I can't understand why she's doing that, but I leave them to it, because what else can I do? It's too late for school now, and what does a day lost add up to? Nothing much, so I ride around town for a bit, just getting the hang of the bike, making the best of a bad wheel job.
I get home at the right time, just like I've been to school, and the next day I turn up at the hole again, but this time I keep away until the Hang 5 crew actually ride out of there. Then I follow behind, keeping my distance just like in the films. They head for the Pitstoppers garage on Macbeth Street. I watch them all getting into position.
Dazzle's the leader. He was old, like nine already. Almost past it. He was itching to get a drug-runner job with the Namchester lads. Out to prove himself worthy. He never did any stealing any more, he just directed the traffic.
A posh car drives into the forecourt, parking behind a dingy red Mini.
Matchstick was the decoy. He was eleven years gone, but going on four. The poor kid was totally out of his mansion, which made a good diversion. Now the loony is wobbling into the forecourt, on-bike and singing a little song.
A posh guy gets out of the posh car, moves over to the pump. He turns to look at Matchstick as he trundles by, howling wild. Good sign.
Flute was acting as the lookout. Eight years old, a real good-looker in a tracksuit and a balaclava. Dazzle liked a girl who could handle a bike, and this was a beauty. She's no doubt got one eye on the securicam, the other on the bloke behind the counter. Hopefully, he's busy dealing with another customer, the one from the red Mini.
I see that somebody is still sitting inside the beat-up Mini, looks like an Indian guy, or a Pakistani, could cause problems. But then he actually gets out of the car, and goes into the shop, maybe to get some cigs or a chocolate bar, but this is the best thing - he's left a window wide open!
Meanwhile, the posh guy at the pump is smiling at Matchstick.
I'm watching all this from above, with my new wheels perched on a slagheap. Well, it used to be a slagheap, till the council grassed it over, called it a theme park. Slagworld. I pull down the hat, tug up the collar, pull down the hood, adopt the balaclava. Actually, this wasn't an official Hang 5er balaclava, but the balaclava that my dad used to wear when he was a young biker thief. I stole it from his bottom drawer.
Flute gives the signal to go, and Spike darts out from behind the garage on his Boomerang 509, supercharged! Spike was the second-in-command, almost nine. He rides over to the posh car, smashes the window with his dad's hammer, reaches in.
The posh guy turns at the sound. No doubt the joker behind the counter turns as well, startled. Maybe even the owner of the Mini car turns around. I'm watching all this from the grass, perched to fly. By which time Matchstick has vanished and Spike is flying away with the posh guy's case, stolen from the car.
Easy meat! and then I'm flying too, scooting after leftovers. Into the forecourt even as the guy is rushing to his car, the securicam is whirring, and the bloke behind the counter is calling the cops. But there I am, sliding up next to the Mini. Window open, I look inside, where a stupid little handbag is just waiting for me. Excellent! The brown guy is running out of the shop now, a young woman with him, but way too slow because I reach in, grab the bag, and then out of there! Fucking great stuff. Flying home!
It took all my knowledge to shake off the Mini, and I was proud of that.
So we all meet up down the hole, and Dazzle lays in straight away, telling me off for being so stupid, for going in so late. I tell him I got summat, didn't I? I got the woman's handbag. What did Spike get? Only a fucking attache case.
There's fucking over a hundred quid in here, you twat!' says Spike, throwing the case at me. 'You nearly blew us wide!'
'But I didn't,' I say.
'That's right,' says Flute. 'Nobody got caught. Let's see what the kid got.'
'You fuck off, girlie,' says Spike. 'Like who asked you?'
'Enough,' says Dazzle, opening the handbag, pulling some stuff out of there. Some tampons, a wallet with ?15 in it, a beef sandwich in polythene, a computer disk, a photograph of a puppy dog, an A-Z map of Namchester. Nothing much else. Oh yeah, a bird's feather, don't ask me what that's doing in there. Green-and-yellow coloured. But then the eyes light up on Dazzle. He pulls out a piece!
That makes the crew go quiet, let me tell you, even though it was only a tiny, girl-friendly model.
'Jesus bike!' says Spike.
'Is it loaded?' asks Flute.
Click, click. 'Sure is.'
'Jesus mountain bike!' says Matchstick, laughing and twitching.
'What's a lousy handbag carrier doing with a gun?' asks Flute. 'What was she protecting?' But nobody answers.
Dazzle tucks the gun and the wallet into his rucksack and then hands the bag and remaining contents back to me. 'This is yours to keep, Melvin,' he says. And then, 'The Melv is in. But only on a trial basis, OK? We'll give him seven days.'
'Absolutely!' I shout.
'Oh fuck,' says Spike. 'The crew is doomed.'
'Crew super-doomed,' echoes Matchstick.
'He found us a gun, didn't he?' says Flute, and I'm sure there's a little smile between us, but most probably I'm just thinking there should be.
So Dazzle gives us our next job. Hang 5 alive! During which I perform the lookout duties like a trainee Nam United defender. I do OK. Another three jobs after that, then we call it a day. Dazzle gives us our share of the takings. I get the lowest except for Matchstick, who would only spend it on sweets or something. I tell Dazz that the gun must be worth hundreds. He tells me to fuck off, that he's the manager and that he has to sell it first. This is on account, he says.
I get ?45 for the trouble. The most I've ever had. And when I get home I give my mam a tenner for the housekeeping. My dad starts to warn me about messing about with kids like Dazzle, but my mam says he's only jealous and way past it.
I like my mam. She's had a hard fucking life bringing me up, and I don't blame her. Also, she's got tattoos. And she said that I could hang around with the gang as long as I didn't neglect the studying too much, which I promised not to do.
Anyway, that's how I got to join the Hang 5 crew.
That night I go up to my bedroom early, in order to examine the handbag. I eat the beef sandwich, throw the tampon and the photo of the puppy and the stupid bird's feather into the waste-paper basket. I look at the computer disk. Maybe it's a game? I slip it into the computer, and this title screen comes up, flight path 5.02 it says, and underneath that, demo version. Must be an air-sim with a name like that, and there's no real interface or anything, just these lines of techno stuff. Says it's been programmed by somebody called Celia Hobart. Maybe Hobart was the stupid woman in the Mini car, leaving her window open like that, doesn't she know there's some right bastards around? And I'm thinking this must be a pre-market copy, when what should happen but a press-to-play icon comes up.
I mouse on over and do the old clickety-click.
The screen lights up with a feather, yeah an animated bird's feather, just like the one I'd thrown away, sparkling with a million greens and yellows. I'm kind of pulled in by the sight, like I'm on drugs or something. I should be so lucky.
But nothing else happens, just this feather floating around the screen, like forever. No matter what keys I press, it just stays there, turning slowly. So I'm thinking I've stolen a bloody screen-saver, when a password please message comes up. Straight off I try the usual suspects that Jackie taught me, GOD, JESUS, SECRET, PASSWORD, MOTHER, FATHER, but none of them work, and after the six bad choices the password window vanishes, like I've used up my options, just leaving the feather, still spinning and there's nothing I can do about it.