Free The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan Page A

one way of looking at it. I wouldn't mind getting out of this
job, but I've been doing it for so long now I don't think I could do anything
else. Got nothing to retire on, either. That's if they don't just shut us down
full stop.
    “I thought
living in England would be better than Nigeria. Then the war happened and
suddenly it feels like the roles have been reversed.”
    “They can look
forward to a world of trouble if they do that. Even more trouble than we
already have. You ever seen a fire team solve a crime? They cruise around in
their fighting vehicles and get out when they can be arsed. People don't like
it; you've seen them. Sooner or later these demonstrations are going to stop
being local nuisances. People are at the wall.”
    Archibald gave a
weary nod. “Guess so.”
    Michael flicked
through images of the police squad collecting payment from the bakery. He sat
there for five minutes, wondering in the green glow of the monitor what he
could do about it. He could inquire, write letters, investigate, but sooner or
later it would always come back to haunt the bakery.
    He typed up his
reports and filled out the daily log on the word processor, and then sent it to
the laser printer. Sheets of paper spilled into the wire tray.
    Archibald's
watch began to beep. He grinned to himself and turned the alarm off.
    “Home time?”
Michael said.
    “Not quite; I'm
taking the wife and kids for dinner. I've been looking forward to it all week.
There's a commercial district adjacent to one of the gated communities. Lots of
security, very safe, and the perfect place to have Chinese. The food is cooked
to perfection. What about you? Wife, kids, family?”
    Michael shook
his head. He collected the printouts together and tapped them on the table to
align the edges. “I've got a sister down in Cornwall, but we don't talk. We
haven't spoken since the war. She's still pissed because my father bankrupted
the entire family to pay for surgeons to stitch me back together when they
dragged my sorry arse back from the war. My dad was a good guy, but my sister
wouldn't agree, though.”
    “Well, I've had
my share of family trouble in the past. Don't leave it too late if you ever
want to fix things up. You only get one chance. I've got to get moving; the
next shift will be coming in soon.”
    Archibald
reached across the table and shook his hand. “It's good to have you on the
team. We could really use another guy with some experience. Sometimes it feels
like I'm the only one keeping things running around here. See you later.”
    Michael waited
until the other man had shut the door, and then searched the office for a
stapler. A fresh influx of voices sounded from the corridor outside, and he
hesitated for a moment, just listening to it all. He pressed down and forced a
staple through the papers.
    Footsteps passed
by as he moved to the window and pulled the blinds apart to look down on the
street below. Searchlights swept back and forth on one of the city pillars in
the distance. He didn't want to go home tonight, but there was nowhere else to
go.
    Michael gathered
his stuff and travelled up a floor to administration. The room was nearly
empty, save for a man and a woman, each seated at their desks and muttering on
the phones. He left the reports in Samantha's intake tray.
    Outside in the
car park, the air was chilly and the wind strong. Cold crept down the back of
his neck, and his tie flapped violently. He fumbled with his car keys, watching
the place empty car by car as though the world was leaving him behind.
    One of the
vehicles exploded. He fell down, as car alarms shrieked. The blast forced the
doors off at the hinges, and orange fire lashed out from the vehicle, dancing,
flickering, sometimes retreating enough to reveal the charred body slumped
against the steering wheel.
    His nostrils
twitched at the smell of burning petrol. People ran from the building and there
was a ringing in his ears, growing stronger with every beat of his