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Sophie was devastated when Peter disappeared. It was the suddenness of his going that shook her, no
last phone call at work, no sticky note on the TV screen, only a silent void. Sophie loved surprises, but
this was silly. Even the guitar, his excuse for staying at home by the phone, stood idly in the corner.
She blamed her neighbour Jim. After all, it was he who introduced Peter to the delights of Bacchus. In
the washhouse that separated their hard-to-let category council flats, Jim could create a potent but
palatable wine from the most unlikely of raw materials. Tasting sessions from his limitless stocks
invariably led to nightlong parties.
Life was euphoric for a while until squabbles erupted from lack of sleep and hangovers. With Peter less
inclined to seek work and Sophie struggling to do her job professionally, their mutual respect had
dwindled, along with their bank balance. But she worried about him and prayed that the St. Christopher
medal she gave him would keep him safe.
"You'll like this one Soph; I picked the elderberries in the park last summer." Jim placed the wine bottle
on the table.
"What's that smell?"
"Oh, just the drains, they never come to fix 'em."
"Not your shed then?"
"Don't think so, I'm tidying up in there."
"Any word of Peter? I've asked around the pubs."
"He won't be back Sophie; trust me."
"I'm comin' home for lunch for a while, just in case. He left his key behind."
"You were much too good for him, you know."
Scanning the cooking guidelines on her meal-for-one, Sophie tensed as she felt his hand grip her
shoulder. "Not now Jim, I need time to sort my head out."
"OK, but remember, I'm here when you need me. I'll be watching over you."
When she went home at lunchtime next day, a man driving a sleek red Porsche had just taken the last
available parking space. Until then she hadn't realised how many cars used the area around the flats in
the daytime. Only a handful of residents were car owners, yet all the spaces were full. The Che Guevara
Estate was only two stations from the City on the underground.
She stepped out of her old Datsun Cherry to confront the stranger. "Excuse me, do you live here?" she
asked.
"Who's asking?" The voice was flippant, teasing, as he tightened his necktie.
"Who's asking! This isn't a public car park, you know. I have to be back on duty by two."
"You know, you're very attractive when you're angry." As he leaned over her, it was the cynical smile as
much as the cliché that made her blood boil. "By the way, isn't it illegal to drive a car in that dilapidated
condition?" he added, pulling expensive-looking mirror sunglasses from his shirt pocket.
The full-blooded slap that sent him reeling surprised Sophie as much as her tormentor. "Move it, you
ponced-up prat, or I call the police," she said, fighting off tears of frustration.
He held on to a wing mirror for support, head shaking, eyes blinking. "You just do that and I'll have you
charged with assault, you mad bitch." The smug smile gradually returned as he walked towards the
subway, rubbing his face. Sophie bit her lip as she knelt to retrieve the letter that had fallen from his
pocket.
Sophie's confrontation was one of many, though less violent, over the weeks that followed. Visits to the
council offices and letters to her Member of Parliament, resulted in strong metal gates being fitted at the
entrance. Each car-owning tenant was given a key, but the padlocks were soon forcibly removed.
On the day she received a ticket for leaving her car out on the road, Sophie challenged the Porsche driver
as he was about to leave. "This should be yours by rights," she screamed, pushing the crunched-up
penalty notice in his face, "commuters like you are gettin' away with murder - I LIVE HERE!"
When the police came to see her it was only to question her about acid attacks on the paintwork of
some of the trespassing vehicles. While she disapproved of the vandalism, it did mean easier parking for
a few days, although the interlopers soon dribbled back.
Then her car failed its Ministry of Transport test and Sophie asked Jim if he could find her a newer model
at a reasonable price. That evening, disturbed by digging and scraping noises as she passed the shed,
she called out his name. As Jim opened the door, the smell assaulted her nostrils again, more pungent
now, taking her breath away.
"I spilled some acid," he explained, "and I've had to dig the floor up. It... it needed fixing."
"Acid?" She also wondered about the punctures on the traffic warden's car.
"You know, I use it for work."
"Right." She found conversations about cars, even wine, boring, but as her concern for Peter turned to
resentment over his cowardly exit, she warmed to the attentions of her kindly and devoted neighbour.
"I have a nice little car for you. I'll bring it round tomorrow." He smiled a lot these days. It suited him.
"I'll bring my breakdown truck, I have plans for your old Datsun, too."
"Hang on Jim, how much..."
"Shush! Seeing you relaxed and happy again is reward enough. But it's pay back time for that smarmy
Porsche driver. Do you still have his letter with the address on it?" His lips tightened and his eyes had
lost their twinkle.
Next morning Jim spent an hour removing the engine and chassis numbers, registration plates and all
traces of previous ownership from the Datsun Cherry, then the wheels. Sophie brought a picnic lunch
and they waited in the breakdown truck near an ostentatious house in the suburbs, until a particular car
emerged from the driveway heading in the direction they had come.
Having ascertained that no one else was at home; they dumped the old car ceremoniously by the front
door. She saw Jim take an oily rag from his pocket and remove the petrol inlet cap.
"No Jim, I loved that old car. I don't think I could handle seeing it cremated. Besides, I want him to know
whose car it is. I just wish I could see his face when he sees it."
She was ecstatic about Jim's choice of a replacement car. The anxiety was gone now; she was back in
control of her life - and she had her parking space again. Although she occasionally feared retaliation,
she now felt capable of handling it, if it came. She no longer saw Jim as a threat, as she did when Peter
used to share his wine. What he lacked in looks he more than made up for in attentiveness. She still
came home lunch times, but only to share a meal with the neighbour who was now her lover.
A week later the Porsche was back. She had prepared a few well-chosen words for him, but the driver
was nowhere to be seen. When she returned in the early evening the car was still there.
Jim had been spending most of his spare time in his wine shed. When
Sophie disturbed him he was putting the finishing touches to the new concrete floor. An old bathtub had
been installed and the walls were freshly painted. It smelt nice again.
"That car's back Jim."
"I know, some people never learn, but I've fixed him."
Two weeks later, its glossy bodywork now soft-focused by a thick coating of dust and gummy eucalyptus
seeds, the sports car had been reduced to an abandoned shell supported by bricks. Che Guevara
bandits took no prisoners after dark.
Sophie's euphoria returned. To her delight she discovered that Jim also had a tendency to surprise. One
day she found him dancing naked on the grapes in the bathtub. For the first time she noticed the gold
chain around his neck and the St. Christopher medal. As he kissed her and handed her a glass of her
favourite Burdock and Dandelion, she thought how ridiculous he looked in designer mirror shades.
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