse.
One man sits and watches his mongrel
as it shits on the sand. No demand
for this lonely seaside town,
where the sky is grey
and the ocean is brown.
Where hope is lost and
memories are found wandering
in a daze in abandoned penny arcades,
their graves dug and marked by plastic spades.
Old boats unable to float anymore
are huddled together with
their backs to the shore,
while the elderly snore and dribble
under blankets in wheel chairs,
breathing in a final
taste of salt-sea air.
When I was a boy this place
felt like the other side of the world.
I would spend hours hurling
pebbles at the tide and
overturning rocks to find
crabs hiding from the sun,
and then I would run
into the sea. The beaches
would be packed with families,
but now everything is empty.
Shops and cafés are ancient ruins
and the kids are all on heroin,
Cracked plaster and peeling paint
is everywhere, houses falling
into disrepair and no one cares.
Like cliffs slowly
falling into the sea, something
crumbles inside me as I watch the
waves break sadly against the rocks.
Locked public loos and
empty bottles of booze;
nothing to write home about on
the back of a postcard, seagulls
are the only lifeguards that are
needed here, to watch over the
outlet pipes and the phantom pier.
I think of inflatable armbands
and ice cream and bandits and bingo,
and the tide of time as it ebbs and flows
and erodes the coast of the past –
a ghost of childhood
laid to rest at last.
don’t throw it away, give it away
there’s an iceberg in my belly
something crashes into it
and then it’s 18 years ago
and i’m wearing a Fred Krueger jumper
and i’m off on a mission to drop
fireworks on the bonnets of cars
containing prostitutes sucking off
their tricks
and then i’m running from private
security firms and screaming at the wind
flick-forward to now
and I’m grinning like a mad-man
and trying to contain my indignation
at the way life treats me
and i abort the future
and pack it in ice like dead fish in transit
no-one will help me and no-one
will help you
talk in lies and advertising slogans
and pretend to be civil
sing carols and
keep Christmas candid and
keep knives sharp
and dance in the ruins of council
chambers
i move too fast
i misunderstand text messages
and pray for popcorn showers
in empty cinemas
my patience is stretched thin
like the skin on a snare drum
let the public decide my outcome
let them decide my fate
i cannot wait for the black
but i am a coward, i am an excuse
i am loopy juice
i am puke on a mirror
secret labour plans axe
spending on the young
indulging themselves in Portugal
and pulling down the birds pecking at the crosswords
cut the account by 10%
delay the introduction of the pigs providing
the programming of flagship
operations
and trying to contain my indignation
i slice my breath in the winter morning air
and escape responsibility
like absent fathers
chewing radiators
the clean towels are stacked next to
the dirty washing
come around to my party
nibble cardboard treats
and indulge in some slap and tickle
in my fickle kitchen
you won’t find it cheaper
let’s do it
let’s risk a new costa del crime
the objects in the rear-view mirror
may appear defeated and twisted
and put the UK at risk but
99.9% of all life on earth has