Free Boyracers by Alan Bissett Page A

then?’
    Shiny’s smile is bringing on nightmares. It seems to eat into the sides of his face. He’s dressed head to toe in Adidas, his hair slicked back as though he’s just climbed out from a toilet. He catches my eye, sees my discomfort, and his grin burrows further into his cheeks. Then he’s rubbing his hands. ‘Got yer readies there, gents?’
    We fish in our pockets for a couple of quid, Brian grumbling like an old colonel, which we hand to Dolby, which he hands to Shiny, which Shiny pockets in one of those bags that hang at your belly, the kind used by those guys at the waltzers who shout, ‘scream if you wanna go faster!’
    ‘Just drive up there, mate. Watch the races if ye want. Wait yer turn for the burnout.’
    Dolby nods.
    ‘Burnout?’ says Frannie, as we are coralled to the head of the car-park , past – I don’t believe it – a van selling Mr Whippy ice-cream. ‘Fuck’s a burnout?’
    ‘Just think it sounds gid,’ Dolby mumbles, turning the wheel smoothly, treating Belinda like she’s a girl he wants to keep sweet, asthough their relationship hangs in the balance. We park behind a purple Mazda, two neds dropping bottles and chart hits from the window, elbows (Nike) leaning nonchalantly. There we wait, listening to Primal Scream, not talking, watching the cars purr in and out, creating a secret language with their engines, windows rolled down, banter and fags lit, a sudden laugh like a firework, someone boasting, not caring who hears, ‘I’ve written aff three motors and a mountain bike,’ as a girl with a clipboard – neat hair, like a secretary – asks if we want to put our names down for a race.
    ‘Um,’ I say, ‘I’ve no brought ma trainers.’
    ‘Shut up,’ she tuts savagely.
    ‘It’s awright, hen,’ Dolby says, ‘we’ll just watch.’
    The Lads glare at me, mortified.
     
    after a while, in which Frannie bores us with another Tesco’s story, motors start gathering in the middle of the car-park and the air tightens . There are whistles and catcalls. Expectation. ‘Shiny was tellin me the things they get uptay,’ Dolby’s saying, ‘like recreatin the Grand Prix course every year round Falkirk.’
    The secretary girl is holding her hand up.
    ‘Maistly, they meet up in places like this and–’
    The crowd clears. She picks up a flag, holds it aloft, stretching her arm so high her back becomes a drawn bow.
    ‘– race.’
    Two cars appear in a burst, tyres screeching. They jostle, neck and neck, fumes billowing, everyone cheering. They accelerate towards a wall at the far end of the car-park, but the crowd converging behind them block our view. Squealing breaks. We crane our necks.
    Light confusion settles to the ground. Girlfriends’ anxious hands flutter at their throats.
    Two figures step out from the cars. Applause. Arms wave in the headlights like a strobe show. Friends grab the victor, shaking his hand, patting his back, telling him he’s mad, mad, he’s a mad bastard, but he doesn’t seem quite there for a second. He smiles vaguely, then takes a long unbroken gulp from a can of Miller, throwing back his head, beer pissing from his lips, and something animal is roared at the black sky.
     
    the burnout goes like this: a gang of people stand in front of a car with their hands on the bonnet. The driver pulls the handbrake and starts revving up the engine, gradually increasing pressure on the accelerator. When it hits the floor he drops the clutch, and the wheels spin madly on the spot. Then he releases the handbrake and the crowd scatters like a shoal of fish and everyone laughs. Up to you to get out of the way in time.
    Three of these break up the races. One car sacrifices its clutch. The second roars forwards like a tiger, neds slapping the bonnet as it is freed. The third car revs too long and the engine fails, a genie of smoke hissing from it. All the other cars honk horns and flash lights and we watch. The dangerous allure of it. The way girls drift towards