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CHRIS HOARE

SEVEN HILLS

RRB PHOTOBOOKS BRISTOL

Thrown Stones At God Moses McKenzie

The quad still had a winch system and trailer hitch from

Kayden (scrambler, open-face), Declan (quad, no helmet),

its former life in national park conservation. Its mudflaps

Ashley (ped, modular), Elliot (scrambler, no helmet but a nest

were wide. Its long gunrack rendered useless: the hands

of hair) and Zachary himself, and all their machines had been

of its current rider familiar only with the feel of his father’s

resprayed in the Miller family lock-up.

chopped shotgun, not a rifle — no one in Hartcliffe had one

The boys crossed the field’s boundary, bright flashes

of those. They were small hands that revved the machine

of orange peel, loud reds and greens and yellows, they

through the tall grass. That shooed his friends towards the

ripped down the country lane and came to a halt at the

gate in the corner of the field and wheelied ahead of the

carriageway. Three went one way, two another. They raised

pack. Small hands that belonged to Zachary Miller: Stace and

their hands, not their voices; experience had long taught

Marv’s son. His slight torso naked. The red setting sun still

them that words meant nothing on the backs of engines.

overhead. His ma’s warnings to wear a helmet ignored, his

Elliot and Zachary lived in the winding crescents where winos

blonde hair cut too short to be tousled by the current of air

drank the McColl’s wares; the other boys lived on the estate

his bike created, too short to snitch. Helmets were for those

about a half-a-mile east where Tyler came off his bike a few

new to the helm anyway, whereas Zachary had been riding

months back and snapped his neck. Zachary didn’t enjoy the

bikes from before he could steal them.

estate anymore. Most people agreed that it had changed

This was the first he’d taken. He and Elliot had

since Tyler’s ascent. It had always been grey, shit-stained and

stalked the deer warden for a weekend before they nabbed

pebble-dashed, but it had never been sullen. There was no

it. Broke the ranger’s long shackle padlock with Elliot’s

place like it for riding, though. There were more streetlights

hammer, stripped the bike of its skin, tracked the cables to

there than elsewhere in the city, and they worked harder

the key switch, isolated the wires, shorted the red and black,

too, fearful of what darkness could foretoken. Their intensity

bypassed the circuit, sparked it, and they were off. And it

was the reason for the local boys’ flamboyance; they liked

didn’t take them no more than four minutes since both Marv

how their colour looked in car windows and phone cameras,

and Elliot’s fathers had long had them reassembling bikes,

they liked the boisterousness they became associated with,

from pushies to tourings, in preparation for the fated day,

the sense of manhood and vim. The estate’s corners sang

because if they were going to do it, their fathers wanted it

when they were taken at any speed, they vomited gravel in

done right. And when Zachary and Elliot had wheeled the

the faces of passing strangers; and the boys lusted for the

beast into Marv’s garage that night, they’d sprayed it orange

victory of those small moments. Not even his lust had been

peel, and Zachary hadn’t spent an evening since without

the same, though. Now Zachary contented himself with the

it between his knees. There were five of them in his crew:

corners of the crescents and saved speed for the fields. Never

shit where you shit: his ma’s words. That’s why she hadn’t

a mansion in the Nailsea hills, and he knew another boy

complained when, at thirteen, he’d first started going to the

whose girlfriend’s brother raced a scrambler and he was

estate — not like Elliot’s ma had, anyway. Elliot’s ma had

sponsored by Red Bull. He didn’t know anyone who knew

crossed herself a thousand times. She’d tossed Hail Marys

anyone remotely related to Formula One, though. That was

with the abandon of curse words and wasted her husband’s

the trouble with F1… you had to come from money. And

matches on vanilla candles, before finally she succumbed to

Lewis Hamilton wasn’t no example. He only made it cos he’s

Elliot’s continuance… but still she wouldn’t let him leave the

half-caste: that’s what his da always said. In England, kids like

house without her rosaries. The only prayer Zachary knew

Zachary finished last. Marv knew that, Zachary knew that,

was Our father, who art in Heaven, but in his mind you only

even Elliot’s kid sister knew that, and she used a hairdryer to

needed the one, anyway. He was kind to animals and he

parch the piss from her bed in the mornings.

didn’t hit anyone smaller than he was, and once he stopped

Elliot indicated and the boys left the highway. He

Connor A from forcing Connor F to kiss the furrow in the

never would’ve indicated before Tyler died, but that’s what

fields for the crime of sharing a name; so, as far as Zachary

happened when you lost a friend: the loneliness made you

was concerned, him and God were all right. There was the

cautious. Marv said you got used to it, that soon they’d be

matter of Tyler, though.

back to their old ways. He told Zachary that Tyler might’ve

His quad was faster than Elliot’s scrambler in the

been the first, but he wouldn’t be the last, not so long as he

field, but once they got onto the carriageway Elliot opened up

was living anywhere near the council-owned crescents and

and Zachary sat in his wake, wishing slipstreams worked the

estates of Hartcliffe. He said he’d lost a bunch of mates. Lost

way they had on PlayStations Midnight’s Club. Between that

them to stabbings, shootings, cancer. Cancer was the real

game and his father’s lock-up, Zachary had always known

bugger, he said; couldn’t even get your own back on cancer.

that his future lay in racing. It didn’t matter what he drove,

Stace told him to get the hell out of there, and if he could,

either: rally cars, sports bikes, scramblers, quads, mountain

to take her with him. Take me somewhere sunny. I don’t mind

bikes — he was even sure he could manage the Formula

where, love, but it would help if they could speak some English,

One monsters if he put his mind to it. He swore he could race

not too much, just enough to get me by, get me my shopping

anything, because racing was about one thing: guts. And he

and things. Don’t worry if not, I’m sure I’m not too old to learn

had plenty. It was a good career too; you earned decent

some Spanish. Zachary was taller than his ma now, so whilst

money; he knew a friend of a friend who knew another boy

his da grumbled about wanting to be born and buried in

who’d ridden BMX in the Olympics and he was loaded. And

Hartcliffe, he kissed his ma’s forehead and promised to take

there was a SSX snowboarder from Whitchurch who bought

her wherever she wanted.

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This book is dedicated to those who have lost someone too soon

RRB Photobooks, October 2023 Images © Chris Hoare 2023 Text by Moses McKenzie Design and Layout by Jessamine Thoemmes-Tondowski Printed at

ISBN rrbphotobooks.com