Is this part of a new book? Could it be? What do you think?
By the faintest light of a dying streetlamp, BCG turned the padlock dials until the combinations clicked into place. The lock snapped open with a metallic crack, and he rolled up the shutter. A wave of stale air drifted from the dark, damp interior. He paused, letting his eyes adjust – until the sharp angle of a raked windscreen and flat bonnet emerged from the gloom.
For a fleeting second, the grim set of his jaw relaxed. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, ever so slightly. He couldn’t help himself, despite what he knew lay ahead for him tonight.
He didn’t dare reach for the light switch he knew was on the left wall. Stealth was essential. Instead, his fingers brushed the cold, serrated edge of a key in his pocket. With his other hand, he traced the Esprit’s body – the smooth slope of the bonnet, the straight waistline, the door handle. A turn, a click, a pull, and he slipped inside.
He breathed in the scent – old glue, aged leather, faded vinyl. Sliding the key into the barrel, he gave the throttle a hopeful pump, crossed two fingers, and twisted.
He mouthed silent encouragement to a non-sentient object that had no hearing, but which, he knew, beyond any doubt, heard him nonetheless. Sure enough, the Lotus Esprit coughed, grumbled, then caught. Too loud for comfort. But he had no choice now.
BCG reached under the passenger seat, pulled out a semi-automatic pistol, checked the mag, and flicked the safety. Setting it down on the passenger seat, he eased the car into first. With the revs racing on the choke, the machine inched forward lightly, eagerly, as if it had been waiting years for this exact moment.
Turning and pulling out towards the road, he didn’t bother closing the garage door. He wouldn’t be coming back.
As the headlights popped up and the dash lit with a soft, dim glow, he looked down at the frantically juddering analogue needles and murmured:
“One last ride, old friend. You up for this?”
As if in response, the revs instantly dropped into the steady purr of a warmed engine. It was ready.
He palmed the gun and stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket. Then he floored the throttle and sidestepped the clutch. The Esprit lunged forward, back end sliding wide on cold rubber as he yanked hard right. He caught the slide with a flick of the wheel and throttle control honed over decades.
Two dark stripes from freshly awoken rubber burned into the tarmac behind him. A signature. A message. A two-fingered salute.
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