Unforgotten (Forgiven)

to check he was okay, but fury consumed me, and I was on Comb-over before I truly knew what I was doing.
I barrelled into him. He went flying and landed on his arse in the mud. For a moment he sat there, stunned, then his expression morphed into a rage that matched mine, and he sprang to his feet. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“You kicked my cat.”
“So? It was in my way.”
“And now you’re in mine.” I pulled my arm back and struck hard. My fist hit his face with a satisfying crack, and he staggered back where he’d come from, hands flying to his cheekbone as if he expected to find his entire face caved in. Drama queen. I could’ve hit him harder. I damn well wanted to. “Get the fuck out of here before I kick your teeth in.”
He didn’t need telling twice, but as he scrambled into his knobhead truck and sped away, instinct—and experience—told me I hadn’t heard the last of him. That one way or another, punching his lights out was going to come back to haunt me.
I tried real hard to give a shit.
Failed, and crawled under the battered Astra to check on Grey.
He was crouching behind the damaged exhaust pipe, eyes wide and spooked. I held my hand out and whistled, but he looked at me like I’d shit in his shoes and asked him to dance.
Worse than that, he was afraid of me.
Anger rattled me again. I wriggled out from under the car and considered tracking Comb-over to whatever branch of JD Sports had thrown up on him, but there was a clear obstacle stopping me: I didn’t have a car. Fuck, man, I barely had shoes. Despite the cut I was taking from my boss’s cash transactions, I was broke.
That pissed me off even more. Ignoring the fact that the yard was open for business for another hour, I shut the gate and locked up. If that dicksplash came back, I didn’t trust myself not to brain him. The safest place for me was the pub.
I left Grey to simmer down and hoofed it down the road to the Gordon Arms.
The bar was busy enough for me to slip in unnoticed, but quiet enough that I didn’t have to wait to get a beer. I gulped half of it down in one long swallow and settled into my favourite stool, pondering if I had enough change in my pocket to scrape three pints together before I went home with a bag of chips and a buttered roll. Fuck it. If I didn’t, I’d scrap the chips. A liquid diet had never done me any harm.
Liar.
My attention-seeking shoulder throbbed on cue. I rubbed at it and drank more beer. After slugging the cat kicker, I wasn’t in the mood for an ibuprofen and an early night—
“There you are.”
A large hand clapped me on the back, sending cheap lager up my nose. I coughed and glanced up. Dench loomed over me, making good use of his local nickname: Hench Dench. And by his expression, he wasn’t about to buy the next round.
I shrugged his hand off me. “Congrats. You found me. Is it my turn to count rusty nails again?”
“Shut the fuck up. Why’s the yard closed?”
“Cos it’s ten past five.”
“Don’t get tricky with me. You shut up shop an hour ago, leaving me to deal with the coppers and that boy racer you decked.”
Shit. “I didn’t deck him. And he kicked the cat. What was I supposed to do?”
“That grey rat you’ve been feeding?”
“That’s the one.”
Dench’s glower deepened. “I don’t give a toss about that stinking cat. All I know is I’ve had to give that dickweed a free water pump and a cam belt to stop the coppers taking a proper look round my yard, and it’s all your fault. I’m done with you, kid. You’re out of strikes.”
Truth be told, I’d been out of strikes months ago when I’d put diesel in his petrol van on purpose, but his righteous malevolence still stung. Dench was well known for lumping anyone that got on his nerves. Who the hell was he to tell me I shouldn’t?
Your boss, remember?
Yeah, well. Not anymore. “Stick your strikes up your arse, mate. Dickhead had it coming. Pay me through the end of the month, though, yeah? I know my statutory rights.”
“You ain’t got no rights. Show me a contract.”
I rolled my eyes.
Dench sniggered. “That’s what I thought. Rights to nothing is still nothing. You’ve got to the end of the week to sling your hook, you little scumbag.”
“Whatever.” I dropped my empty glass on the bar. It clattered dully on the damp beer mats, then toppled to the floor.
Shame it didn’t smash.
I gave Dench the finger and bowled out of the pub. I spent my last coins on a bottle of dodgy cider and drifted back to the yard. Fuck the chips.
Grey joined me at the end of the lane, unhurt and sashaying in front of me like the furry toss bag who’d just cost me my job and my home. Drunk me wasn’t unduly alarmed. Sober me probably wouldn’t be either. That part of me had died a long time ago.
I drank warm cider all night, tracking Dench as he stayed in the pub till after the regular lock-in, then trailing after him as he meandered home to be sure he wouldn’t go back to the yard. Then, with the arse crack of dawn on my sore shoulder, I stumbled into the caravan and found the backpack I’d arrived with six months ago. My belongings only half filled it. Laughing, I did a sweep for anything worth nicking, then rejoined Grey outside. He rubbed his face on my shin bone and the reality that I had to leave him behind hit home. I scooped him up. He pranced along my arm and onto the shoulder that kept me up at night when I didn’t have a belly full of beer. His tiny