Spillage, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Melinda stood on the footpath outside Advanced Smash Repairs. Her previous two visits had been strictly business, and she'd been so desperate to get her car fixed, she hadn't really paid any attention to the front of the workshop.

  The hand-drawn sign amongst the broken letter boxes of other tenants, all hanging off a graffiti covered wall like a collection of drunk monkeys, was not a good look. It certainly didn't scream "best smash repair business for miles, with the handsomest owner." It was more "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Especially dumb chicks like you."

  She looked at her phone again. Five twenty-nine. Time to go in.

  The ramp loomed before her, and she had just started to ascend it when another hand written sign grabbed her attention. "Slippery when Greasy" it said, with an ironic picture of a stick figure slipping down a slope. Her eyes followed the heavy track of grease up the ramp, then flicked down to focus on her "going on a date" shoes. She gulped.

  Just then a door opened in the wall behind her, and Pavel and the apprentice, Clint Lockley, emerged. "It's easier to go up the stairs," Pavel said with a knowing smile. He held the door open for her, gave her a polite nod, and let the door go BANG behind her on the self-closing mechanism.

  "Was that . . . ?" asked Clint.

  "The crazy chick with the Volksy who is after the boss? Yes. You'd have thought he'd have learned after that last one. She was a nightmare."

  "What happened?"

  "Let's just say it involved a hatchback, marriage and a broken heart. Belinda her name was, and she could strip paint at twenty metres with a stare."

  "Belinda? You can't be serious?"

  "See you tomorrow, boy-oh." Pavel slapped Clint on the back as they parted.

  "See ya." Clint would have been happy with any chick being after him.

  The staircase was only a little less grimy than the ramp, but decidedly safer. She walked up slowly without touching the handrail, which looked like it had been dragged through a toxic waste dump. The door on the next floor opened into the back of the now dark workshop, but had a clear line of sight to Craig's office. She could see him there, sitting at his desk and looking up to the top of the ramp every few seconds, obviously waiting for her to come up that way.

  Melinda took a couple of steps forward, still thinking about how she was going to use the element of surprise to her advantage, and stepped into a shallow pan full of used engine oil that was hiding in the shadows. The clatter and the terrified scream pierced the air and magnified Craig's shock at Melinda's unexpected entry.

  He turned on the lights in the workshop then broke into a reluctant half-run towards the site of the oil spill.

  "I'm so sorry, Melinda. Clint is supposed to clean those up as soon as he's drained the oil . . ."

  Melinda was just holding it together. It was clear that the date and the date shoes were both history. She gave Craig a wan smile while the feeling of slowly dripping oil overtook most of her body. She didn't dare look at her clothes.

  "I . . . I'll get you something to change into."

  Five minutes later she emerged from the gloom of the staff toilet wearing a clean ASR overall, carrying her clothes in a large plastic bag. The legs of the overalls were folded up several times, and her bare feet were pale and cold on the concrete.

  "I don't think industrial blue is my colour," she said with a smile.

  "Come downstairs, I'll get you a cab. I'm so sorry." You wouldn't wish a dirty oil shower from below on anyone, but he was also thinking that while he had escaped tonight's date, he probably had an even greater obligation to see Melinda again.

  They padded down the stairs and out onto the footpath. A taxi responded to Craig's raised hand, but as it pulled up he waved it on. The taxi driver gave him a glare and then a torrent of abuse from behind the protection of the taxi window that Craig didn't hear and wasn't attempting to lip read.

  "What was wrong with that one?" asked Melinda, who now wanted to get home before anyone she knew saw her wearing a blue overall while in the company of an eligible man.

  "About to break down," Craig said over his shoulder as he searched the traffic. "Here's one." An identical looking taxi pulled over and Melinda slid into the back seat as elegantly as she could, dressed as a shrunken mechanic.

  Neither of them wanted to say "I'll call you", but for different reasons. They exchanged ironic smiles, Craig closed the door and the taxi pulled away into the traffic.

  Melinda was lost in her own thoughts when the screech of brakes and crunching of metal brought her back to the real world. Her taxi was the fourth car in an end-to-end pile up, and they got a light nudge from the car behind them. The first car in the pile up was a taxi parked in the inside lane clearway with the bonnet up and smoke billowing from the engine - much like the cars now wedged behind it. Melinda slipped out of her taxi, and walked gingerly away from the scene of the accident, her bare feet not enjoying the pavement. She hailed another taxi before the traffic had a chance to bank up too much - she couldn't bear not being home for another minute.

  Craig didn't give the taxi another thought as he stood looking at the mess in the workshop. He threw some sawdust over it put a few orange cones around the spill and thought that it was enough to draw Clint's attention to the need to clean things up in the morning. He turned off the lights and closed up, then trudged off towards his apartment. The whole thing with Melinda had marred an otherwise good day.

  He didn't notice the mounting traffic jam before he turned off the main road towards home.