Rusty

I met Rusty on the forecourt of a small petrol station, just outside a sleepy village north of Norwich. I had stolen the car in Cambridge, where I had ditched the previous one, and driven fifty miles when I realised that the tank was nearing empty. It was a well practiced routine: I left the motorway and meandered through small towns and villages instead, looking for the old fashioned garages, where the assistant still filled the car for you, and the owner hadn’t invested in CCTV.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had a close call when the elderly guy who had filled my tank and wiped my windscreen put up a surprisingly enthusiastic fight. If I had the chance, I would drive up to the garage and check out the assistant before making my decision. Every time I saw a guy who looked stronger than me, I would get out of the car, pat the pockets of my jeans and jacket, before apologising for leaving my wallet behind and driving off. On this occasion, I had limped onto the forecourt on the last few drops of petrol and was relieved to see that the assistant didn’t look like he would be too much of a problem. Turned out he was an army veteran or something, who hardly stumbled as I pushed him, and managed to give me a black eye and a cut lip before I succeeded to free the gun from the back of my trousers. He didn’t mind brightening his day with a bit of a fistfight. Putting his life on the line for a lousy job was a different matter entirely. As he backed away, allowing me access to my now filled car and the road to freedom, he shrugged his shoulders. Patting my swollen face with a handkerchief, I wished he had adopted that attitude earlier.

I didn’t get into scraps very often. It wasn’t the nine days on the run that had made me streetwise. I had graduated from petty theft at the age of sixteen, when my mentor showed me how to open locked car doors and disable alarms and steering wheel locks. So I started to steal motors two years before I was legally allowed to drive them, a job far more lucrative than a paper round, and less time consuming. A couple of cars a week, three perhaps when the rent was due, or when the old man had pissed my earnings up the wall. I made sure my clothes were clean, and my homework was submitted on time. I looked every bit like an average teenager, which kept the Social away.

I didn’t drink, and I didn’t do drugs, although I sold both. As a middleman I felt safe; I was neither the one who stole the goods, nor the one who dealt with the pissheads and druggies, yet my cut was enough to keep a roof over my head after the old man drunk himself into his grave. Not that I felt bad, my mentor had always been more of a father to me than the old man, and at the age of eighteen I didn’t feel like I was alone in the world after he passed.

But even a middleman can sometimes come a cropper, and a carelessly made new business acquaintance led to a grand scale bust. A telephone call received in the middle of the night caused my hasty exit from the world I had known; I abandoned my home and my own car, opted for an inconspicuous family car with a full tank of petrol and made my way north.

I no longer had friends, nor connections, and since I had never felt the urge to leave the country before, I didn’t have a passport either. I had a little money, but not enough to survive on for long. As I drove, I contemplated my options and found them wanting. So I continued to drive, enjoying the countryside and cheap motels. I never kept a car more than two days, refilling it no more than once, and I felt particularly proud of my working out the trick of using small, privately owned petrol stations. I was under no illusion that sooner or later the law would catch up with me. Until then, I would simply drive.

I pulled up at the garage, tooted once and eyed the skinny, red-haired kid who stepped out of the office. Looking as if he had just emerged from the pages of a John Steinbeck novel, he was about a year younger than me, with a gormless expression and a slow, trudging walk. I deemed him a harmless fool and decided to stay. The kid raised his hand to a half-wave as a form of greeting, then grabbed the pump and started to fill.

I pointed to his name tag and grinned. “That your name? Rusty?”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. He shot me a quick, tired glance that told me to go on, make fun of him already, he was used to it and he could take it.

Any further comment I was going to make about names and red hair got stuck in my throat. “Nice name,” I continued weakly.

He let go of the nozzle for a moment and studied me. This wasn’t good; I didn’t need him memorising my face, and although he didn’t strike me as the kind of fellow who would be able to give much of an accurate description to the police, a distraction was in order.

“Is there anywhere I can get a coffee around here?” I asked.

He turned his eyes back to the pump. “Uh-huh,” he repeated, with his free hand pointing to the garage’s office. I stepped to the side and saw a hand-written sign on the door. “Full English Breakfast. £4.99.” Through the window, I saw a table with a couple of chairs. I could only guess as to the state of the kitchen, but a free breakfast was a free breakfast, and I could certainly use that coffee. So I followed Rusty to the small, makeshift diner after he finished with the car and sat down, waiting for my unspoken order to be delivered.

It seemed that Rusty doubled up as chef and waiter, apparently being the only employee at this joint. I could see that he hadn’t washed his hands after filling my car, but the smell of bacon and eggs made that thought seem less important, and I tucked in. Rusty hovered for a moment, gleaning my approval of his efforts from the speed I was shovelling down the food. Before he could shuffle off, I pushed my already empty mug in his direction.

He returned a few minutes later with a jug of coffee, and by that time I was ready to push my plate away, full and content. “Where are you headed?” Rusty asked.

“Glasgow,” I replied, rubbing my belly. It was the first thing that popped into my head. The truth was, I wasn’t headed anywhere, but having been on the road for nine days and having spoken no more than twenty words in that time, I fancied a conversation. It turned out, so did Rusty.

“That’s an awfully long way,” he said, pulling up a chair. “You visiting relatives there?”

I didn’t know what had given him that idea, but it was as good a reason for my journey as any, so I nodded. “My aunt. She had a fall and is in hospital. I haven’t seen her for years.”

“That’s nice of you to drive all that way to visit her,” Rusty continued. “I don’t have any relatives. If I did, I’d drive a long way too to see them.”

I nodded again. “Must get lonely here in the middle of nowhere; I bet there aren’t many cars that come by.” I wasn’t sure where to go with this conversation and wished that I hadn’t bothered.

“Oh, I don’t know. Two or three cars a day maybe. Not the locals, they know that this place is too expensive compared to the big filling stations. More people like you, who get lost on a little side road on the way to Glasgow.” He chuckled, and I, surprised by the hint of wit, began to relax a little.

“A few people pop in for breakfast. Then there’s the kids who come in for some snacks. It’s not that lonely really. I get to chat to people. They like me,” he continued.

“Sounds like you have a busy life,” I replied, wondering if it was strange that I had never met anyone like Rusty before. My acquaintances, apart from the squeaky-clean, middle class kids at school, had been a mixture of shady suppliers and rich dealers. I realised that I had never given anyone else, or their way of life, a second thought. I pushed my chair back. “Is there a toilet I could use?” I hadn’t planned this very well. Hopefully there was a window I could climb out of. I suddenly didn’t feel like decking this kid anymore to get away with a tank of petrol and a free meal. Before the notion to actually pay for my purchases could get too strong, I needed to make my exit.

Rusty pointed toward the back. “When you come out, I wanna ask you something,” he said.

I stopped. “What do you want to ask? Go on, ask me now.”

Rusty shuffled. “Nah,” he whispered. “It’s stupid. Forget I mentioned it.”

There was nothing that would make me more curious than someone who started a sentence and then left it unfinished. “What is it?” I urged him, sitting down again.

“I’ve never been to Glasgow,” Rusty said.

That wasn’t much of a question, nor was it in any way helpful, but I got his drift. I contemplated my options. This kid would no doubt be a hindrance, and there was no way I could allow him to tag along. Besides, I wasn’t even going to Glasgow.

“Why do you want to go there?” I asked.

Rusty shrugged his shoulders. “It seems like a fun idea. And we can chat on the way. I like chatting with you. And I want to visit your aunt.”

“My aunt?” I repeated stupidly, before I remembered the lie I had told him earlier. I shook my head to clear the thought of introducing this kid to an aunt that didn’t even exist. “Have you ever even been outside of Norfolk?” I asked.

“What does that matter?” Rusty asked. “Forget it, I told you it was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have asked.”

I studied his face which, for the first time, showed a bit of passion. “Have you ever stolen anything?” I asked.

The look on Rusty’s face gave me the answer before he spoke. “Of course not,” he answered indignantly. “Why would I want to do a thing like that? I have a little money, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can pay you for the ride.”

“Well Rusty, if you wanted to come with me, we’d need a bit more money than that. Like whatever you have in that till over there, that would do for a start,” I continued.

“I think you’d better leave now,” Rusty said, getting up off his chair and trying to make himself appear bigger than he was.

“I really need to use the toilet before I go,” I said. “I have a long drive ahead of me.”

The bathroom window was small, but it wasn’t too high up and there was a chair I could use to reach it. I opened it wide and peered out. To the right, I could see the petrol pumps and the bumper of my car. A short sprint across the forecourt and I could be away before Rusty would figure out what was happening. I stood looking out the window and thought back to the conversation with Rusty and that look on his face when I hinted about the cash drawer. Resigned, I closed the bathroom window and slowly climbed down.

“That’s £52.48,” Rusty said as I emerged. “The second coffee was free.”

I fumbled for my wallet and counted out the notes, ruefully examining the remaining ones. Stopping here had been a mistake.

“What’s your name?” Rusty asked as he handed me the change.

I didn’t bother to wonder why he wanted to know. “George,” I said on a whim.

“Well, I hope you have a pleasant trip to Glasgow, George,” Rusty said, but I could hear coldness in his voice.

“Thanks Lennie,” I mumbled. As I drove off, I could see Rusty raising his hand in a half-wave, bidding me good-bye.