Graft (4 page)

“It'll come back on us, your moment of bloody madness. A car this immaculate…”

“And if it does, the bastard'll be filed down, in bits, already sold on. We take chances like that now. We have to.”

Sol shrugs. “Either way, I already tried with the Transit. No clue, other than it idles rough as anything.”

Irish softens. “Well what parts we got in? We need a new donor for it? No good quoting for jobs we can't do anyways.”

“Few bits in the yard,” Sol says. “Body panels. A sunroof somewhere.”

“Checked the tensioners? Valves? Injectors? Air filter might be wet – they hate this time of year, these Mark 7s.”

“Aye, obviously. It's none of that.”

“Diagnostics?”

“That too.”

“So we go for the stripdown. Remember how your pa'd tell us?”

Sol doesn't say anything.

“Bollocks, you don't know. You worshipped that old man. That line he always had. What was it – he'd go, he'd say…” and Irish puts on his best West Indian accent, which is beyond insulting: “You can't find what's wrong wiyit you pull dat all down and you clean it hard and you put it back together again. Five time out of ten it work every time – he he he.”

Sol smiles awkwardly. “Be turning in his grave if he saw what we'd done with the place.”

Irish grins but Sol isn't wrong. Sol's father was a master – four decades at Bentley before he came to Manchester to marry Sol's mother and set up alone. He knew how to upholster. How to strip and rebuild any bay system you could name. He'd fit your tyres in seconds, but he'd change your car's oil in hours, preferring to let the last drop fall from the sump than rush the job. He read Haynes manuals like newspapers. And by way of cataloguing his knowledge, he photographed his subjects with macro lenses – liked to capture the wear and tear, the slow death of steel, the burnish and heat of a still-hot engine. He kept files of these images, hidden albums maintained with reverence, and slotted the parts list behind each picture as a record of his encounter.

At weekends, Sol would play in the workshop while his father worked. He still remembers the smell of fresh-baked paint from the booth; the sound of the booth's extractors; that year's mucky calendar on the wall; and the jars of Coffeemate, not far off their synth-milk now. He remembers the day he peppered his knees with fibreglass while taking Polaroids on the damp cardboard beneath an unpainted bodyshell. The endless itching and lumps. And he remembers sheets of crisp, clean tarpaulin, on which Sol's father laid out something like exploded-view diagrams: an engine block and its parts all deconstructed, toothbrushed, hot-breathed, wiped down, and so many fasteners, so many little pieces of the whole. The puzzles that Sol's father took otherworldly pleasure in solving.

Irish circles the Transit van. “Give me a day on this. Sometime this week.”

Sol shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. And I'll crack on with the work that actually pays. We need that Lexus broken down and flogged, fast.” Sol points to the bag in Irish's hand. “You gonna tell me what's for dinner?”

“Chippy,” Irish says, holding up the bag. “Half a fucken hour I walked for these.”

“Curry sauce?”

Irish winces. “Now don't be a heathen as well, Solomon. You want the squits again? It's gravy this, Jesus above. I'll be bollocksed if you're a proper Northman, the stuff you come out with. Curry sauce!”

Sol rubs his hands together and claps Irish on the shoulder. Habits die hard when it comes to food – and even now, even in his forties, chippy is often the highlight of Sol's month. They eat in the staff room, lost in the sharp smells of salt and vinegar, puddled oil and rust, old sofa foam. Their oily fingers tearing at wet paper, salt stinging in the freshest cuts, both chewing with their mouths open, gurning through a kind of shared nostalgia. Sometimes you could be glad some things haven't changed. Glad some things never change.

Afterwards, Sol washes his hands with sand-soap, and the sinkwater runs black.

Irish sits back, burps loudly. Licks his fingers and rolls an anaemic cigarette. He holds up what's left of the chippy wrapper and leans in. “Storm's due,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sol replies. “Still need to get us a water butt for the yard.”

Irish pecks out his cigarette, only quarter-smoked. “Waste of money,” he says, tracing a shape in the air. “Soon enough it's all going underwater.”

The garage falls quiet. They listen to the ticks and trickles of the old equipment that scrapes them a living.

Sol taps his head. “I know what I meant to tell you. We got a decent lead in before. Motor in Liverpool worth checking out – a recovered Ferrari, black auction. Some bellend parked it in the Leeds-Liverpool canal.”

Irish's eyes widen. “And it's driveable?”

Sol adjusts himself through his overalls. “Doesn't matter. Someone'll have the bits off us.”

Irish smiles. “Yesterday a Lexus. Tomorrow a Ferrari. Not doing half bad, are we? You wanna draw straws for the pickup? Flip a coin?”

“We can sort it in the morning,” Sol says.

Irish flips one anyway. “Heads or harps?”

“Let's just wait and see what comes in tomorrow.”

They get up and clock back on. Pointless, another unshakable habit. The rest of the afternoon they work side by side in silence. Around seven, Irish clocks off for home, moaning about a sore stomach. Sol still has an exhaust to swap; two dented wheels to hammer and rebalance. Maybe another crack at the Transit. “I'll probably stay late,” he tells Irish, opening a tool chest to find the right-sized socket for his ratchet.

“You're gonna die staying late,” Irish says by the roller door. “Dead. And you'll never get your end away again.”

Sol laughs, hears Irish leave, and looks into the drawer. The set he's after is partially covered by an old receipt, and its shadow gives a strange finish and depth to one of the sockets. Sol peers in at it, surprised, and is immediately struck by a likeness, a jab of recognition. The moment enlarges, and the socket becomes the polished sphere, gently warped, of an eye, an artifice, set into the lines of a scowl, and finally a whole face, held in shadow but still irrepressible. It all slithers from the recesses, then – a shame, the enduring ache of her like stubborn residue – and he slams the drawer closed and needs to steady himself on the counter.

Even now, even now, Melanie still finds ways to see into him.

M
id-afternoon
, a man visits the Cat Flap. Men often do, of course, this being the place it is, the time of things, the city they're in. It's just that this man is distinctive – and that makes Mel nervy.

For starters he's wearing a suit. You'd reasonably say it's tailored, pricey. You'd recognize a Didsbury-cut if you knew better. The man's hair is parted, shaved up the sides; a timeless look, almost jarringly neat. His hairline's receding slightly, elongating a narrow but not ill-proportioned face. He's tanned, too – a natural-looking sheen. Impressive if it came out of a bottle. Earned a long way from here if not.

When he mounts the pavement he doesn't break his step. His shoulders are relaxed, pulled back. A good posture – a clue he doesn't work with his hands. And you'd be nitpicking to find anything wrong with his shoes. Smart, black, military-glossed. No matching tie, no worries.

Unlike most men, however, he doesn't open the door. Instead he knocks on it firmly.

Mel inhales and holds the breath there. She goes through the entrance hall and opens it.

“Welcome to the Cat Flap,” she says.

The man doesn't even blink. “Melanie?”

Behind him, there's another man watching from a car over the road. Mel can't see him properly, but it looks like he's got his face pushed right against the window. He's wearing sunglasses – odd given the weather.

“Ignore him,” the visitor says. “I'm Jase.”

“Jason,” Mel says. She can't place his accent.

“Can I come in?”

Mel steps back. He shuts the door behind him.

“Disappointing weather,” Jase says, and Mel can't tell if he's making a joke. They enter the waiting room. “How's business?”

“Cut the crap,” she tells him. “What you after?”

“Just a chat.”

“Well, I'm not here for that, sweet. Got a business to run.”

The man fingers a piece of laminated A4 on the front desk. He seems vague, slippery. “This your menu, this? You do OK here, don't you?”

Mel fumbles for her cigarettes. She's not meant to smoke inside but lights up anyway. “We look after ourselves, yeah.”

Jase looks into her false eye – fixates on it. Mel feels like it's deliberate: a tactic to wrong-foot her. “And that's why you paint numbers on their bellies?”

Mel blows smoke towards an extractor fan that hasn't worked in years. “Common practice,” she says. “The punters expect it. And if you know anything in our game, you know the punter's always right…”

Jase raises his eyebrows. “And tell me, Melanie, where do find your employees?”

Mel taps her cigarette. “Listen, I don't need the Inquisition. If you're council, fine, but I won't answer daft questions like that. You're here, you know my name. You know what we do. What's up?”

“Melanie, I just want your business today.”

“My business.”

Jase nods once. “I'm with a company that specializes in enabling fine experiences for discerning punters – people of all persuasions alike. We're already working with your colleagues throughout the region, and I think you'll be interested in what I've got to say.”

Mel looks across the waiting room. Its cheap panelling is desaturated, damp-damaged. It's still early, so most of the women will be home catching up on sleep from last night. With their children. Working their second jobs. Or just working out. Doing whatever needs to be done.

“Well we're fine as we are,” Mel says. “So you can save your breath.”

“But I think you'll want to hear–”

“They'll be in soon,” Mel interrupts. “And they don't like seeing me in a mood.”

“Oh, Melanie. Come on. What are your margins like? How much do they really pull in?”

“Bloody Nora. I told you. I'm not here to–”

“Because we're in business to make your business more profitable. Fact is, punters happily pay top whack for experiences like yours. I've done my research – you've great taste. But you could be offering that same
quality
with a better ROI. And at the same time, you could be
diversifying
.”

Mel huffs. “You talk like they aren't actual people. I pay a damn sight better than half the bleeders round here'd pay them. And they want to be here, remember. They aren't victims; they don't want rescuing. That's how we do things. It's their job, and they work same as anyone else works. Same goes for me.”

“I understand that. And actually, I commented to my colleague just this morning that you're one of the few independent houses left. But what if you had staff in who simply didn't need paying?”

Mel grinds her unfinished cigarette on the top and blows the ash towards him. She pushes past and picks up the reception phone. “You digging for something? Because I swear, you don't want to find out who I've got on the end of this.”

Jase coolly brushes the ash from his jacket and reaches inside it. “We've got this catalogue, see.”

“Jason.”

“It's Jase, Melanie. Please. Jase. I have to insist on that. And let me just ask you something. Let me just say–”

The door goes. It's the second man, wearing a suit just like Jase's. He's shorter, wider, much rougher round the edges. There's a waxy quality to him.

Mel shifts her weight. A bad feeling crawls up her neck.

“This is Jeff,” Jase says. “That's Jeff with a J. Actually, Jeff's all part of the bargain. He could be the key to your new income stream.”

Jeff stands in the doorway. He's expressionless, face mostly concealed by his glasses. He raises a hand.

Mel shakes her head. “I'm going to call them now–”

“No,” Jase says. His voice has tightened. “You're not. Let me explain.”

Mel tries to keep her unease from showing. Twitch fibres bristling. She thinks:
Fuck off
. She says, “So do your bloody pitch, then.”

“Like I said,” Jase starts, not missing a beat. “I mean, let me just ask you. Where do you make toys?”

Mel doesn't answer.

“Go on.” He shows her his nice white teeth. “Have a guess. Where do you think they make toys?”

“In workshops,” Mel says.

“In the olden days, maybe. But now?”

Mel sighs. “Brazil? India? I don't–”

“
Factories
.” Jase smiles. “Automation's a wonderful thing, no? What they built the foundations of this fine city on, you could probably go as far as to say. So what if I showed you how certain… let's call them assets… could be made to order? And what if those assets, over their whole lives, costed very little to run, needed less investment… and could be retired much later?”

Mel shakes her head. “I'm not sure I'm following.”

“OK, but your posture says you're listening. Think economics, Melanie. You're a businesswoman, aren't you? Cheaper labour means you can lower your service prices, doesn't it? Which ultimately means you get more punters through the door…”

“Alright, look. You're starting to peck my head now. Aside from you acting all superior, I don't have a clue where you're heading with this, so let's just call it a day. If you pair can clear off, now, I'd appreciate that.”

Jase stands there smirking. His perfect hair, his perfect nails. His stubble just so. He pushes his brochure across the counter. He taps its cover and says, “Take a look at this. Overnight if you have to. Tomorrow… or whenever you get a chance. Maybe when you're quietest – and our observations say you're quietest from about, what, now till… five?”