Twiddling my thumbs at the Rotterdam depot. Waiting on 72 pallets of Chinese tumble dryer. Five games of online chess, four YouTubes of sweary parrots, three Gordon Ramsay Kitchen Nightmares, two Idiots In Cars and a partridge in a pear tree later, it’s 12 noon. Another Pot Noodle for lunch. Spicy seafood, the label alleges. Tastes like my boxers on Day 5 of my European Tour. Paris-Frankfurt-Warsaw-Gdansk-Rotterdam loop. Got some cubes of mango for dessert. Yard manager Gus blames a chronic shortage of forklift drivers. Only three out of ten showed up today. They get better offers elsewhere, Gus says, so off they bugger. Must tell Emily. ‘See, O Daughter of Mine? It’s not just Great Britain!’ My daughter’s gone all lefty now she’s a nurse. Reads the Guardian, God help us. Everything’s the fault of Brexit, says the Gospel of Woke. Galloping prices? Sewage in the rivers? Shrinking Toblerones? Brexit’s to blame. I tell her, ‘Think like a person, not like a sheeple.’ Emily says it’s people who use the word ‘sheeple’ who think like sheeple. Which is exactly what people brainwashed by the mainstream media would say.
‘Game, set and match to Vincent Costello.’
Reasons to be Cheerful. Gus texted me I’m next on his list, so I should be out of here by one. Meaning, I’ll wake up at Chez Moi tomorrow, not some Belgian Arse End of Nowhere truck stop. What other glad tidings can I offer? The Jonester found me an oil pump and release valve for my Norton. A Manx 500 from 1953. Parts are not easy to come by, shall we say. I’ll install it tomorrow, in time for the Boxing Day tour. What else? I’m not banged up in prison. That one never loses its shine, even after 18 years. One of my two kids is talking to me. Found a forgotten KitKat in my map box. The mango cubes didn’t quite cut it. And Jeremy Vine on Radio 2 is playing ‘Fairytale of New York’ by the Pogues. ‘You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot – Merry Christmas, my arse, I pray God it’s our last.’
And here comes Gus, shambling over with his clipboard.
Wearing a Santa hat. Ho bloody Ho.
1.43 p.m. Finally clear of the port area. Roadworks held me up. And now the Junction Cometh, Boys and Girls. Do I zigzag south on the A29 and A4, scoot round the top of Antwerp and join the A10 to Calais? Or – do I fancy the E19 with no turnoffs but risk the Antwerp ringroad roulette on Christmas Eve? Sat nav’s giving me three hours 32 minutes for both. Coastal or inland? Inland or Coastal?
‘Coastal today. The pretty way around.’
And so the Die is Cast. No U-turns. Not with 18 metres’ worth of Scania 800 plus trailer. The sky presses down like an overpass. Julie used to blame the air pressure for her mysterious headaches. I blamed my headaches on Julie. Still. Long long ago, now. Over a million miles. And however shouty and shitty things got, Emily and Luke happened. Silver linings. Please let it not snow. A 30 per cent chance my phone says. If you ask me, these apps pluck those percentages out of their digital rectums–
‘JESUS fufffrrrrrricking CHRIST!’
Can you be–LIEVE that grey Subaru?
I BLAAAST my honker! He accelerates off.
‘Yeah LEG IT you STICKY MONGREL!’
Missed me by less than a metre. Swear it.
Dad used to say traffic accidents ought to be called ‘traffic deliberates’ because driving like a homicidal maniac is a deliberate choice. I think of Dad every time I witness an Act of Unbelievably Shite Driving. Driving an HGV for a living as I do means I think of Jack Costello quite often. Forty Christmases ago, he died. Parkinson’s. Relations were not exactly cordial. Didn’t know how close to the end he actually was.
Always thought, If I have a son, I’ll get it right.
Always thought, If I have a son, we’ll be mates.
When did it go all Pete Tong with Luke, though? Lots of little things more than one big one. Not being at home a lot when he was small did not help. My day job – BMW, regional sales – kept me on the road a lot. But lots of dads aren’t around much either, and their sons don’t despise them. Julie’s a factor. Definitely. The roses in the Garden of Lurve wilted after Emily came along. I played away a bit. Still had my boyish good looks and I’m only flesh and blood, right? But Luke only ever had Julie’s version. A version which never portrayed me in my most flattering light. Specially at the end, when things went bad to worse to Less Said The Better. Sure, my dad hit my mum – a ‘dab’ he called it – but times change. Yes I know that now. Yes I was out of order. But unlike my dad, Lest We Forget, I provided. Julie lived like a duchess. Big house, indoor pool, a sporty little BMW to show off to her mates in Gravesend who were still working as hairdressers. I paid for all that. If you’d seen me back then, you wouldn’t have thought ‘lorry driver’. You’d have thought ‘hedge fund guy’. ‘Ad man.’ You’d have taken me for one of my Yuppie Clients. They did. That’s why they trusted me.
‘Focus, Costello. Focus.’
Julie used to blame the air pressure for her mysterious headaches. I blamed my headaches on Julie
Luke. Whatever I did or didn’t do, it takes Two to Tango. How often did he visit me inside? Three times. In eight years. Why did he change his name from Luke Costello to Luke Jennings? To say, Screw you Dad. Not that he calls me ‘Dad’. It’s ‘Vincent’. Or, he’ll refer to me as ‘My father’. When I’m actually standing there. Like we’re living in Downton Sodding Abbey. He knows what buttons to press. And press them he will. Got this anger, has Luke. It bubbles up. I hoped Dhani coming along might reset things. Small hope. Didn’t even put me on the round robin text from the hospital. If that’s not a message saying Fuck Off Vincent, what is?
Fine. If that’s the way he feels. It is what it is.
Behold the Haringvlietbrug, Boys and Girls. Half a mile of Dutch bridge. Turquoise-painted steel on low concrete piers. Got a soft spot for this bridge, I have. One section lifts up to let boats through. It was up the first time I crossed. June 1986. When I had hair and no Driver’s Gut. When the Roses were blooming. Me and Julie came over on the Zeebrugge Ferry. Her in the sidecar of Dad’s Norton. Which was mine by then. We smoked pot in Amsterdam, then campsite-hopped our way back towards Cherbourg. At the bridge – yes, this very bridge – we had to wait for a yacht to go through the gap. Didn’t make a sound. Just the wind. Waves. Glory days. Blue skies. Warm sound. Hounds of Love on my Walkman. Shiny sea. Meteor showers. A seaside town. Domburg, Damburg, Dimburg. I forget. Chips and mayo. One-man tent. Aided and abetted by beer from Belgian monks, Mother Nature did a number on me and Julie. Big time. I slid in. Nine months later, Luke slid out. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, it’s Now. I’m 59. Who’s 59? Old farts is who. My body’s wearing out. Eyes. Bladder. My back’s screwed. My dad was dead by my age. And now this tremor in my hand. Too much Red Bull. Probably. Ought to get it looked at. Ought to.
And that, Boys and Girls, was the Haringvliet Bridge.
‘Don’t like the look of that sky. Not – one – bit…’
Zeeland. Flat as a pool table. Greenish, brownish. Straight, narrow fields. Pylons repeating themselves
Back in Covid part two, Emily had a barbecue in her garden. Gathered were: Emily; Emily’s wife – still not used to saying that – Polly; a junior doctor from Emily’s hospital; Luke; Luke’s girlfriend Sunita. She’s Indian from Bradford. So far so good, but Emily hadn’t told them I was the Mystery Guest. When he saw me Luke didn’t say a word. Not even a ‘Hello Vincent’. Didn’t introduce me to Sunita. Nothing. Just glared daggers at his sister who told him, ‘It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.’ About to leave, I was, but Emily sat me on a garden chair, put a hotdog in one hand, some daft cocktail in the other. I was on new meds for my blood pressure and the drink was stronger than it looked but I was nervous and it helped so I just knocked it back and when talk turned to the virus I voiced the opinion that just maybe the mainstream media was massaging the mortality figures so the government could keep us locked up at home and maybe it was no coincidence that Covid appeared just as 5G was being rolled out and definitely how convenient its sudden appearance was for Big Pharma who were making trillions selling the world an untested vaccine.
They all looked at me like I’d shat in the lunch bowl.
‘Wow,’ said Luke. ‘My eyes are opened to the truth.’
Emily asked me, ‘So those of us working in the NHS are in on this global conspiracy are we, Dad?’
I said I was just providing an alternative truth.
‘If you were my dad,’ Luke told me, ‘I’d be so mortified to hear you spout that shitting drivel, I’d die on the spot.’
Those exact words. In front of the others.
‘I am your dad, Luke. Like it or not. I am.’
‘Yeah only genetically, Vincent,’ said Luke.
The red mist descended. The air got sucked out of me.
Luke was watching me. ‘Going to “dab” me? Like you “dabbed” Mum? Have a go. We can see you want to.’
I fled the scene. That’s the right word. Fled. And that was the last time I saw Luke.
The A4 loops around the town of Steenbergen. Never been. Never will. Luke’s got a boy of his own now. Born this year. May 4th. Star Wars Day, they call it. As in, ‘May the Fourth Be With You.’ Dhani Milo Jennings. ‘Dhani’ is Hindu, apparently. I say it ‘Danny’. His mum’s Sunita. Seemed nice. Smart. An ophthalmologist. Which I can’t even say, let alone spell. I’m not sure how much of that Covid stuff I believe. No one talks about it any more. Back then, it was all over my YouTube feed. My WhatsApp group. Even Djokovic the tennis player said the virus was a hoax. And Eric Clapton. I still believe the Elite use the mainstream media to control us, but when push comes to shove…
‘So bloody what?’
That’s Dhani there, above the tacho. He’s got that Costello glint in his eye. Don’t you think? That was his six-month birthday party. Emily sent me the picture. I wasn’t invited to Luke and Sunita’s wedding, either. Big Indian bash. Julie went, of course. And Greg. Her husband. It is what it is.
Emily says, ‘Give him time, Dad. Be patient.’
I am patient. Prison teaches you that.
But time? That’s another thing. Time.
‘Not very Christmassy, Costello! Lighten up, f’Chrissakes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Alexa. ‘I didn’t recognise your command. Shall – I – play – some Christmas songs?’
The Scania’s a lovely rig but she suffers from TMT: Too Much Tech. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your reply. Shall I play –’
‘YES. OK. Play a Christmas song. Thanks.’
Gone 5 p.m. before I’m flagged past the crash site. Ooof. The rig’s on its side
Alexa chooses Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ I remember this coming out. 1984? 85? I was living in Gravesend. Single, but a steady stream of female company visited my Lurve Shack up Peacock Street. Like that Ronnie Barker show, I was. Open All Hours. Some might’ve been a bit young, by modern sensibilities. I was only 23 myself. Or 24.
Unscrew the cap off my reusable coffee mug. Can’t work out if my hand’s steady, or… a bit fluttery. Close up.
Here’s Bono from U2 singing, ‘Tonight thank God it’s them instead of you’. Always wondered about that line. Is Bono really saying, ‘Let’s all thank the Big Man Upstairs that it’s those poor bastards in Africa who are dying like flies and not us lot here?’ Because that’s kind of how it lands.
Or am I just overthinking a song lyric?
I do that a lot. I think.
All this is Zeeland Province. Flat as a pool table. Greenish, brownish. Straight, narrow fields. Pylons repeating themselves. Shrinking into the misty distance. The Wind Turbines Never Sleep. A few farmhouses dotted here and there. Poly tunnels. Silos. A few low-rise villages. Church spires. Ornamental windmills. Row of poplars. Estuaries, bending. Gulls. Shards of the sea. Leaning slabs of pale light. If you were a giant playing hide-and-seek, the Netherlands would be useless. That’s why the Dutch are so brutally honest, if you ask me. Landscapes. The Land Shapes. Traffic’s light. Steady 90kph in the slow lane. A big Volvo rig up ahead. French. I’ve been a steady 30 metres behind him since Rotterdam. I got his back. He knows it. Like we’re a team. You feel it even more on a motorbike. I won’t do anything stupid to him. He won’t do anything stupid to me. It’s international.
Picked the right route earlier.
‘Pat on the back, Costello.’
If I don’t nobody else will. Calais by 6 p.m., with luck. The Tunnel by 7 p.m., if my paperwork’s in order. If the rules haven’t changed since five days ago. Before Brexit, it was three pages. Now – I shit you not – it’s around 80. Inventories, crosschecks, VAT and Customs. You name it. It’s even more if you need a veterinary certificate. Total Nightmare. Fingers crossed. I’ll get to Kestrel HQ by 8 p.m. Home by 8.30. Glug of Scotch.
There are worse fates. Worse lives.
So. My custodial sentence. Nothing violent. Nothing Jimmy Savile. It’s still OK to like me. If you want to. No skin off my nose. Charge one: Grand Theft Auto. Charge two: accessory to drugs trafficking. Allow me to clarify. Yes, I had a little side-gig going where I matched sellers and buyers of antique high-end cars. Yes, I was relaxed vis à vis the provenance of some of the vehicles that passed through my hands. Yes, I paid a DVLA employee to amend registration records. Couldn’t get away with it nowadays but this was pre-internet and when push came to shove, who got hurt? Only a few bloated insurers. Regarding the drugs charge: a bloody joke. I was 100 per cent innocent. What happened was, my business partner in Rome got greedy and placed packets of Swiss-made crystal meth inside the body-panels of our cars for collection before they reached my lock-ups in Deptford. First I learned of all this was when two detectives showed up at our Greenwich showroom. My business partner had done a runner to Brazil. Leaving me to prove that yes, OK, I did deal in dodgy motors but I knew nothing about the meth. Honest Guv. Bail was not granted. The public prosecutor was an apex predator out to make her name. Made me out to be Walter White of the south London drugs scene. My lawyer was a Womble who couldn’t make a shit sandwich. Result? TEN YEARS. Out in eight.
People ask, ‘What was it like?’ It was no picnic. Tedium. Argy-bargy. Expired food. The smell of blokes. I lost everything. Because drugs were involved, they took every-thing that wasn’t in Julie’s name. Which Julie took. So I lost the things I knew I had. Things I didn’t know I had. Bonding with my kids. Being able to decide ‘I fancy a walk’. Oh, and my future credit rating. Plus employment prospects. No ex-con is ever an ex-ex-con.
‘This is no good, Boys and Girls. No – good – at –all…’ After the exit for Bergen op Zoom, both lanes south slowed to a standstill. All I see from my cab are two queues of cars and vans and taillights. Two ambulances passed by on the hard shoulder a while back. And a tow truck. 4.17 p.m. Night’s drawing in. If I was on my Norton, I’d zip along the hard shoulder, slip off at the next exit and vanish into the byways of Flanders. In my Scania V8, I’m zipping nowhere. May as well put in a call to Kestrel HQ. Martha should be on duty.
Press MENU. And… here we go. It’s ringing.
‘Kestrel Transport Solutions, Martha speaking.’
‘Mrs Speaking, are you a voice for sore ears.’
‘Vinny, how’s your Grand Tour?’
‘Going nowhere on the R2 north of Antwerp. Big bad jam.’
‘Ugh, you poor driver you.’
‘Any chance of some intel?’
‘I’ll pull up your location… Bergen op Zoom?’
‘That be the badger.’
Martha’s keyboard goes clackety-clack. ‘So my live-feed is flashing up “major incident”… which is not a lot of help. I’ll see what’s on the message boards.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Make myself a tea with the mini-kettle. Dunk a shortbread. Big, jaw-cracking yawn. Being stuck in traffic is a particular kind of tiring. Five days of tramping are catching up with me. Fifty-nine years of life are catching up with me. Martha at HQ’s nice. Got a bit of banter in her. Reminds me of Julie when we first met. Funny to think that sex is probably over now. Emily signed me up to an online dating thing, but… after a few ‘dates’ I realised I couldn’t be arsed. Plus, eight years in prison for theft and drugs is not what you’d call an Amazon Prime Chick Magnet.
‘Vinny? You still there?’
‘I have not budged an inch.’
‘A car transporter overturned. One lane should be clear soon, but you clocked on at 6 a.m., so…’
‘Someone ain’t getting home tonight.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘There’s a decent place on the N24. I’ll be fine.’
‘The Eurotunnel’s open tomorrow, but on a reduced service.’
‘Yep, I know, really, I’ll be fine.’
‘But your family!’ Martha sounds genuinely upset. ‘Or –’ she remembers who she’s talking to. ‘Won’t someone be worrying?’
‘Frankly my dear: No. Nobody will give a tinker’s toss that their good friend/blood relative/hot lover Vinny Costello is not joining them tomorrow’ is not how I respond. Instead, I say: ‘What, my old geezer hairy biker friends? They’ll keep me a slice of turkey in the oven. Fret not. Off to your in-laws, are you?’
Lying and evasion. My superpowers. Curses in disguise.
Gone 5 p.m. before I’m flagged past the crash site. Ooof. The rig’s on its side. An IVECO Eurostar. Don’t see many of those these days. One less now. Undercarriage facing upstream. The transporter’s collapsed and on its side. Veered off the road to avoid a collision, I’m guessing, slid halfway up the embankment, flipped over, slid back down, tilted on to its side. A Nissan Leaf’s slammed into the underside. The Volvo cab looks intact, but Leaf’s concertina’d. The cargo of five BMW iXs broke free from the trailer when it tipped over and have been towed to the side. Two others are still on their roofs. Write-offs. £75k a pop, basic. Some insurer somewhere’s getting a full pair of shat pants in
his Christmas stocking. Thirty metres along, a chunky 4WD is on its side. Cops with glow-in-the-dark batons wave us by. A Nissan Qashqai. A paramedic with a cutter’s going in through the side. More Squashqai than Qashqai.
‘Vinny Costello. You are a sick man.’
Past the auto-carnage, one lane of bottled-up traffic opens into two, then three. Foot down. Up to 60kph, 70, 80, 90, the ton. Plain sailing to Antwerp. ‘Tonight thank God it’s them instead of you.’ Little reminder. Death is a When not an If.
Once I asked the Jonester if it’s normal for HGV drivers to talk to themselves, or to an imaginary passenger. He gripped my shoulder. ‘Personally? I worry when the voices in my head go quiet.’ Funny what your memory keeps and what it bins. One Christmas, when Luke was seven or so, when me and Julie could still stand the sight of each other, just about, I bought him not one, not two, but eight sets of Scalextric. Set it up in the attic. Had to monkey with the transformer but I got it working. A Mega City One Race Track. Still remember Luke’s face when he came up. Big eyes: ‘Oh My Gosh Dad, this is seriously the best.’ Emily made a My Little Ponyland in the middle and Julie helped Emily make a Pony Palace while the racing cars flew by. Flew off. Our attic was like a cosy lamplit barge. Floating off into the dark. These little memories. Yes, they ache. Those scenes are gone and won’t be back. But when you’re running on fumes, the memories keep you going.
The Liefkenshoek Tunnel, Boys and Girls. Takes the R2 under one of the mouths of one of Antwerp’s ports. Should avoid the worst of the rush hour. It’s 6.06 p.m. Like bridges, love tunnels. Sound goes bottled in tunnels. Colour goes haywire. Everything’s glossy. Like in a dream. Wifi cuts out. The river Scheldt’s flowing above us. All that dark water. Martha’s married to a marriage counsellor. They should fare better than me and Julie, then. When I was younger, imagining myself as old, I never saw me as I am now. Thought I’d get Seriously Rich by 30. Thought I’d beat the System. Thought I’d be surrounded by friends. More friends than I had then, even. Hasn’t really worked like that. Friends fall away as the years go by. Specially with prison in the mix. All I’m surrounded by is my cab, the trunk roads of northern Europe and–
Snow?
Snow.
‘Oh My Days. Look – at – you…’ When I went into the tunnel there was nothing and NOW look at it! Not itty-bitty-gritty snow, either. Not your lolling Bing Crosby snow. This is kamikaze snow. Loop the looping snow-bees snow. Flick on the wipers. Useless. The traffic slows to 60kph, 50, 40. I’m in for a longer drive than I thought. Better crack open a Red Bull. The Trucker’s Co-Pilot. Gives You Wings, the advert says. Not true, but it stops you falling asleep at the wheel.
9.36 p.m. Pull into Adinkerke Services off the N34. Lights are on. Room at the inn. The snow’s eased up, but it’s still inches deep off the road. The world’s night and white. Big tyre tracks. The parking area’s only a quarter full. A few rigs lined up like Easter Island statues. Mostly Brits, marooned here by regs and tachographs. Spotify’s served me up this song by Sting. ‘All This Time’. Haven’t heard this for… decades. Sting got too famous to be cool, but if some obscure Indie singer from Anchorage or Dunedin had written it, he’d be hailed as a visionary. Or ‘she’ as Emily’d point out. ‘Men go crazy in congregations but they only get better one by one.’ Back – of – the – Net. Is Twitter a congregation? I live in songs. When I was inside, tapes my stepsister sent were a life-saver. Songs let me out. Briefly. Look. The fuel bays are free. I’ll fill up before parking for the night. Better safe than sorry.
Cut the engine. Silent Night. Holy Night. France is just a few fields away. West. Write down the mileage in my log: 268,449. ‘Right, Costello, let’s be having you.’ Hat, snood, gloves and…
Outside – it – is –Baltic…
First things first. The bogs. As I enter, two African blokes in there go quiet. Puffa jackets, grimy boots. One’s a teenager, one’s older. Father and son? They’re sizing me up. One nods. ‘We good?’ I nod back. Satisfied I’m not a cop, they fill their water bottles. Go into the cubicle. Lock it. Sit. A few phrases of African, then they go. Don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce they are Not Exactly Of Legal Status. Off to the sunlit uplands of England. Are they in for a shock. One on one, you pity them. Specially if they’ve really fled a war zone or famine. God only knows what they’ve seen. I’d do what they’ve done if I was in their shoes. If it’s really Stay and Die versus Leave and Live? But I’m not in their shoes. And it’s not just a few. Seen the shanty-camps up by the Eurotunnel? For all I know, they’re slitting open the top of my trailer with a Stanley knife right now. As I’m sat here dumping
my load. And if Border Force catch ’em on the British side, I have to pay £2,000 a pop. I’m a trucker, not an immigration official. Voted for Brexit to stop this but it’s getting worse. And French don’t give a toss. Why should they? Now it’s the boats too. Eighty-thousand illegals this year, Whatshisface on GBTV says. Bloke with the medallion. Nobody’s got any answers. Fly ’em to Rwanda! All 80,000 and counting? Sink the boats! Well. Nobody says that. They think it. But then you just turn the Channel into a mass watery grave. Let ’em in, then! Prizes for everyone! Who pays for that? England won’t be England any more. Not my England. Once problems had answers. Or so we thought. But this one? As long as there’s wars, genocides, Putins, famines, floods in the world, they’ll keep on coming. Meaning, they’ll keep on coming till Kingdom Come.
Back at the sink, I splash my face. Old, tired, ill. Angry. Why am I so damn angry these days?
Fill the tank. The number keeps on climbing. €687. Pay at the counter and buy a washroom token. The politest word for English truck facilities is ‘disgusting’. Over here, they’re better. Decent grub. Towels for the showers. Europeans appreciate HGV drivers. The Great British Public only remember when Dover’s gridlocked and suddenly their five types of oat milk aren’t available. Then it’s, ‘Oh yes, truck drivers matter…’ Until the problem’s fixed and Sainsbury’s full again and then it’s, ‘What were the drivers moaning about again?’ A cellmate from Dublin told me, ‘The Irish never forget, the English never remember.’ Too bloody true. All six shower booths are free, so I choose lucky 5. Clothes in the box. Turn on shower. Hot water. Properly hot. My skin sings and turns pink. ‘God, that’s better.’ Lavender body soap. Armpits. Privates. The Battle of the Bulge is not going well. Wonder when those two asylum seekers last had a hot shower. Compared to them, I live like Elon Musk. We tell ourselves we earn our luck. Do we?
Soapy water gurgles down the plughole.
Back in my cab. 9.45 p.m. Lock the locks. Drawbridge up. Boil the kettle. Pot noodle. ‘Would Sir prefer the beef or the chicken this evening? I do believe I’ll have the beef.’ Some people would think being stuck in a Belgian arse-end of nowhere on Christmas Eve is saaaaaad. No way José. This is my Get Out Of Christmas Free card. Christmas is a psycho-killer. It gloats. ‘If you’re not glowing with festive joy, crawl away and slit your throat.’ Both Stepsister Sue and the Jonester invite me to their family dos, but I always say Maybe Next Year. ‘I’m a bit busy.’ ‘Fancy a quiet day at home.’ No fun being a charity case. Here’s my advice to surviving the 25th. Basically: Denial. Avoid the telly and anything with the words ‘the true spirit of Christmas’ or ‘Christmas miracle’. Like – the – plague. Self-pity is poison. Ask any con. I took a few wrong turns. No U-turns possible. You can’t change the past, so drive. We’re not here long. Remember the Squashqai. Go to Netflix and click on anything that’s nothing about Christmas. Scroll down. Here.
All Quiet on the Western Front. Promising. No tap-dancing reindeer here. Guaranteed.
Bloody Hell. If that won’t cure the Johnny No-Mates Christmas Blues, nothing will. Turn off my iPad. Clean my teeth. Spit in my cup. Tip it out the window. Pee in a Fanta bottle. Trucker’s trick. It’s freezing out and I’m in my PJs. Was Adinkerke Services the site of a battlefield? Probably. Look at the map. All those bones under the tarmac. Mud, blood, men. Teenagers, mostly. Virgins. Chunks blown off. Minced. Gassed. Gone, like that. Six weeks. That was their life expectancy. From today to early February. It’s happening now in Ukraine. 200,000 dead so far, I read. For why? So Dobby the House Elf can cock his leg against the lamp post of history. ‘I’m a Great Man of Destiny too!’ Murderous Twat. Getting angry again. Calm down Dear. Look at your hand. That’s a tremor. Definitely. OK. It’s stress. Just stress. Lie back. Breathe. Shut your eyes. Think about something else. Anything.
Before Dad left for the last time, when his Black Dog had gone walkies, when he thought ‘Why not?’, he used to fix a sidecar to the Norton and bundle me in. Mum was dead against it but Dad didn’t care. Drove us out to the Isle of Sheppey. Or Ramsgate on the Thanet Way. Probably illegal, even in the Swinging Sixties, but Plod never stopped us. Of my memories of Jack Costello, this is the best. By a mile. Watching him, from the Norton’s sidecar. My dad. Bombing along at 50, 60, 70. Sleep. East Kent blurring by. Jigsaw-puzzle skies. Sleep. People pointing, saying ‘Look at that!’ and wishing they were me. Sleep. His hand on the throttle. Jawline strong. Glancing down at me. Half-smile. I’m half-made of him. What a miracle. Why do we forget? Sleep. Oh My Gosh Dad, this is seriously the best…
I wake up in my cell at HMP Belmarsh. Disappointment that I’m here and not in a truck stop in Belgium swells and grows acute as the appendicitis that once nearly killed me. My eyes are welling up. No. You do not cry in prison. Survival 101. ‘NO.’
‘Know what?’ asks my cellmate below.
Who’s that? Can’t recall. There’s a churn.
‘A stupid dream. Dreamt I’d been released.’
‘Oh they are bitches.’
‘It was Christmas Eve. In Belgium. By the French border.’
‘Oooh la la.’
‘Luke had a baby of his own.’
‘Congratulations, Grandad.’
‘He’d… disowned me, though.’
‘Why’d he do that to a nice man like you, then?’
‘Oh, because… Because…’
Prison echoes. Victorian plumbing. Men. Men.
My cellmate asks, ‘What trucker can’t manage a U-turn?’
And I wake in my cab. The Real Now. Not Dream Now. Not dream-light. Not prison light. Morning light. Adinkerke Services, Christmas morning. 7.47 a.m. This relief. The purest gift I’ve known. Pull my cab curtain aside. Thin cloud. A sheet hanging out to dry. Sun’s a pale glimmer. Trees are dripping. The snow’s slushy. A gift: ‘What trucker can’t manage a U-turn?’ Look at Dhani in the photo Emily sent. Remember her and Luke at that age. That smell. Sweet and yeasty like Malted Milk biscuits. I want to be there. In Luke’s life. With him in mine. Vaccines and Brexit and who’s sheeple and who’s not can all go to hell. I’m tired of being angry. So so so tired. I want to pull crackers and slip on the paper crown that always tears because they’re made for heads the size of oranges. I want to groan at the crap jokes that fall out of the crackers. If Luke slaps away my hand of friendship. Fine. I’ll keep offering it. He can slap it. Fine. Better a slap than this frigid nothing. Where’s my phone?
Luke I’m sorry what do I do?
‘Are you sure about this, Costello?’
No. So what?
SEND.
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