Golden Hour by William Nicholson Page B

Just before the training gallop he swings the van round full circle to look back down on the lights of Lewes. Here he settles down to wait for Terry.
    Towns look different at night. And different from high up. There’s the castle, you can usually find that, high on its mound. And the river, and the lights of the Malling Estate rising up the flank of the Downs beyond. This is the landscape of his entire life.
    Maybe I should have got away long ago, run away to London, made my fortune. Some chance. I got away all right, to RochesterBorstal, to Camp Hill. At Camp Hill they give you a whipping you don’t forget in a hurry.
    When Dad was on the booze any little thing would set him off, and then I was for it. Send me up the road to fetch Granddad’s belt. Bring it home, bend over. Eight whacks on the bum. Then take the belt back to Granddad. Granddad never said a word. Funny, that, how he never said a word. You’re ten years old and you’ve got a dad who belts you and no one ever asks why. You don’t even ask why yourself.
    Terry’s always been a good mate. He knows I need the money, but I promised Sheena no more hooky business. A promise is a promise. All I’m doing is bringing the van onto the racecourse so Terry can have a ride home. That’s all. Terry gets that.
    â€œYou’re not breaking any promise, Dean. You’re just helping a mate.”
    So Dean watches and waits. A half-moon low in the sky, some stars. His phone rings. It’s Sheena, wanting to know when he’ll be home.
    â€œJust having a drink with Terry,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”
    Never before been anyone who wants him to come home.
    â€œLove you, hon,” he says.
    â€œLove you, babe,” she replies.
    No one knows him the way Sheena knows him. No one else in the world he trusts, unless you count Brad. But Brad’s a loner. You’d never say hand on heart that Brad loves anyone. He’ll pull you out of a burning house. He’ll take a bullet for you. But you’ll never see him smile and you’ll never hear him cry.
    He sees headlights coming up the track, and there’s this roaring animal of a car shuddering to a stop in front of his van. He gets out.
    â€œFucking hell!”
    â€œThis,” says Terry, “is a four-wheel-drive turbo-charged ”92Cozzie with whale-tail spoiler. And there’s only seven thousand of them in the universe.’
    â€œAnd you’re going to roll it?”
    â€œThat’s the job, kiddo.”
    â€œYou saw Jimmy Dawes?”
    â€œI saw Jimmy Dawes and I didn’t see Jimmy Dawes. He comes into the pub to buy a packet of fags and I go outside and there’s the Cozzie with the keys in the ignition just like he said, and I’m away.”
    â€œAnd you’re going to roll it.”
    Dean strokes the sleek spoiler. Seems a dumb way to make a few grand, but what do I know?
    â€œWhat’s she like to drive?”
    â€œLike sweet fucking,” says Terry. “Ride of your life.”
    He gets back into the car and eases it up the track while Dean watches. There’s a slope down to one side of the track, and that’s where the Cozzie’s going to roll. Lie it on its back and it’s a write-off. That’s official, insurance rules.
    Terry cuts the engine and gets out. The Cozzie’s right by the edge of the slope. It’s not like he wants to go down with it. But the ground is rutted, and the wheels won’t roll.
    â€œC’m here, Dean! Give us a hand!”
    Together they push the car sideways on to the slope.
    â€œYou wearing gloves, mate?”
    â€œCourse I’m wearing gloves. I’m not an idiot.”
    â€œOkay, okay. Just looking out for you. Give it some welly, now.”
    They push some more and the car gets two wheels down the slope and starts to tilt. Then all at once it’s rolling. They stand back, hearing it bump down the slope. There’s some louder