Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [37]
He knew he’d created a retro-custom of a yet more retro car. There had even been a phase when he’d been tempted to trade it in for a PT Cruiser, but then he realized that could suck him into a scene full of all-too-earnest enthusiasts, so he’d decided to stick with the little beast he’d already created. And he’d been glad of it, especially at moments like these. He slid down in the seat and tilted his head back, still watching his car through part-closed eyes. It had the same effect as unwinding in a hot bath; his thoughts floated at their own speed, taking their own routes and pulling others along with them. Bryn wasn’t a deep thinker, and he never had been. More than that, he was conscious of a distrust of contemplation and where it might lead. He wanted to release two particular thoughts, and he hated the way they now seemed to be linked, and kept coming back, hand in hand, to bother him.
He gazed up towards his car and almost let these thoughts go. If a face hadn’t suddenly appeared in the small window in the workshop’s concertina door, he might have succeeded. But probably not . . .
Gary found O’Brien’s straight away. It was one of those places that he’d never really noticed, but equally knew he’d seen it countless times before. It was brick-built with navy-blue steel doors and an apex roof covered in something which looked suspiciously like corrugated asbestos. There was no ‘Closed’ sign, just one with a name and telephone number, and a second board at one corner which read ‘No Smoking’. Underneath it there was a collection of stubbed-out cigarette ends; Gary wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one.
The workshop had all its other windows high up on the side walls, near to the roof, so that only the six-by-nine Perspex pane in the door was within reach. He cupped his hands and tried to peer inside, but the evening sunlight and scratches made it cloudy, and he knew that wiping it would make no difference. He tried anyway, ever the optimist.
He kept his face close to the aperture for longer the second time, and shapes gradually began to pick themselves out. Enough weak daylight made it through the windows for him to see the roof of a white van, and a second car raised up on a ramp. In one of the lighter patches, he spotted a year planner and then, further across, the familiar red crate-like shape of a Snap-On tool kit.
Then he thought he saw movement and, illogically, pulled back slightly. When he looked again, a figure was approaching the door. Gary stepped to one side and waited.
Gary knew, as soon as the door clanked open, that he’d found his former classmate. It was a funny thing; if he’d been asked to describe Bryn before seeing him, he might well have replied, ‘I can’t remember.’ In truth, he had a vague recollection of fair hair, a slight build, and perpetually scuffed shoes – hardly the stuff of a positive ID. But, confronted with the man himself, a whole barrelload of details flooded back: the eyebrows that always looked slightly raised, the single piercing in the right lobe, now unoccupied, the head tilted in interest or defiance, depending on interpretation, and the serious set of the mouth which accompanied it.
The slight built had been replaced by broad shoulders, but the boots were still scuffed, and it was soon evident that he still had that habit of either pushing his hands into his pockets or leaning against something whenever he began to speak. Today it was pockets, Gary noticed. The teachers used to have a field day pulling him up on that habit each time they were busy pulling him up on something else – which had been often.
‘We’re closed,’ he announced.
‘I know.’ Gary took a moment to continue. Despite convincing himself that the odds of finding the right