‘We’ll be more comfortable in the back,’ he suggested when he could breathe again.
He flicked on the interior light to let her see the torn old mattress he used to cushion some of his more fragile deliveries now that the van’s springs were no longer up to much.
‘Come prepared, didn’yer?’ Kicking off her shoes, she braced herself against the seat back, lifted her bottom and peeled down her tights. ‘No, leave the light on, else I can’t see where I’m at.’
Before he could suggest an easier way, she was crawling back somehow between the two seats. Her tiny mini-skirt covered nothing.
‘Come on, Pete!’ she cried out impatiently, sitting on the mattress and reaching behind her to undo the back buttons of her blouse. ‘Don’t be so slow!’
It was his birthday, he exulted as he rode above her, supporting himself on rigid arms so that he could look down on her laughing face, her eyes on his, her mouth open with sheer enjoyment. Her hips squirmed beneath him, responding to every little move, and he realised this was the best bloody birthday present he’d ever had in the whole of his life. She was glorying in it, every second.
When at last they rested, she leaned over him, running her fingertips over his skin, moving slowly down towards his soft flesh which was already stirring into life again. But now she was taking her time over it, chatting away as they lay there naked together in the tiny van.
‘Girl at school says the Pill makes yer fat,’ she said casually as her hand closed on him. ‘Not me, though. Feel that, I’m all bones. Yer can count me ribs.’
‘Still at school are yer?’ Christ! he swore to himself. She was under age.
‘When I bother to go. Bloody waste o’ time.’
She didn’t seem worried at all, but then, but then it wouldn’t be her they’d slap the handcuffs on, would it? Mustn’t let her know what he was thinking, or she’d use it. Turn it all against him, the bitch.
‘My birthday today,’ he told her.
‘Yer birthday? Yer havin’ me on! Is it, honest? How old are yer then?’
‘Twenty-two,’ he lied. ‘An’ you?’
‘Fourteen.’ She added cosily, nuzzling against him: ‘Fourteen an’ twenty-two. That’s only eight years diff’rence, innit?’
Eight years in Maidstone Prison, he thought grimly. Just when he was getting somewhere with the van. His own business. Oh, Christ, that was just his bloody luck. Turning away from her, feeling sick in his stomach, he began to hunt for his clothes.
‘’Ere, what’s the matter?’ she demanded sharply. ‘What’s the ’urry all of a sudden? ’Cos I’m fourteen, is that it? Yer not the first, yer know, if that’s what worries yer.’
He tried to control his temper. ‘Yer really don’ understand, do yer?’
‘What can they do? Anyway, another year’n a half I’m sixteen.’
‘I’ll come back then.’
‘Yer’ll be wastin’ yer time then. Didn’t think yer was fuckin’ chicken. ’Ere, what if I tell ’em?’
‘Yer wouldn’t dare!’
‘I will if yer don’ come back ’ere,’ she taunted him. She was kneeling, still naked, and grabbing each item of his clothes as he reached out for it, throwing them behind her. ‘Come on, Pete, let’s ’ave another tango, or I swear I’ll tell ’em. An’ jus’ look at yerself, yer can’t say yer don’ want to.’
‘Give me those bloody clothes.’
She shook her head, laughing at him with a grim obstinacy.
Twice he hit her hard across the face. It was not what he wanted, but what else could he do? The bitch had him cornered, so he lashed out, then pushed her roughly aside and collected up his clothes.
‘Yer stupid bitch, why did yer make me do that?’ he lectured her as he pulled his things on. ‘Get yerself dressed an’ I’ll drive yer back. An’ listen — jus’ try tellin’ the fuzz, that’s all. First, I’ll deny it. An’ second, they’ll put yer in care, that’s what happens.’
‘Shut yer face!’ Mo snarled at him in tears. ‘Jus’ you fuckin’ shut yer face!’
They got into the front and he gunned the engine, churning up the mud as he attempted to reverse into the lane. He had to get out and hunt around with a torch for something to put under one of the rear wheels before he could move. A flat slab of stone did the job and he was able to swing around, then drive back in the direction from which they had come.
In the passenger seat beside him, Mo was still sobbing. She dug a handkerchief out of her handbag and blew her nose. ‘I’ve torn me tights,’ she accused him. ‘An’ me blouse is filthy from this rotten van.’
‘I’ll give yer some money. Yer can buy new.’ That was a mistake; he knew it as soon as he spoke, but by then it was too late.
‘Yer don’ ’ave to pay me!’ she yelled at him. ‘What d’yer think I am? Keep yer stinkin’ money.’
‘Right!’ He concentrated on the road, taking each bend fiercely, the tyres screeching. ‘Right, I will!’
She started to sob again, saying nothing.
‘Well, d’yer want the money or don’t yer?’ he exploded. The van mounted the verge; he almost lost control of it.
‘’Ow much?’ she challenged him.
‘Ten. For yer tights an’ things, not for payin’ yer.’
‘Give it ’ere.’ She held out her hand.
‘When we stop. Oh shit, Mo, yer a bloody brilliant lay, I’ll say that. Best I’ve ’ad, honest. So why d’yer have to be only fourteen?’
Reaching the junction with the main road he kept his foot pressed on the accelerator, making no attempt to slow down as he swung the wheel over. Only as he felt his rear tyres begin to slither over the treacherous surface did he spot the army of green caterpillars on the road, shimmering in his headlights.
Mo screamed and clutched his arm.
‘Oh Pete!’
He might even have succeeded in pulling out of the skid if she hadn’t grabbed his arm like that, but it was like driving over sheet ice: he missed the right moment and suddenly they were travelling side-on. Then the tyres gripped — for a second only — and that threw the van into a twisting frenzy.
Again Mo screamed, just before they hit some obstruction at the side of the road — he couldn’t see what — and overturned. The impact of the steering wheel in his belly knocked the breath out of him; then a blow fell square on his head and he blacked out.
Silly bitch was lying on him, groaning. Pinning him down with her full weight. Awareness returned to him slowly, like pushing through a mass of grey lace curtains, flimsy as butterflies’ wings: push one aside and there’s another… and another…
Accident, wasn’t it? Some silly cunt driving into him?
No, that wasn’t it. Remembered now — the skid… the van spinning round… then over… Those things on the road had looked like caterpillars: hundreds of the buggers forming a living carpet across the full width of the tar. ’Cept they were moving, he could swear to that.
The van lay on its side now — he managed to work that out, though consciousness came only in waves like that time he’d knocked himself out with a cocaine cocktail. He was in a bad way, he knew that much. Really smashed himself up. That girl on top of him as well — what was her name? Mo? Was that it? He could not remember. Good little fucker, though. Mustn’t lose sight o’ talent like that. Bloody genius, she was.
Jesus, he was in a bad way. Wheelchairs after this, boy. Really done it this time.
‘Pete, stop ’em!’ Her shriek was like sharp needles suddenly piercing his brain, killing every thought and memory. ‘They’re crawling under my blouse… up my sleeves… I can feel them —!’ Another scream, even more agonised than the first.