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“And then youjust reconnect the wires together like this, and bob’s your uncle,” Tony Molloy explained on Thursday evening after school, as he passed me a pair of wire cutters.
The engine of the car he had been rewiring roared to life.
I grinned. “That’s fucking mental.”
He arched a greying brow. “I’m only showing you this in the case of an emergency, not for a midnight joyride or any of that shite young fellas around here are up to.”
“Obviously.”
“Here, hand me that face-tester.”
Thoroughly intrigued, I did as the older man asked, soaking in everything he taught me, and feeling beyond grateful that he had gone out on a limb for me last year – even if it meant that the role that I had been given made me Tony’s glorified lackey.
Filling petrol in the garage’s adjoining forecourt wasn’t exactly thrilling stuff, but the chance to work on engines was something I discovered I enjoyed. More than just enjoyed, it wasexactlythe distraction I needed.
The money wasn’t brilliant, at a fiver an hour, but I was too young to get a job on the books, not to mention too hot-headed to hold one down even if I was old enough.
I couldn’t seem to help it. I had a problem with keeping my shit together. The rage that built up inside of me whenever I was confronted with an altercation, or an asshole determined to argue with me, was uncontrollable.
There was something inside of me that demanded I fight back, no matter how small or unimportant an argument may be.
I couldn’t get a hold of it.
It was like there was a demon living just beneath the surface of my skin, one that had taken too many kicks lying down, and refused to take a single other.
Besides, the relief on my mother’s face when I handed up my wages every Friday night made it all worth it.
If I could take only a tenth of the pressure off her frail shoulders, put there because of the useless bastard she married who refused to find a job, then I would gladly slog it out for a fiver an hour.
Taking all of the hours they would give me, I worked most evenings after school until around nine or ten at night, and all day on Saturday, unless I needed to take a few hours off for matches.
“So, how’s school going, lad?” Tony asked, climbing to his feet. “Keeping the head down after that suspension last week, I hope?”
I wasn't a fan of school and my boss knew it.
I fucking hated it at the best of times, but when I weighed up my options, I would have lived in the place – or here – if it meant I didn’t have to go home.
“I already told ya about that,” I said, following Tony into the office that doubled up as a staff room. “That prick Rice was out of line.”
“And you were only more than willing to put him back in his place,” Tony mused. Flicking on the kettle, he gestured to the black eye I was sporting. “Keep showing up to work looking like that, and you’ll scare off all the old biddies coming in for their petrol.”
I shrugged.
“You know, Joe, you really need to learn how to keep your head,” he continued, pouring two mugs of tea. “A hot temper like that makes you a liability, boyo. It will hold you back in life.”
Or it will keep me alive just long enough to grow up and get out of this town.
“Maybe,” I agreed, running my tongue over the recently healed cut on my bottom lip.
“It’s already holding you back,” he said, handing me one of the mugs, before diving into one of his frequent ‘you have so much potential,’ pep talks.
Sinking down on a chair at the table opposite him, I took a sip from my mug and tuned his voice out, making sure to nod and agree at the right cues, having heard every fucking word before, but knowing deep down inside that Tony wasn’t the enemy.
Every word he spurted was a familiar one that had been echoed before.
From him.
From Nanny Murphy.
