Geoff Nicholson - Street Sleeper

Fat Les pointed at the row of four Beetles.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider borrowing one of them, would you?’

‘No,’ said Ishmael.

‘I didn’t suppose you would.’

‘There are certain journeys that must be made in certain ways,’ Ishmael said.

‘Yeah,’ said Fat Les. ‘I reckon you’re not wrong.’

‘How much for the headlights?’ asked Ishmael.

‘No charge.’

‘Come on, we road warriors like to pay our way.’

‘No, you’re the most entertainment I’ve had in this place in a decade.’

Ishmael started Enlightenment. He was setting off to perform a desperate act of rescue. He hoped he was man enough. He thought he probably was, just about, on a good day.

‘Just one thing,’ Les shouted above the grind of the engine. ‘If talking doesn’t work, and if by any chance you get involved in a bit of aggro, and if you’re in a position to do it; give the bastard one for me.’

And so it was that Ishmael continued his odyssey of crazy mixed-up youth, getting nowhere fast; racing across the heartland of England to wherever life is lived fastest, on a road that must be taken in top gear, foot flat to the floor, feeding his hunger for sensation; sensation at any price. It was better than working in a library.

And then he saw a hitch-hiker. He was young and male, about seventeen, skinny, failing to grow a moustache. Ishmael didn’t want to give anyone a lift. When you’re on a quest-cum-mercy-errand you really don’t want to be bothered with the dreary conversations you have with most hitch-hikers. Then he felt he was being uncharitable. The hitch-hiker started waving his arms wildly. Ishmael vaguely recognized him. Then the hitch-hiker jumped into the road in front of the car. This was madness but perhaps he was more trusting of Enlightenment’s brakes than he had any reason to be. Some time later, some distance away, having swerved to avoid running him down, Ishmael stopped the car. The hitch-hiker came running.

‘Ishmael,’ he shouted. ‘It’s me.’

He looked familiar. Ishmael noticed the studded leather jacket, the ghetto-blaster, the hands that, for all he knew, were deadly weapons.

‘Davey, isn’t it?’

‘You remembered.’

Ishmael nodded.

‘You’d better get in,’ he said. ‘But I warn you, I’m on a quest-cum-mercy-errand and I don’t want to be bothered with the dreary conversations you have with most hitch-hikers.’

‘Me neither, Ishmael. I’ve only got time for the really big issues.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. You changed my life. I’ve been looking for you since you left the motorway services. Amazing stroke of luck to find you again. I’ve been hitching all over the place for the last couple of days. I turned down loads of lifts. But I knew that if I needed to find you, I would.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. Really Zen, eh?’

‘Why did you need to find me?’

‘Because you changed my life. I could have spent the rest of my life playing computer games, doing martial-arts classes. What a waste of potential. You made me see it was a phase, a bad phase. I’m ready to move on to the next phase.’

‘That’s terrific,’ Ishmael said. ‘What’s the next phase going to be?’

‘1 thought you’d tell me.’

‘Ah.’

‘I felt sure you’d know what I ought to do with my life.’

At that point Ishmael had to negotiate a roundabout, change lanes, read a road sign, change gear and avoid a maniac on a motorcycle. Davey took his silence for wisdom and careful consideration.

‘You don’t have to tell me right now. You can think about it for a while.’

Ishmael supposed he was honoured. He supposed he was flattered. He supposed this was a form of power.

‘Well I do have one idea of my own,’ Davey said. ‘Oh, I feel silly mentioning it, but would you consider taking me on as a disciple?’

♦

Major Ivan Hirst had a pretty good sort of a war. At the age of seventeen he had become second-lieutenant in the Territorials. That was in 1934. The Battle of France saw him a major. His job with the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers was at first as an instrument specialist, but by 1944 he was responsible for all forms of military vehicle repair.

Now, in late 1945, the war over, but with what are becoming to seem like the real problems only just beginning, he knocks on the door of Colonel R.C. Radclyffe’s office at the Zonal Headquarters of the Control Commission (British Element).

‘Come in, Major Hirst. Sit down.’

♦

Jesus, thought Ishmael, this was getting serious. He wished he had a dictionary to hand so that he could look up the full implications of what ‘disciple’ meant. He had never been a fan of organized religion. He was not religious. He was not organized.

‘What would your being a disciple involve exactly?’ he asked.

‘That would be up to you. You’re the boss.’

‘Ah.’

‘But if you’d let me make one or two suggestions…’

‘Please go on.’

‘I thought I could sit next to you, you driving, me in the passenger seat, and I’d absorb wisdom while we drove. You’d talk in that way you have and I could receive instruction. Then if you wanted some petrol putting in the car, say, or the oil checked, I’d be there to do your bidding.’

When he put it like that it sounded oddly appealing.

‘Tell me about your hands,’ Ishmael said. ‘Are they really deadly weapons?’

‘Deadly, I don’t know. I did the whole course but I left without taking the exam — I wasn’t happy with the standard of teaching. It seemed to neglect the spiritual dimension. So my hands aren’t deadly but they could do somebody a nasty injury.’

Ishmael thought of Marilyn’s mother — her swift movements, her grace, her uncanny accuracy with a claw hammer. He thought of Marilyn’s father. He thought of his head making unlovely contact with a rear wing. Suddenly Davey seemed a good man to have in the team.

‘All right,’ Ishmael said. ‘Let’s give it a try. But I’d like you to remember the words of Bob Dylan: ‘Don’t follow leaders ⁄ Watch for parking meters.’

Davey let the words wash over him.

‘It doesn’t rhyme,’ he said.

♦

Colonel Radclyffe sits behind a desk that displays an orderly array of maps, one telephone, in and out trays (both full), and a small potted plant.

Radclyffe, avoiding all ceremony, says to Hirst, ‘Tell me about your work in Brussels, as second-in-command at the tank workshop.’

‘I was works manager, in charge of all forms of repair. I had the standard British military personnel plus three hundred Belgian civilians.’

Radclyffe smiles ruefully. ‘Gallant little Belgium. Hands across the sea. International co-operation. All that sort of rot, eh?’

‘You could put it that way I suppose, Colonel,’ Hirst replies flatly.

♦

In July 1958 Vie Damone was riding high in the British pop charts with ‘On the Street Where You Live’, and the Esso Gas Research Centre published a report stating that ‘Tuning into rock and roll radio stations can cost the motorist money!’ The theory is that the driver is impelled to tap his foot on the accelerator in time to the incessant beat, and so waste petrol.

In that case God alone knew what kind of effect Davey’s ghetto-blaster was having on Ishmael’s fuel consumption. Anything that could make itself heard above the engine and wind noise from Enlightenment had to be worthy of respect, and so it was they made the trip from Cambridgeshire to Kent to the fierce accompaniment of Davey’s collection of ‘road music’ tapes.

They had chart-bound sounds, golden oldies, blasts from the past — the works.