their hands on the bar, holding themselves under, staring at each other, not breathing, waiting, and waiting, and not breathing; looking at his brother’s mouth, seeing a bubble escape; waiting, waiting, waiting. He couldn’t remember surfacing . Only his brother’s face, changing. Waiting.
He watched the kids; breathed out.
How We Ran The Night
Trainer told me this story.
– Ashid lives in Walthamstow, somewhere around there, east, used to be a steward at White Hart Lane years ago. Anyway, now he works further north, up outside the M25 somewhere, for a bloke called Palmer, who has this garage. Called Mastersons, for no reason I know of. They beat panels, they cut and splice, pull apart, put together. They spray-paint . Most of their business is stolen cars. They have an arrangement with a man called Gull. Ashid’s role is mainly paperwork. A clever man with documents. Log books, bills of sale, transfer records, service records, repair reports. He does the accounts as well. Various accounts. The presentable and the bottom drawer, you know.
– So. All is well. They’re making a living. They keep an eye out. They pay careful attention to visitors they don’t know. They hire a local boy, they hire his brother, they pay them well, look after them, tell them nothing very much. They are circumspect. Canny. Smart as old goats. Palmer and Ashid. They’re never stupid. Never rash. Gull is happy. Every Christmas he gives each of them a hamper. Things for the kids. He remembers birthdays. Every so often little gifts – watches, computers, holidays. He will call Ashid on a Thursday, tell him that there are tickets at the airport for him and his wife, that there is a hotel booked in Cyprus or Budapest or Paris – go, have fun, have a good time, send me a postcard. Ashid always goes. He never says no. He’s a careful man.
– One day, one cold day in the winter, one afternoon, in January, in the bitter cold, Ashid is alone at the garage. He’s doing the paperwork for a car that’s come in the previous night. A four-wheel drive. A Land Rover. Palmer is out, he’s not there, he’s off somewhere on business. The yard is locked, the gates are secured, because of the Land Rover, which has been painted, which has had various changes made to the interior – it’s new, it’s about two weeks out of factory, it couldn’t be newer, and it’s sitting there, jacked up in the air, without wheels, without plates. Ashid needs to read some numbers from the engine. Some serial numbers. On various parts. He needs to know what they are before he decides what they will be. The boy has gone home early. Ashid can’t remember why. The boy plays football. He’s always going to football matches, maybe that’s it. His brother is sick at home. There is flu and there are various other winter ailments. Ashid’s wife is at home coughing, complaining about a draft in the bedroom at night. Their new windows, from Gull. They don’t all fit. Ashid has arranged for someone to come and fix them.
– He sighs and lies down on the flat trolley and slides himself under the Land Rover. He has a torch and a pen and a notebook. He’s not sure he’ll be able to see all the numbers he wants to see from here. He’ll have to wait until it’s off the jacks before he can get all of them.
– He hears a sound. He hears it but he doesn’t notice it. There are always sounds.
– He shines the torch up on the underside and sees a small plate to his left and squints at it, because the lettering is very small. He squints at it and it seems to come closer, and it does come closer. It comes closer because the whole Land Rover has come closer, it has fallen off its jacks, which is impossible, and it has crashed down on top of Ashid, knocking the pen and the torch and the notebook from his hands and pinning him to the ground. For a second he thinks he is dead. But he isn’t dead. There’s enough room beneath the Land Rover. It does not crush him. It
He watched the kids; breathed out.
How We Ran The Night
Trainer told me this story.
– Ashid lives in Walthamstow, somewhere around there, east, used to be a steward at White Hart Lane years ago. Anyway, now he works further north, up outside the M25 somewhere, for a bloke called Palmer, who has this garage. Called Mastersons, for no reason I know of. They beat panels, they cut and splice, pull apart, put together. They spray-paint . Most of their business is stolen cars. They have an arrangement with a man called Gull. Ashid’s role is mainly paperwork. A clever man with documents. Log books, bills of sale, transfer records, service records, repair reports. He does the accounts as well. Various accounts. The presentable and the bottom drawer, you know.
– So. All is well. They’re making a living. They keep an eye out. They pay careful attention to visitors they don’t know. They hire a local boy, they hire his brother, they pay them well, look after them, tell them nothing very much. They are circumspect. Canny. Smart as old goats. Palmer and Ashid. They’re never stupid. Never rash. Gull is happy. Every Christmas he gives each of them a hamper. Things for the kids. He remembers birthdays. Every so often little gifts – watches, computers, holidays. He will call Ashid on a Thursday, tell him that there are tickets at the airport for him and his wife, that there is a hotel booked in Cyprus or Budapest or Paris – go, have fun, have a good time, send me a postcard. Ashid always goes. He never says no. He’s a careful man.
– One day, one cold day in the winter, one afternoon, in January, in the bitter cold, Ashid is alone at the garage. He’s doing the paperwork for a car that’s come in the previous night. A four-wheel drive. A Land Rover. Palmer is out, he’s not there, he’s off somewhere on business. The yard is locked, the gates are secured, because of the Land Rover, which has been painted, which has had various changes made to the interior – it’s new, it’s about two weeks out of factory, it couldn’t be newer, and it’s sitting there, jacked up in the air, without wheels, without plates. Ashid needs to read some numbers from the engine. Some serial numbers. On various parts. He needs to know what they are before he decides what they will be. The boy has gone home early. Ashid can’t remember why. The boy plays football. He’s always going to football matches, maybe that’s it. His brother is sick at home. There is flu and there are various other winter ailments. Ashid’s wife is at home coughing, complaining about a draft in the bedroom at night. Their new windows, from Gull. They don’t all fit. Ashid has arranged for someone to come and fix them.
– He sighs and lies down on the flat trolley and slides himself under the Land Rover. He has a torch and a pen and a notebook. He’s not sure he’ll be able to see all the numbers he wants to see from here. He’ll have to wait until it’s off the jacks before he can get all of them.
– He hears a sound. He hears it but he doesn’t notice it. There are always sounds.
– He shines the torch up on the underside and sees a small plate to his left and squints at it, because the lettering is very small. He squints at it and it seems to come closer, and it does come closer. It comes closer because the whole Land Rover has come closer, it has fallen off its jacks, which is impossible, and it has crashed down on top of Ashid, knocking the pen and the torch and the notebook from his hands and pinning him to the ground. For a second he thinks he is dead. But he isn’t dead. There’s enough room beneath the Land Rover. It does not crush him. It
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