itself.’
‘Kids?’
‘Who else?’ He took half a step back, as if the heat had grown too much. ‘It’s not an especially grown-up thing to do.’
‘It wasn’t an especially joyride kind of car.’
‘We IDed it by the plates. Couldn’t tell the make, just by looking.’
Point. Whatever it was now couldn’t be called a make . An unmade, perhaps.
‘It was a Nissan. A Sunny.’
‘Red?’
Zoë nodded.
‘That’ll be it. Honey for the bears, red. It’s a go-faster colour.’
And Zoë had seen them before, of course: under motorway bridges; in the corners of fields. Cars reduced to exoskeletons; scorched the colour of rust, as if time had bullied them into their own future selves: relics from a future which didn’t enjoy machinery, and whose plastics couldn’t stand the heat . . . She’d seen them before, but she hadn’t seen this one. This had been her car, damnit. Her car, which she’d taken care of. Which Jeff from the garage had monitored regularly. Which Zoë herself had cleaned religiously – i.e. once a year, round about Christmas.
‘It usually happens at night, doesn’t it?’
‘Time was they were all tucked up by eight. Biggest thing happening was the tooth fairy.’
‘But I get lucky in broad daylight.’
‘There’s always someone at the sharp end of the averages,’ he said, with a philosophy born of observing something happening to somebody else.
He took her details, explained some stuff about insurance, and confessed he had no idea what would happen to the car. He imagined the council dealt with burnt-out wrecks. He’d put a Police Aware sticker on it; meanwhile, there was nothing to see here. Move along, now. He didn’t actually say that last bit. She nodded and walked away, from both him and her car’s smoky ruins; took, without considering what she was doing, the steps up to the bridge over the railway line. A little to the south, this side of the gravel mounds bordering the tracks, sat disused rolling stock: canvases for local tag-artists. In the opposite direction, across the river, lay the station. The sky above was a blue surprise, embroidered with just the odd scrap of cloud, and on the far side of the bridge, vaguely visible through the trees, were buildings belonging to a college sports ground: squash courts, maybe a cricket pavilion. Immediately below Zoë, four sets of tracks pointed in both directions at once. You could hear them singing moments before a train arrived, but they were quiet as she fished her mobile from her pocket.
It surprised her that she had his number locked in her memory. Perhaps it was just locked in her thumb, which jabbed it out as if pushing needles through his skin . . .
‘Poland.’
‘One day, Bob, I’m going to finish the job I started and squash you like the bug you are.’
‘Zoë Boehm. Having a good day?’
‘Bob Poland. Not at work?’
‘Fuck you.’
Needle or not, it wasn’t hard to get under his skin . . . She’d cost Bob Poland his job. However he was earning his keep these days, she doubted it gave him the kick being on the force had.
Against the odds, this lifted Zoë’s mood. She looked back, and saw a thin comma of smoke curling into the overhead: her car’s last punctuation mark. At least she wouldn’t be spending the next two years trying to coax another month’s life out of it.
‘How’re the job skills shaping up, Bob? Hotwired anything more upmarket than a Sunny lately?’
‘Taping this?’
‘You’re watching too much daytime TV.’
‘Gosh, Zoë, you sound like you’re out in the open. Not calling from your car?’
‘You know what gave me the clue it was you, Bob? It was something only a real fuckwit would do.’
‘This one’s for your dictaphone.’ He cleared his throat, and spoke slowly, his faint Scots burr humming through. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need to hear you deny it to know you’re lying. Just opening your mouth does that
‘Kids?’
‘Who else?’ He took half a step back, as if the heat had grown too much. ‘It’s not an especially grown-up thing to do.’
‘It wasn’t an especially joyride kind of car.’
‘We IDed it by the plates. Couldn’t tell the make, just by looking.’
Point. Whatever it was now couldn’t be called a make . An unmade, perhaps.
‘It was a Nissan. A Sunny.’
‘Red?’
Zoë nodded.
‘That’ll be it. Honey for the bears, red. It’s a go-faster colour.’
And Zoë had seen them before, of course: under motorway bridges; in the corners of fields. Cars reduced to exoskeletons; scorched the colour of rust, as if time had bullied them into their own future selves: relics from a future which didn’t enjoy machinery, and whose plastics couldn’t stand the heat . . . She’d seen them before, but she hadn’t seen this one. This had been her car, damnit. Her car, which she’d taken care of. Which Jeff from the garage had monitored regularly. Which Zoë herself had cleaned religiously – i.e. once a year, round about Christmas.
‘It usually happens at night, doesn’t it?’
‘Time was they were all tucked up by eight. Biggest thing happening was the tooth fairy.’
‘But I get lucky in broad daylight.’
‘There’s always someone at the sharp end of the averages,’ he said, with a philosophy born of observing something happening to somebody else.
He took her details, explained some stuff about insurance, and confessed he had no idea what would happen to the car. He imagined the council dealt with burnt-out wrecks. He’d put a Police Aware sticker on it; meanwhile, there was nothing to see here. Move along, now. He didn’t actually say that last bit. She nodded and walked away, from both him and her car’s smoky ruins; took, without considering what she was doing, the steps up to the bridge over the railway line. A little to the south, this side of the gravel mounds bordering the tracks, sat disused rolling stock: canvases for local tag-artists. In the opposite direction, across the river, lay the station. The sky above was a blue surprise, embroidered with just the odd scrap of cloud, and on the far side of the bridge, vaguely visible through the trees, were buildings belonging to a college sports ground: squash courts, maybe a cricket pavilion. Immediately below Zoë, four sets of tracks pointed in both directions at once. You could hear them singing moments before a train arrived, but they were quiet as she fished her mobile from her pocket.
It surprised her that she had his number locked in her memory. Perhaps it was just locked in her thumb, which jabbed it out as if pushing needles through his skin . . .
‘Poland.’
‘One day, Bob, I’m going to finish the job I started and squash you like the bug you are.’
‘Zoë Boehm. Having a good day?’
‘Bob Poland. Not at work?’
‘Fuck you.’
Needle or not, it wasn’t hard to get under his skin . . . She’d cost Bob Poland his job. However he was earning his keep these days, she doubted it gave him the kick being on the force had.
Against the odds, this lifted Zoë’s mood. She looked back, and saw a thin comma of smoke curling into the overhead: her car’s last punctuation mark. At least she wouldn’t be spending the next two years trying to coax another month’s life out of it.
‘How’re the job skills shaping up, Bob? Hotwired anything more upmarket than a Sunny lately?’
‘Taping this?’
‘You’re watching too much daytime TV.’
‘Gosh, Zoë, you sound like you’re out in the open. Not calling from your car?’
‘You know what gave me the clue it was you, Bob? It was something only a real fuckwit would do.’
‘This one’s for your dictaphone.’ He cleared his throat, and spoke slowly, his faint Scots burr humming through. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need to hear you deny it to know you’re lying. Just opening your mouth does that
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