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I could smell the grease and petrol fumes long before I got to the garage that day. It was a smell I'd always loved. I'd breathe it in, and it intoxicated me, the way expensive perfume and platinum plastic tended to intoxicate my moneyed college friends. I could smell the difference between WD40 and 20/50 oil at a dozen paces - some claim to fame, I know! They could distinguish Chanel from Yves St Laurent. Each to their own. I'd dawdled by that yard so often that summer that I could describe how it looked better than I could my own bedroom. The couple of flash cars on the oil spattered concrete that was the forecourt, glittering expensively in the sun. The pile of old junkers hidden out of sight round the back, with tyres flattening themselves into the earth, looking for all the world like they'd grown there, freakish wrecks of metal, with torn seats sprouting springs and stuffing - exotic blooms indeed. Back out front, the square whiteness of the wall surrounding the roll-over door made an innocent frame for the gaping black maw of the workshop within. Off to one side the faded paintwork on the customer door, and the dust-darkened glass of the office window bore testament to the fact that this outfit didn't care too much about the look of the place. Inside though, if you cared enough to look, ah, then you saw what the drivers who cared about their cars came here for, in preference to the big chains, with their Yessir! smiles, and their clean overalls and their pristine floors and gleaming spanners. Same reason as I came here.

Stevie. ...

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