I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I switched on the radio. Nothing. Flat battery. Even the clock had stopped. I checked the switches to see if I’d left a light on. Nothing. I rang the AA. ‘Someone will be with you in up to 80 minutes,’ said the controller after he’d taken down a few details.
The car was in the station car park, nose against the railings, facing the platforms. I sat in the driver’s seat and contemplated the litter-strewn railway tracks and the abandoned, partially dismantled milk depot behind. I smelt vomit, which I traced to a dash of dried vomit on the lapel of my suit.
I got out of the car and leaned against the railings. If he’d said someone would be along in 80 minutes, I could have gone for a stroll along the river or found a café.
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