garage. He pulled on to the forecourt. Quad stamps, he thought: jolly
good show. There was a repair shop back of the pumps.
A tanker was discharging on the far side.
The attendant approached, cleaning his spectacles on an oily rag, “Five
quids’ worth,” Jesse said. “Where’s the khasi?”
“Round the side.”
Jesse followed the jerked thumb. A rough concrete path led alongside the
garage. He found a broken door marked
“Gents” and went past it.
Behind the garage was a small patch of waste ground where newish cars in
for repair jostled with rusty doors, buckled wings, and discarded
machinery. Jesse could not see what he was looking for.
The back entrance to the repair shop gaped open beside him, big enough
to drive a bus through. There was no point in being furtive. He walked
in.
It took a moment to adjust to the gloom after the sunlight outside. The
air smelled of engine oil and ozone. A Mini was on a ramp at head
height, its entrails hanging down obscenely. The front end of an
articulated truck was wired up to a Krypton tester. A Jaguar on chocks
had its wheels off. There was no one about. He looked at his wristwatch:
they would be having their dinner.
He looked around.
He spotted the things he needed.
A pair of red-and-white trade plates stood on an oil drum in a corner.
He crossed the floor and picked them up. He looked around again, and
stole two more things: clean overalls hanging on a peg in the brick
wall, and a length of dirty string off the floor.
A voice said: “Looking for something, brother?”
Jesse jerked around, his heart in his mouth. A black mechanic in a grimy
overall stood on the far side of the shop, leaning on the gleaming white
wing of the Jaguar, his mouth full of food. His Afro haircut shifted as
he chewed. Jesse tried to cover the trade plates with the overalls. “The
khasi,” he said. “Want to change my clothes.”
He held his breath.
The mechanic pointed. “Outside,” he said. He swallowed, and took another
bite out of a Scotch egg.
“Thanks.” Jesse hurried out.
“Any time,” the mechanic called after him. Jesse realized the man had an
Irish accent. Irish spades?
That was a new one.
The pump attendant was waiting beside the van. Jesse climbed in and
threw the overalls and their contents over the seat into the back. The
attendant looked curiously at the bundle. Jesse said: “My overall was
hanging out the back door.
It must be filthy. How much?”
“We generally charge a fiver for. five quids’ worth. I didn’t notice
it.”
“Nor did I, for fifty bleeding miles. I did say five quids’ worth,
didn’t I?” “That’s what you said. No charge for the bog.”
Jesse gave him a five-pound note and pulled away rapidly.
He was a little off his route now, which was good. The area was quieter
than the places he had traveled through earlier. There were oldish
detached houses on either side, set back from the road. Horse-chestnut
trees lined the pavements.
He saw a Green Line bus stop.
He needed a quiet lane in which to perform the switch. He checked his
watch again. It must be fifteen minutes since the accident. There was no
time’ left for finesse.
He took the next turning. The street was called Brook Avenue. All the
houses were semis. He needed somewhere less exposed, for Christ’s sake!
He Could not switch plates in full view of sixty nosy housewives.
He took another turn, and another–and found a service road behind a
little row of shops. He pulled in and stopped. There were garages and
garbage cans, and the back doors through which goods were delivered to
the stores. It was the best he could hope for.
He climbed over the seat into the back of the van. It was very hot. He
sat on one of the money chests and pulled the overalls up his legs.
Jesus, he was nearly there: give me a couple more minutes, he
thought–it was almost a prayer.
He stood up, bending over, and shrugged into the garment. If I’d blown