About ten years ago, of an evening when a light drizzle was the air, I went to my local Halfords. I parked next to a car with a French registration. As I entered the store a man in his early fifties left. I trolled around the store for about fifteen minutes, bought something or other and left. The French car had it's bonnet up and sprawled across the engine was the driver, the self-same man who left the store around fifteen minutes earlier. Dead, very. Damp night, metal zip, exposed battery terminals . . .
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