Realism sleeve with car and compass on forearm

The car is still in the lock-up behind the chip shop on Cable Street, where you told me to leave it, and the paint has only just stopped ticking as it cools. I drove it there at six this morning with the windows down because I couldn't face the radio. Ernie says the carburettor wants looking at before anyone takes it out again, but you know what he's like about engines.

Grandad's brass compass is in my coat pocket, the one with the cracked glass he never let anyone polish. The coast road map is folded to the page where you circled Brighton in red biro, the same red Ernie painted down the bonnet to make you laugh. Tomorrow Maddie walks up the aisle at St Saviour's and I'll be standing at the front with the ring, trying not to look at the door, because I know exactly how fast a man can get out of a room when he means to.

Forty-one years ago you and Walter came out of the registry office in Margate with tin cans bouncing off that same bumper and the tyres laying smoke all the way to Westgate. You told me the best getaways end with the map left on the seat, so nobody can follow you back. I found it there this morning, still soft at the creases, with your handwriting on the back saying Keep going.

So I'm not running tomorrow. I'm going to let the confetti land, let Maddie's mum cry into her hat, and then I'll hand the keys to the first person who asks for a lift. Love, Dennis.