When the Qashqai broke free….

The mechanic was a master of straight talk and incisive diagnosis. I know this because he shrugged and said: ‘Could be anythin…’
‘Like the turbo?’
‘Hmm…yeah.’
‘Or the injectors?’
‘Possible.’
‘Maybe the filter?’
‘Could be the filter alright…’
‘Or the fuel pump…?’
‘That can happen too.’
Beat. Oily puddles. Midlands rain. A bored breeze and a solitary click from somewhere inside the car’s open bonnet.
There was a smell like tyres and rust.
The mechanic’s name was Tony.
He lit a smoke, inhaled hard, let it dangle from his lips and said: ‘I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Probably just a filter or something simple.’
Walked home. Over the bridge. The Shannon roared underneath. Rain threatened above. Cars with perfect engines hummed in traffic to the right. Bored types driving with places to go. Places to drive. Ticking over.
Tony rang the next day with: ‘I don’t have good news for you.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘She’s banjaxed, Mike.’
‘Banjaxed, like fucked?’
‘Well….yeah I think so.’
‘Can you do anythin at all?’
‘We can look for a new engine.’
‘How much will that cost?’
‘Guts of €1500, but it’ll compensate for buying a new car.’
‘Have you tried drainin the….’
‘Hang on a second…’
He hung up and didn’t call back for the rest of the day. Sure he was probably busy.

Maybe he’d had a Eureka moment.

I went down in the evening and the place was abandoned and the car hadn’t been moved, hadn’t been touched.
Rang Tony and he said: ‘Oh yeah, you’re lookin at an engine, we’re waiting for one to come in…I’ll call you before lunch tomorrow.’
No call the next day.
I went down and there was an extra in a black cap putting oil into a Citroen.

He turned on cue and said: ‘Oh yeah, she won’t turn. She won’t start at all. We pushed it around there yesterday for a good while. No good. New engine is your only job. Does happen them yokes.’
He smiled, still holding the oil can, missing a front tooth. ‘We have your number don’t we? We’ll call you before lunch.’
Lunch came and went and the sun went down and the phone didn’t ring so I called Tony and he said: ‘Did you put bad diesel in it or anythin?’
‘No.’
‘Or you didn’t put petrol in it by accident?’
‘No.’
‘Ok…’
‘Why? Does it smell like petrol?’
‘No, just askin…I’m waiting for an engine. Could be €800 for the Engine and about €250/300 on the labour…depends on if it’s a good engine too.’
‘How do ya mean?’
‘They can be shit like, you don’t know til they’re in and then you’re fucked.  Can you hang on a second…?’
And he hung up.
I called him the next day and said: ‘I’m gonna bring it to the Polish crowd up the road for a second opinion.’
‘Are ya fuckin mad?! Said Tony. ‘You need a new engine!’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Whatever you think yourself.’
The breakdown cover on the insurance covered a tow to the Polish lads. I went down to meet the truck and tell them where to go.
I also needed to pay Tony for the six days it was there and the monumental lack of labour.
I couldn’t find him for a few minutes til I heard noise in a van out the back. I walked over and around the side and Tony was there with another fella and they were staring intently at a pile of tyres.
Tony noticed me and pointed and said: ‘Do you see the spider on the tyres?’
‘Yeah?’
‘We think he’s a fuckin terrorist…’
The other guy turned, brown eyes, fair hair, mouth hanging open, asked me: ‘Are you a guard?’
‘It’s a fuckin terrorist.’ Said Tony. ‘Look at the fuckin thing. I got bitten by one of them before and my arm was dead for a week.’
‘You must be the Sheriff.’ continued the other fella to me. ‘And if you are, then who’s the deputy?’
He was staring at me intently,  sincerely waiting for an answer. I wasn’t sure what to say so I said nothing til something else happened. A dog barked in the distance, a mother with a pram and a crying baby went by in the background.

Bits of drizzle were acting the bollox and trying to call themselves a shower but getting blown away in the breeze. We gave it a few more seconds looking at the spider. Then Tony lit a smoke and asked: ‘Is your man here with the truck?’
‘Yeah. I have your money here.’
‘Sound.’ He took it, said: ‘It’s probably something simple to do with the diesel anyway. Hopefully it’ll be grand.’
‘Sound, g’luck.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’

 

 

_

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s