By Heather Allen

Picture the scene: a Midland town in the early 1980s. Six punk rockers, one punkette and a small bearded hippy were gathered around a large four-wheeled object that vaguely resembled a van.
“How much did you say you paid for it?”
The questioner, a Joe Jackson lookalike called Paz, could not hide his incredulity. Shaun lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Fiver. Bloke was going to scrap it.”
“Should’ve let him, you were ripped off,” Paz laughed, kicking the tyre. The van shuddered and creaked in protest.
“What you gonna do with it, anyway?”
“Gonna sell it! I’ve done a bit of work on it already.”
“Where?”
“There! Look!”
The rest of us had gathered in a rough huddle around the vehicle in question, a Ford Escort Mk I van. It had definitely seen better days. The cowpat-green paint had bubbled around the wheel arches, and bits were flaking off, revealing the rust beneath. The bodywork was covered in dents and scratches, and the number plate was held on with string. A large chunk of the wing around the right headlamp consisted entirely of clumsily-applied fresh filler, and it was this to which Shaun was pointing.
“Right,” said Paz, smirking. “I can see you’ve put some work in there, alright.”
“Sell it?” I laughed. “Who’s gonna buy that heap of rust?”
Shaun scowled at me. “For your information, it’s in the Telegraph tonight.”
“What you asking for it?” I said, sniggering.
“Twenty quid! Reckon someone’ll snatch me hands off.”
At this, the seven of us – me, Paz, Johnny, Pete, Spike, Reg the hippy, and Nige – exploded into fits of laughter, in which the words “Twenty quid!” and “Snatch his hands off!” were to be heard.
Shaun waited, scowling. When we had eventually calmed down, he said: “What I actually came round for was to see if anyone wanted to come for a drive, before I sell it? It might look like a piece of junk but it’s bloody fast.”
Reg laughed. “You’ve got to be joking, mate! That thing don’t look safe.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” protested Shaun, slapping the roof and causing the van to creak alarmingly.
Pete was jigging up and down. “Yeah, yeah, we should go for it, it’ll be a right laugh. Go up to the services and get some breakfast.”
Reg shrugged. “What the helicoil. Shall we?”
“I don’t care; we’re all going to die soon anyway!” I said, with the typical fatalism of a Cold War teenager. The others grumbled in agreement.
Paz, the self-appointed King of all that is Escort, grunted. “Won’t be as fast as mine. Okay, but I’m driving.”
“Only if I can drive yours next time,” said Shaun.
“No bloody way. Alright, you drive. But I’m sitting in the front, just to keep an eye on you.”
“Okay,” Shaun shrugged.
Shaun stepped to the rear of the van and turned the door handle. Pulled it. Pulled it harder, swearing. Pulled it a third time, and the doors shot open with a squeal, landing him on his back. “Okay,” he said, brushing himself down, “Pile in.” So Reg, Nige and Pete climbed in, followed by six-footers Spike and Johnny, leaving a tiny gap for me between Johnny and the door. Shaun turned the key and the engine coughed and clanged into life.
“You didn’t think it necessary to fix the exhaust, then?” Paz shouted.
“Got a hole in the end, innit? S’fine!” Shaun shouted back. He let out the clutch and the van kangarooed forward.
“Have you got a licence?” shouted Paz.
“You know I ain’t. Have you?”
“Don’t be daft. But at least I can drive.”
“So can I!” shouted Shaun, careering down the street, the back end of the car sagging two inches from the road, the suspension rolling and bucking as he accelerated up to an illegal speed and threw it around the bend.
“Sid and Nancy!” Johnny cried, as he threw his arms around me and squeezed me a bit too tightly. I wriggled free, on account of needing to breathe.
“Shaun! Shaun! Slow down!” yelled Reg. “I’m too young to die!”
“We’re fine, don’t worry! Don’t you want to see what she can do?” shouted Shaun.
“Not particularly, no!” Reg shouted back.
“I’ll be surprised if it stays in one piece all the way to the services,” I yelled, and Johnny clenched his jaw, turning a pale shade of green.
The nightmare drive continued, the elderly Escort wallowing and rolling around every bend, the creaking and squealing growing louder every minute. We soon reached the dual carriageway, and Shaun put his foot down, laughing like a maniac. Paz was shouting: “What you think you’re doing? You’re an idiot! You’re going to get us all killed!”
In the back, Nige had rolled into a ball and was sobbing uncontrollably. Spike was cackling and slapping his knees; Pete was gripping the sill, eyes tightly closed; Johnny was fervently reciting the Lord’s Prayer; and Reg was yelling expletives and attempting to climb into the front. Eventually we approached the notorious chicane which terminated the dual carriageway and skirted the bottom edge of the golf course. The road ahead veered sharply to the left and then to the right in a reverse ‘s’ shape. This was a favourite spot for teenage drivers to show off, usually with a carload of shouting mates.
“Hold on, everyone!” yelled Shaun, and threw the van hard left. The groans and squeals of protesting metal became deafening. We all started yelling. Johnny and I gripped the sill behind us as tightly as we could. I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, there was a sickening crack, and the van veered out of control. Everyone started to shout and scream at once. The van slewed onto its left side with a crash, hurtling forward. Everything seemed to slow down. This is the end, I thought. That’s not fair! I’m only sixteen!
The van rolled onto its roof, then slewed onto its right side, still moving at speed. The gloom in the back was a blur of heads and boots and limbs and leather jackets. Somebody kicked me in the face, and I banged my head against the side of the van. Blood trickled down my neck. The van rolled back onto its wheels for a few yards, then there was a jarring thump, slowing it down. Still moving, it barrelled onto its side again, then finally thumped onto its roof and slid to a halt.
I fell out of the back, Johnny landing in a heap close by. The rest crawled out slowly. Spike rolled round to the side of the van and was violently sick. Nige, still crying, sat on the ground, cradling his knees and rocking.
Pete rubbed his head and swore. “Who kicked me in the head? I bet it was you, Johnny, with your massive Docs!”
“Probably, who cares?” Johnny shrugged. “We’re all alive.”
Johnny turned to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Banged my head though.” I gingerly touched my wound. The bleeding had almost stopped. There was a small cut and a bump, and my head ached, but I felt fine otherwise.
“I thought we were going to die, Johnny!”
“Yeah, me too!” He looked around and frowned. “Reg? You okay?”
Reg was lying on the ground in the foetal position. He was still and silent.
“Reg?” I moved to his side and crouched, my heart pounding. Was he dead? Poor little hippy.
“Reg! Can you hear me! Reg!”
His mouth opened and his lips moved.
“What was that, Reg?” I leaned in so that my ear was close to his mouth.
“…balls…” came the faint yet agonised whisper.
“Oh,” I said, standing up. “I’ll give you a minute, then.”
Then we heard Paz shout: “Oi! Someone give us a hand!” We turned, and saw him, purple in the face, dangling upside down by his seat belt. We rushed to help him out, then ran round to Shaun to force open his door and get him the right way round. Soon we were all assembled at the rear of the groaning, steaming van.
“I don’t like to state the obvious,” said Paz, “but we’ve just crashed an illegal vehicle driven by an illegal driver through a council-owned fence onto a council-owned golf course and left half the van spread all over the road. Now, unless anyone thinks it’s a good idea for us to hang around and wait for the Police to turn up, I reckon we should get moving pretty quick.”
Nige dried his eyes, and helped me to get Reg to his feet. We all staggered, as fast as we could, up the hill to the top of the golf course, trying not to look behind us. When we had reached the top, we paused for breath and turned. A trail of wreckage spread across the road to the fence, then a deep gouge in the grass led to where the van rested, smoking and creaking, severely dented yet surprisingly intact. A crowd was beginning to gather.
“I feel we should say a few words,” said Pete, rubbing his head.
“Bloody good motors, those Mark Ones,” said Paz.
“That’ll do,” said Shaun, as the sound of sirens reached our ears. “Can we go now?”
We hurried over the brow of the hill until we were out of sight of the wreckage, then slowed to a leisurely stroll. Paz turned to Shaun and grinned. “So,” he said, “you still planning on selling it?”
That was all it took to set us off. We started to laugh, and soon we were in hysterics, unable to speak, our sides hurting, tears rolling down our cheeks. We were still laughing when we got to Johnny’s house for tea and toast, still laughing when we left to go to the pub, and still laughing when we all staggered home at the end of the night. I still laugh now when I remember that day; the day we cheated death.