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SAINT BECKER
I smile at the cupboard as I slip my phone into my bag, opening the door. I’m immediately torn. Keys. Loads of keys, and I don’t know which ones to take. ‘You’ll do.’ I reach in and grab the set for the Audi.
Shutting the cupboard, I head for the silver RS7, pressing a button on the fob. The lights blink, the locks release, and I jump in and get comfy in the sport seat, looking for the adjustor, my hands feeling around the front before locating a button on the side. I begin to inch closer to the wheel. ‘Perfect,’ I declare, starting the engine. I swear, the thing purrs beautifully, and my bunched fists come to my mouth, my teeth sinking into my knuckles. I’m nervous and excited all at once. I can feel the power humming beneath me already, and I haven’t even moved yet. I need to take it easy. I bet this thing goes like shit off a shovel. Pulling the sun visor down, I locate the familiar white button and press it, then watch as a section of the ceiling starts to lower before me. I slot the gearstick into drive and feel to my side for the handbrake . . . and find nothing. So I glance down. No sign of a handbrake. ‘Where are you?’ I mutter, looking around the car for anything resembling one. I growl my frustration and grab my phone, dialling Becker.
He answers on a hushed whisper. ‘You’ve not scratched one of my cars, have you?’
‘I can’t scratch it if I can’t drive it. Where’s the handbrake?’ I ask impatiently as the hydraulic lift comes to rest on the garage floor.
‘What car are you in?’
‘The Audi.’
‘Good choice, princess. There’s a little lever by the gearstick with a red light. Press it.’
I click my phone to loud speaker, dropping it to my lap before releasing the handbrake and gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Then I lightly apply some pressure to the accelerator.
And fly forward.
‘Fuck.’ I slam the brakes on and come to a screeching halt, the front wheels on the ramp. ‘Whoa,’ I breathe, pushing myself back in my seat, my arms braced against the steering wheel.
‘What did you do?’ Becker sounds panicked. ‘Take it easy.’
‘I am.’
‘Tease the pedal, princess. Don’t slam your foot down.’
‘I didn’t slam my foot down.’
‘Eleanor, I haven’t got time to give you a driving lesson. I’m trying to buy myself a new fucking car.’
‘I don’t need a driving lesson,’ I spit indignantly, teasing my foot on the pedal and inching forwards carefully. ‘I can drive perfectly well, thank you.’ I sound haughty. I shouldn’t be. The second I finish speaking, the ear-splitting sound of scratching metal fills the garage. My ears practically bleed, and though I know I need to be braking, I can’t. My foot has seized up, making the shrill noise carry on forever. It’s cutting right through me, my face screwing up in dread.
‘Eleanor!’ Becker yells, shocking the muscles in my foot to life. I slam on the brakes and come to an abrupt halt. After I’ve calmed my rushed breathing, I press the button for the window and stick my head out the second the gap is big enough.
Oh fuck.
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes?’ I squeak, trying to sound totally normal, like I’m not staring in horror at a jagged scratch down the side of one of Becker’s precious cars.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’ I disconnect the call and release a barrage of expletives. ‘Fucking hell.’ I reverse and straighten up, ignoring the further raw sound of a matching scratch. ‘Stupid garage. Why can’t you have a normal one, you holier-than-thou twat?’ I jolt to a halt when the wing mirrors are lined up, then jab the white button aggressively as I take my foot from the pedal and listen as the lift comes to life, the hydraulic bars shifting and starting to carry me up to the opening in the ceiling. ‘He’s going to go—’ I stop jabbering to myself when I notice the hydraulic bars beginning to move off-line from the wing mirrors, and I frown, looking back. ‘Oh fuck,’ I whisper when I realise it’s not the bars moving. It’s the car. ‘Oh my God.’ I panic, slamming my foot down on the brake. ‘Shit!’ I’m not in position any more, which means the back of the Audi is probably going to be sliced off at any moment. I should never have agreed to this. I whack the car into gear and try my hardest to be gentle on the accelerator, which is hard when you’re working under pressure. I only need to move forwards a couple of feet. Just a couple. I watch the wing mirrors like a hawk, and just when they are a foot or so away from being lined up again, another deafening sound penetrates the air, except this time it’s metal on concrete. The lift judders a little, but still continues on its journey, scraping up the back of the car as it goes. I sag in my seat, exhausted after my trauma as the derelict factory comes into view. He needn’t think I’m going through that again when I get back. I’ll park it up here and Becker can get it down himself, and if he wants anything left of his car, then he won’t complain about it.
