The Van

Oil on his hands. Been there all day. Arthur had it smeared on his face. Didn’t matter.

The van stood there. A proper beauty now. Twelve hundred quid of fresh metal in the floor pan alone. And that lump. Purring like a cat. Should sell it. A grand profit. Maybe more.

He kicked the tyre, a solid thud.

—Is it worth it, mate? he muttered. 

—All that graft. All those late nights.

He leaned against the wing. Felt the metal warm under his hand. He’d cut out all the rot. Replaced the sill. Welded it all up himself. No patches. A proper job.

A buyer would come. Say, Nice little van, mate. Shove a wad of cash in his hand. Drive it off. Then smash the gearbox driving too fast. Or load it with bricks. Ruin it. It’d be back to shite.

He pushed the door closed. Heard the smooth, solid clunk it made. No rattles. That sound. That was his work.

He couldn’t sell it. He wouldn’t be getting that new MIG set then. Not today.

Keys heavy in his pocket. He’d earned them.

He looked back at the van. His van. He grabbed his coat. Locked the shed.