'Take a seat,' says Hayes, 'and call me Grey. That's what they call me.'

I sit in the swivel chair that's covered in the kind of carpet put on the floor of cheap cars.

'I've been running this business for twenty years,' he says.

He looks at the wall, at the dusty clapboard smeared with oil. He's got the same kind of trouble making eye-contact that my father has. I bet if I blindfolded him now and asked him to describe what I look like, he'd not have a clue.

'Right,' I say.

'Do you have a nickname? Or is it just Paddy?'

'No,' I say. 'It's Patrick.'

He looks at the other wall, and I look where he looks, at a nude-girl calendar, torn and faded.

'All right, Patrick. I'll show you where everything is, then you can get to work on Mr Hanc.o.c.k's car. It's a 1966 MGB convertible, only a few years old, but the clutch is sticky and the steering's slack.'

I've worked on at least a dozen MGBs and I know how to fix just about anything that's wrong with them.

'There are some overalls on the back of that chair,' he says. 'Grab them on the way out to the garage.'

'Okay.'

'They're not yours to keep, but you can borrow them.'

'I've got overalls with me,' I say.

I reach for my duffel bag, but it isn't by my feet.

'I've left my toolkit somewhere,' I say.

'You won't need it. I've got everything here.'

I've got everything in that kit. My brand-new torque wrench and my brand-new double-ended set of spanners. The whole lot. More than two hundred quid's worth. I can't lose it. I couldn't bear to lose it.

'I'm a bit worried I might've-'

'Lost it?' he says.

The panic's spread to my throat and I've gone red hot.

'Yeah.'

'Where?'

'I don't know, if I knew where, then-'

Hayes looks at the wall behind me, says, 'You won't need them.'

'I prefer to use my own tools,' I say. 'So I wouldn't mind-'

'I've got everything you'll need here,' he says. He'll not let me reach the end of a sentence.

'In my experience,' he goes on, looking at a torn poster on the wall for the 1961 British Grand Prix and Von Trip's Ferrari 156, 'it doesn't pay to sweat over lost things. They pretty well always turn up, and in the rare case when they don't, it's because they've been stolen or lost for good.'

He's said these things as though they were wise and smart.

'Yeah,' I say.

'If you're that worried,' he says, 'go ahead and use the phone.'

'I'm not worried,' I say. 'I'll get started.'

It takes me a good while to stop thinking about the kit, but after I've spent a few hours fixing and aligning the steering on the MGB, I've calmed down enough to take it for a test drive. It's a lovely car, primrose-yellow, not the colour I'd get, but it still feels good to be driving it. A few miles out of town, I put the radio on and wind down the window. I drive along the esplanade road and stop for some fish and chips and sit on the promenade wall. I keep looking over at the MGB parked in the street and I get to thinking it won't be much longer before I've saved enough to get a car of my own. Nothing as flash as the MGB, but something nice all the same. Maybe six months, a bit less if I'm careful.

Hayes has left me a note and stuck it on his locked office door. He wants me to look at the ignition circuit in a Peugeot 504 Saloon that's misfiring.

I finish the work in a couple of hours, then take the Peugeot for a drive. It's running perfectly, and when the distraction of work's gone I get to worrying about my toolkit again.

I take a tea-break.

Hayes comes out of his office and we meet at the sink in the tea room. It's a dark and windowless room and he stands so close I can smell the onion sweat coming off his hairy neck.

'You can go home early if you like.'

This suits me in one way, seeing as I can go home and look for the toolkit, but it's only half-three and I'm meant to be doing a full-time job.

'I'm happy to go on,' I say.

'No need,' he says. 'There's nothing left to do.'

He walks away before I've a chance to ask him if he's pleased with what I've done with the MGB and the Peugeot. When I worked for Dean, he used to give me a pat on the back when my work was good.

I catch the bus home and talk myself through what I did this morning before I left the house. I'm pretty sure I left the toolkit by my bed, that I had to put it down to get my key out to lock the door.

When I've settled my head, I get to thinking I'll come back into town after tea and ask Georgia to have a drink with me. I should've gone to the cafe last night and we would've gone for a nice meal together instead of me drinking alone at the station pub.

Welkin's at the front gate with a girl. She looks to be about eighteen, wears red-framed gla.s.ses. She's very pretty. He sees me and grins, his mouth plump with happiness.

'Bonjour, he says. 'Comment ca va, Par-trick? Je suis ravi!'

The girl and Welkin, they've got the same kind of hair, blond and healthy, and they've both got blue eyes.

Welkin puts his hands under the girl's armpits, lifts her high, spins her round. She's wearing a tight T-shirt and a short skirt and she's got a nice body, small firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She dangles from him, laughing, happy for him to throw her round even though it probably hurts.

I say nothing and go past.

The girl laughs, 'Do it again,' she says, 'but mind my gla.s.ses.' So, she's having some fun all right.

On the way upstairs, I get a whiff of the food Bridget's making. Smells like roast beef and onion.

I go to my room and see that my toolkit's right inside the door. My relief's so good I get my appet.i.te back straight away. But I've got a lot of time to kill before tea, so I might as well go to the window and watch them.

I open the curtains, stand well back, and look down. Welkin's much taller than the girl and he leans down, says something into her ear. She turns round and he grabs hold of her wrists, rough and hard, pulls her body into his and thrusts his hips in and out.

It's like seeing a dog all over a rabbit.

I close the curtains and go to my bed.

I'm down ten minutes early for dinner and sit at the table under the bay window.

Bridget comes in. She's wearing a low-cut blouse and she's got her hair tied back in a red-and-black polka-dot scarf.

'You'll need to tell me when you're not stopping for dinner,' she says.

'I told Welkin last night.'

'Did you?'

'Yeah. I told him to tell you.'

Silence.

'Shaun's gone to London,' she says. 'He's got a business meeting there.'

'Right,' I say.

She stands opposite, smiles, looks right at me, makes proper eye-contact.

'And Ian's not coming down tonight. He's going out for dinner.'

'It's just me and you, then.'

'Yes,' she says. 'I'll go and get your tea.'

When she comes back in, I'll get some chat going.

She comes back with my food. 'What is it?'

'Steak and kidney pie, mash, peas and carrots.'

She puts the plate down, careful.

'Thanks,' I say.

'Happy?'

'Happier than a pig in s.h.i.t.'

She steps back from the table.

'Why do people say that?' she says.

'Sorry,' I say. 'It just popped out.'

'I'm not offended. I just wonder why people say it. Are pigs so happy?'

'No,' I say. 'But sometimes they roll onto their backs and when somebody rolls round like that we think they're happy.'

Jesus. I've just embarra.s.sed myself, made my ears and neck go hot.

'And their tails are curly,' she says. 'And they snort like people do when they laugh. Maybe that's why.'

She's not embarra.s.sed. It's only me.

'Yeah,' I say. 'You're dead right.'

She pours me a gla.s.s of water, gives me a napkin. I've got a chance here to use one of the biggest words I know.

'It's called anthropomorphism when we do that,' I say. 'When we compare the things animals do with the things humans do.'

'I haven't heard that word since school,' she says. 'It's a nice one.'

'But hard to say.'

'You said it perfectly.'

This is good, this is.

Her mood's friendlier with me now, a bit more like it was on the first night, and she looks at me longer than usual, like she's fond of me.

The sun's coming in through the window and her face is all lit up. She looks lovely.

'I'm happy,' I say.

She puts her hand on her heart and gives me a big smile and I'm reminded of when I told the girl in the theatre foyer that I was nervous and how the truth got a good reaction out of her as well.

'People hardly ever say that,' she says. 'They'll soon enough tell you when they're not happy, but rarely the other way round.'

'Yeah,' I say.

But now, just like that, smack in the middle of the good, warm feeling, the chat's suddenly stopped and she looks away and it's like a cloud's pa.s.sed over.

She picks up the tray and holds it in front of her chest.

'Don't let your tea go cold,' she says. 'Go ahead and start.'

I cut the pie open, but she doesn't leave.