The concrete wet with oil, dank under his hands, and blood pounding in his twisted ankle. Laboriously, he crawls into the unlit workshop. There’s no sign of the partners, and a deepening sky cuts abstract shadows from the workshop fittings. As he’s brushing grit from his h...
For sure, Tariq sounds shorter down a phone. He’s driving, shouting. Doesn’t remember Brian on first hellos, either. Stands to reason when you think of all those faces in the back; harder still owing to the wind through his windows. Brian, Brian’s upstairs with Tariq’s bus...