I reported the theft to the police on my mobile and rang a taxi. I sat on the low wall in front of Mr Poole’s to wait. The wig was driving me mad and I’d a headache starting. I wondered whether to ring Ray but decided against it – there was no point in waking him just to say I’d be half an hour later than expected.
It was quiet on the Close. I could hear occasional traffic from the main road. My eyes felt hot and itchy, my back stiff from the tension and from peering into the viewer in the camera. I was ravenous too. Most nights I went to bed by eleven; my body was confused at being up hours after. It wanted breakfast.
The taxi arrived and hooted loudly as it rolled down the Close, pretty inconsiderate I thought given the time of night.
I waved and he sped to the bottom, circled round and roared back up to where I was waiting. Asian boy racer.
Once inside I gave him my address in Withington. “Go down the Parkway, yeah?”
“Fine.” The dual carriageway had a higher speed limit which would suit his driving style and get me home quicker.
I settled back into my seat, leopard print suedette covers, a pair of pink fun fur elephants dangling from the rear-view mirror along with his i.d., V. Chowdury. Did he choose to have the car tarted up like this? Was it meant to be ironic?
We drove through the New Hulme; a huge development initiative that had replaced the massive Crescents, curving high rises and the nearby deck-access blocks with human-sized housing. I could see the graceful line of the Hulme Arch, over Princess Road, a symbol of optimism. Like Pauline had said this was the second attempt to renovate the area. Would it work? The houses looked nice enough, there had been a huge consultation exercise with the communities in the area as part of the project. They’d knocked down the old buildings but how would they get rid of the poverty, nestling like mould, spores ready to bloom and start the process of disintegration all over again?
I pulled the wig off, delighted to be rid of it. I rubbed at my head and the back of my neck. The driver did a double take in the mirror. Opened his mouth and shut it again.
A bit later. “Been waiting long?”
“No, my car’s been nicked.”
“Left it round there?”
“Yeah.”
“Have the shirt off your back round there, you know. You see that documentary the other night? Car crime capital of Europe, Manchester is. They ship some of them across to Russia, Lada’s and that. Others they do a make-over drive them down to Brum or over to Liverpool. Lot of money in it. A mate of mine, he’s parked outside the Palace, on Oxford Street, right, got a cab like…”
