The Whirligig of Time by Sean Currie

Author:Sean Currie [Currie, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Once he pinpointed the materials he sought, he departed. Stanford’s would be there when he returned. While walking, his brain became stimulated by the information known and unknown. Walking on solid ground, his shoes made bold progress, connected as if woven to the earth, subsumed into the city, comforted in his solitude amongst the chaos. These well-travelled soles were born to embrace each onward path and seek horizons others dare not gaze upon. Harry Ambrose had a mission.

seventeen

Harry called on Sunday morning and Chester confirmed his newly requisitioned car had arrived. Harry walked east again. When he entered the sales forecourt, he was content not to see the vehicle, judging this a reasonable precaution; hidden like an eye under a lid. Chester and John Russell seemed to be careful in their business dealings. Used cars, like the wild, tenacious flowers of a pavement crack, the embodiment of selfishness and isolationism, sat on the greyed tarmac of a bright new morning, never again to be advertised and sold on cold polished tiles, forever destined for the outdoor life until sufficient iron oxide reduced their worth to less than the value of standing there. Most of them were a considerable investment, leading the man who sat behind the wheel on his way to some hellish job, but no commuter had a job like Harry Ambrose. The machines were madness too, sleek and engineered craziness. In the city, it was just another Sunday. In their hermetically sealed indifference, one person’s misfortune became the inconvenience of many.

Chester and another man were ripping limbs from a long dead Ford Prefect. The big man nodded at Harry, grabbed a rag, lit a cigarette, and left his associate to continue the delicate surgery, motioning Harry to follow. The premises felt like the backdoor scum of the city, lying in wait, unseen, a place where gangsters prepared themselves for their next violent offence against society. After passing ten or twelve cars in various states of decay and missing organs, he gestured Harry into a large two-door garage building and turned on the lights. Chester began negotiating; “Not as easy to find as I thought. They make ʼem in Slough, so it’s right-hand drive. I didn’t know that either. Is it a problem?” Harry regarded the vehicle, as French as Bridget Bardot smoking gauloises on the beach in Cannes. He neither needed nor wanted to know how Chester and his gang of minions had obtained it. Artful Dodgers all, no doubt, but without the ruffian impudence, just tools of their trade and the scowl of a gangster not to be quarreled with. There was neither gaiety nor culture to be found here.

Citroen introduced the id19 in 1957 as a lower-cost, simplified alternative to the more famous and fascinating ds (known as Déesse, or Goddess, a pun of the initials in French). The ds was the wonder of the car world, with its elegant teardrop shape, outstanding ufo-style headlights, and rear lights exposed like little jet engines. It was the futuristic, perfectly Gallic car that wowed, like an atomic missile for the Cold War.

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