RACING GREEN JAGS

I have just finished writing my next novel RACING GREEN JAGS and cannot decide whether to publish it. If you have time please read the first chapter and, if you are able, give some feedback. 

It was when I first saw Monkie and coincidentally the first time he saw me just before eight on a Saturday morning spring of ‘66 shortly after the train had pulled into the station. I felt rough, there was no doubt about that. So rough I felt lucky to be there considering how the previous night’s entertainment had gone. What with all the drink and then, of course, the hospital visit didn’t help.

    Walking away from the platform I dodged through the crowds, swung past a lady with a twin pushchair full of screaming kids who made my head hurt, came out of the station and there was Monkie stepping off the bus but not just getting off, he made a real show of it. As the bus slowed towards the stop he swung around the pole to agilely land on the pavement with a big dip of his knees. Spun, kind of shook his head throwing his long blond fringe across his forehead and laughed, pointed at the clippie who was making full use of his peaked cap authority.

As he straightened and brushed down his maroon leather bomber jacket he glanced my way and grinned. I noticed the scuff marks on the jacket and the ripped knees of his jeans. Maybe he saw something, I don’t know, but one thing’s for sure, I did. I saw a fella smack bang in the middle of my world. Right down to the faded Levis and red bumper boots. He touched his head and lifted his hand as though he was tipping a hat and was off. Double-time down the street away from the station heading for the High Street. I watched him disappear around the corner as the bus pulled away with the clippie hanging on the pole shouting in Monkie’s direction something about him breaking legs.
   Pulling dark shades from the breast pocket of my white T-shirt I glanced at the sky and slipped them on. Sauntered towards the High Street, felt the glare through the lenses and regretted the one too many last night. My destination: the clothes store on the corner of Market Street. First though the paper shop to check the charts.
   Now, I already had an inkling the Doris behind the counter did not take too kindly to her mags being fiddled with without the intention to buy. Today though she was engaged in a frantic conversation with a guy with steam in his ears violently prodding the pile of newspapers so I snuck in behind a big fella wearing a dark suit. Slipped over to the magazine racks on the side wall and sort of hid behind the dark suit as he stood waiting for the tirade to abate.
   Happened to glance out of the window and there he was, Monkie again. I was not too sure how old he was but maybe not a lot older than me. Being tall I can get away with telling everyone I’m coming up nineteen so, if he was not much older than me and no taller than me I’d say he was probably around sixteen maybe even seventeen, something like that anyway. Wore a smile that he aimed at the two girls as they passed. Trendies we called them and virtually untouchable. You know the sort. Walked, arms linked, with their noses in the air. A lot of giggling involved. Mini-skirts straight off the hangers of Carnaby Street. Tight tops just hugging their high waistband with the two telltale no bra bumps. White go-go boots. Long hair. Blonde but sure to be dyed. That was the thing with trendies, they all had the same look and all had the same not interested snapped out superficial smile. Just a quick lowering of the lids and a flash of super white teeth. Was I interested? Not so much. I had the necessary wealth, no doubt about that, but… why waste it on what was, after all, nothing but a sponge?
   The fracas had ended and, having been served, the dark suit was leaving. Suddenly noticing me, the Doris started saying stuff, asking if I wanted anything in particular but I was distracted. I flicked the top shelf mags but didn’t turn towards her and continued to look at Monkie thinking he was behaving oddly. He’d stopped to stand almost on the edge of the kerb watching the cars approach. Stared along the High Street as though he was searching for something.
   The Doris spoke again. This time a bit sharply and that made me turn. Forties I’d say with a look of steel pins coming through her glasses. Those thick rimmed ones that made her look sinister. Stood tall behind the counter in front of the shelves of cigarettes but that meant nothing. Some shops had a raised floor section and, over the folded newspapers, I could easily see the waist tie of her floral apron.
  The row had clearly had an effect on her mood. “If you want to buy something get on with it,” she snapped, shaking her head so her blue rinse wobbled. That made me grin but inside so I didn’t antagonise her, “and don’t play with the stock.” She continued. Slammed her pen down as she just stared at me through those creepy lenses. Maybe sensing my amusement, “My eyes are on you,” she growled.
   “Sorry, but I like to take my time,” I replied. Nicely though and slung her a not too bothered smile. Left the dodgy mags where they were, picked up the Melody Maker and flicked to the charts.
   She started to speak again but I wasn’t concentrating. I had a half eye on Monkie. Saw him suddenly stand on his toes staring down the street. Hand over his eyes shielding out the glare. He shuffled right to the edge, toes hanging over the kerb. What the hell, I thought as I turned to stare through the window. He looked at his feet and shot one final glance through the traffic. Maybe at the S-type Jag, three back. I’d say doing about twenty-five. Certainly no more than that.
  “Did you hear… are you going to buy that?” were the next words that flew my way with quite some momentum and, I’d have to say, venom.
   Clearly patience was running out so I slung her a momentary glance and said, “Probably.” Nothing else though. I went straight back to the scene outside. I heard her huff and I smiled but not because of her, because I realised what was unfolding. I was thinking of the torn jeans and scuffed jacket Monkie was wearing. 
   As the car in front went by Monkie stepped onto the road right in front of the Jaguar. A woman screamed. A man shouted. As I watched, Monkie gave a small almost indistinguishable jump. A kind of hop. The bumper clipped his right calf and he was side-on onto the bonnet as the Jag’s tyres screeched. Shoulder taking the impact as he simultaneously slammed the flat of his hand on the British racing green steel. Seemed to hang in position, sort of suspended in time, then rolled over the nearside wing, took out the headlight with his knee and landed on the tarmac. Left-side arm absorbing the impact. Spun once. Stopped before he hit the kerb and lay still. The lady quickly knelt next to him.
   Now the Doris, still blurbering away, was getting on my nerves. I turned and yelled at her, “Did you see that?” and quickly swung my head back. The Jag had stopped maybe thirty yards down the road. A man in a smart sports jacket, yellow cravat with black dots, dark hair creamed back, got out of the driver’s side. He ran to look over the lady’s shoulder. The lady talked softly to Monkie who was now resting on one elbow. Eyes scrunched up as he rubbed his knee. He looked up at the lady with a weak smile. He was so convincing I expected to see tears.
   I glanced back at the Doris, “Did you see that?” I asked again but quietly this time. “That fella’s just got run over.” But she just shrugged and carried on marking the papers and putting them in the big canvas shoulder bag. Glanced up at the wall clock maybe wondering where the delivery person was. The scene outside started to heat up. Monkie shouted at the driver. The lady had a look that suggested trauma. I could see her mouthing words. You know, a long while back I learnt the advantage of having certain skills and made a point of working on what I thought were essential ones. The latest wheeze, lip reading, a great attribute. I could just make out a stream of soothing words.
   Slick, that’s how I would describe the action. Staged accidents, what a great scam. Quite a new thing around here so not many people had heard about them but I had. I’d even thought of giving it a go but knew, for me, it was a non-starter. I’d broken my leg when I was really young, when my brother had died, but I’ll get on to that later because it was relevant. Anyway, that made me realise that perhaps I was not so subtle. But Monkie, I’d already seen how lithe he was with him swinging round that pole. Now, though, he was having trouble. Clearly the driver was not playing ball.
   Putting the MM back I slipped through the Doris’s scowl and pulled the door. Onto the pavement and pushed through the small crowd. “What’s up, matey,” I asked Monkie and saw a look of recognition.
  “He,” and he nodded at the driver, “he’s run me over…” soft feeble words. Brilliant, just like he was speaking from a hospital bed.
   “I didn’t,” started the driver.
   But I quickly cut in with, “How’s my mate got himself all covered in dust if you didn’t? Explain that if you can. Look at him all battered and damaged.”
   “But…”
  “No buts, matey… What about it, lady,” I said turning to the fifty something with greying hair who I had tabbed as firmly on Monkie’s side stroking his hair like she was.
  “You hit him,” is all she quivered. A fact that was indisputable.
  “Are you okay?” I asked Monkie.
 “Not really, my knee,” which got a vigorous rubbing for effect, “but I’ll be okay,” and added pursed lips and an accompanying scowl of fake pain.
  “Shall I call the police?” I asked and looked at the driver who just stared back. I could see he was not keen so continued, “Or…”
  “Or what?” the man said.
  Monkie wasted no time getting to the point, “You’ve torn my jeans and scuffed my jacket…” Held up his left elbow showing the leather with a massive gash and pointed at the ripped knees. I had trouble holding back a smile.
  “How about I replace them,” replied the driver. “Ten pounds should be more than enough.” I could clearly see hope in his eyes.
  I could see Monkie was tempted so quickly stepped in, “I think twenty’s fair… don’t forget the pain he’s in.”
  “That sounds way too much.” frowned the driver.
  “No problem,” I said, “We’ll let the cops sort it out, shall we. I know the lady in the paper shop, she’ll phone the police.” And I turned to go.
  “Wait… wait. Okay… twenty,” the man snapped, pulled out his wallet and, with quite some fury, squashed two tens into my hand.
  Just then movement across the road momentarily caught my attention. A door opening and a snappy suit but at the same time the lady spoke. I tore my gaze away and looked at her. Saw, if I ignored the pained expression, she would more than stand up to scrutiny in a very nice mature lady way. So, putting my hand tenderly on her shoulder, I gave a slight squeeze and said, “Thank you so much… you know, for all your concern,” and I really meant it after all it was her testimony that helped up the ante to twenty. I feigned helping Monkie to stand, brushed his jacket and said, “Come on, matey, I’ll get you home. A hot bath will ease the pain.”
  As we started to walk away I scowled at the driver as I grabbed Monkie’s arm to tug him after me. Then, thinking we could do with some rapid invisibility, headed towards the alley, the shortcut to Market Square. On impulse I swung a quick glance back. The driver was getting into his car and the lady had wandered off. None of that interested me though. Across the road standing in the doorway of the Burger Bar chewing a cheeseburger a man in a light blue Take Six suit was taking more than the usual interest. Tall guy, young-looking face but over thirty for sure. Swept back mid-length black hair. Looked like he knew how to spend money. He caught my gaze, grinned then walked away in the other direction.