Graft by Matt Hill Page B

stranger reaches inside his jacket; produces a roll of dog-eared paper. “Just have a scan of this before I go.” He launches the bung like a javelin.
    Sol makes the catch. “These blueprints? Bit retro, isn’t it?”
    â€œPlans, yes.”
    Sol rolls off the elastic band. Opens the first page. His smile is gone.
    â€œWhat?” the stranger asks.
    Sol shakes his head, flicks through the sheets behind, accelerates to the last page. “We don’t – can’t – build tanks ,” he says. “We don’t work to this kind of spec. And if this is for a car … seriously. Chiller units? Backup power? These harnesses? What’s he hoping to carry, your man? None of our equipment is…” He fumbles the words. “We’d never get the tolerances right.”
    The stranger comes forward and passes Sol a card. “I’ve done my research. Seen some of the kit that rolls out of here – pig-rigs, armoured limos. Drone-proofing. That mad trike thing you did – the one with the turret.”
    Sol nods slowly. “That was Pete’s stuff.”
    â€œSo I know you’re good for it,” the stranger says. “Get on and call me when the parts turn up. Boss is hands-off, but likes to hear about progress. Goes without saying he likes a nice result as well. The base vehicle gets here within the week. And me, I don’t really give a toss how you get the gear. Just sort it fast and we’re all happy bunnies.”
    Sol scans the card – nameless, numbered. When he looks up again, the stranger’s pointing at the Lexus. “And this little beauty over here,” he says. “On the market, that, or what? Quality, that – smart-looking.”
    Sol turns to the Lexus. It’s meant to be stripped down, sold on. And yet he finds himself nodding. Opportunity knocks. It might be in great shape, with plenty to salvage for resale straight off the shelf – but get rid now and they’ve made a few quid fast. Not to mention the fact he can’t shake his jitters about having it here.
    â€œMake me an offer I can’t refuse.”
    â€œTwo?”
    â€œTwo ton? It’s worth at least a grand. Run-flats alone’d get two… and there’s hardly anything on the clock.”
    The stranger chuckles. “Give it a good wash and I’ll think about five.”
    Sol mulls it, shakes his head. “Nah. And to be honest, I don’t deal with people whose names I don’t know.”
    The man holds out his hand. “It’s Roy,” he says. “Just Roy.”
    â€œRoy,” Sol says, and takes Roy’s hand. “You can have it for nine.”
----
    A n afternoon off . Hands slanted into her coat pockets – one round a can of pepper spray – Mel goes south through the city. She threads between the ghosts of Deansgate before cutting down past Castlefield’s reconstituted Roman fort, now a makeshift camp.
    On foot, over time, she’s created more and more of these shortcuts – delighting in her personal map as it grows more complex; as she links her old Manchester with its reshaped topography. With every walk, its new pathways are becoming shorter, its new structures more recognizable, its developing enclaves more delineated. The changed environment as she first found it, seen with fresh eyes, coloured with new smells, cavernous spaces where grand buildings once stood – is segueing to familiarity.
    Despite the violence of previous years, it’s still cobbled under the arches of the viaducts that pass over here, and the homeless in their sleeping bags cluster round the pillars as petals. Water drips from these structures almost constantly, and after dodging their streams Mel emerges into the canal basin proper: Catalan Square. Here the warehouses and bridges and quay markers create a unique space before her: an openness rarely found elsewhere in the city. She doesn’t break