Selling an Engine Continued By Joe Hakim

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My mate spent his teenage years in the army. Years he refers to as the best of his life so far. He still has his regiment photos hung on the wall. He was discharged for undisclosed reasons. 'Right,' he says. 'You two hold it steady while I attach the ratchet straps.'

The rain slaps the back of head. I shift my hands because they keep slipping. My nose is running but I can't touch it. I'm heavily stoned as well. An eternity passes, and my shoulders my fingers start to feel like wood. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. If the pikey kid or I lose our grip, then the engine will tip over. My hand, arm and leg will be crushed as it hits the floor. 'Right, they're on,' my mate says, jumping from the van. 'Let's fuckin' do this.' Maybe this is all about something more than just getting an engine into the back of a van. We push and push, nudging the engine in. It falls off the bricks and slams down hard into the van. 'Tighten the fuckin' strap,' my mate shouts, and the pikey kid grabs hold of the ratchet.

Eventually, we manage to get the fucking thing in. We have a quick breather, and then the pikey kid gets on his bike and leaves, so he can go to see his girlfriend, an hour too late. 'My dad will still be awake,' he says. 'He's got an engine hoist, so don't worry about liftin' it out.' He turns to me. 'I bet yer've never done that before, eh? See yer,' he says, and then he peddles off.

'Let's drop this fuckin' thing off,' my mate says in between inhaling and exhaling a lungful of smoke. So we drive onto to Spring Bank, and head towards The Site that's located just off Cleveland Street. My mate's van has something wrong with the fan belt, so it emits a constant high-pitched whine. During the daytime it's drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the other traffic on the road, but in the dead of night it sounds like a banshee approaching. 'Beware, the squealer is on patrol.' My mate doesn't own a thermos, so he has a large mug of tea on the seat next to him. 'Once yer've gone over a couple of speed bumps, the excess spills out, and yer've got a calm tea for the rest of the journey.' We take a detour through the town centre, but the engine in the back isn't tied down in any way, shape or form. Every time we turn a corner the whole van sways. 'Gotta be careful not to tip the fuckin' van over.'

We arrive at The Site off Cleveland Street. It's like a huge car park or something, and there are a couple of rows of caravans and mobile homes. A temporary terrace. The screaming fan belt heralds our arrival. We drive over to a caravan and park up. The fella's already outside, waiting for us. As I climb out of the van, I can't help but feel conspicuous. It's just the pot in me. The older travellers frown upon the use of drugs. They don't want unnecessary trouble brought to their community.

'Do you need any help?' I ask. 'We'll be fine,' the fella says. As if on cue, a young kid appears from the back of the caravan pushing an engine hoist. My mate opens the van door and they wheel the hoist up to the engine and attach it, and then they quickly lift it out.

The easiest part of selling an engine is the getting it out of the van bit. We set off. As we leave The Site, I take one last look at the caravans, and my mate turns to me and says, 'Y'know, I think I might be turning into a PTP.'

'What's a PTP?' I ask. 'A part-time pikey.' And like the last little piggy, the van went 'whee-whee-whee', all the way home.

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