4. Parts Bazaar

 

Rosh owned a disused gas tower. It was sandwiched between the two busiest raised expressways into the City from the west. To be more accurate it wasn’t disused, it just didn’t store gas anymore, not for the last forty years in fact.  The cylindrical giant stood like a piece of industrial strata, each layer was a different colour where the metal panels had aged at different rates.  Each of its massive rings had the same pattern of vertical rust stains running down its side, caused by decades of dripping acidic rain water.  Scattered around the base of the tower were rest of the defunct gas company premises, large grey buildings with patchwork corrugated roofs.  They were arranged in a tightly packed ring with a narrow tarmac driveway leading out towards the expressway to the east.  A three-meter high chain link fence contained both the tower and the buildings. Rosh owned it all.  The tower stood at the western end of the compound and was accessed via a door at the base.  The largest builing in the compound butted up against the bottom.  This building had a large set of double doors facing into the compound and inside, was a large access corridor into the tower.  Thick concrete columns that supported the road-network caged in the whole area. Commuters crawling along the elevated trunk roads would idly gaze down into the site.  They would see what at first glance, looked like an abandoned industrial compound with a rusty tower and disjointed buildings. They usually added it to the list of other things that they would forget having seen by the time they got home.

That was how Rosh liked it.

The only thing that raised an eyebrow on the occasional sleepy traveler was the glossy sign at the base of the tower.  It was nine feet high and was cut from four centimetre perspex, it showed the image of a piston from a combustion engine pushing up against an inverted fist.  The whole image was finished in shades of grey with a black, blue and white logo across the front reading `Roshan`s BMW Bazaar`.  Looking down from the expressway it looked like good quality graffiti.

 

Rosh closed the towers access door behind him and activated the alarm with a vocal command into a panel on the corroded doorframe.  He guessed it was around nine by the noise level from the traffic above.  From the base of the tower he couldn’t see any of the traffic on the raised carriageways but could feel the continuous low vibration of a thousand slow moving vehicles.  This was the quietest time of the day, evening time, the bulk of business travellers gone home and the evening herd’s of freight not yet in full swing.  Rosh had been here five years and was only conscious of the traffic noise when he needed to be.

 The towers access door was a meter off the oil soaked ground and was reached by climbing a set of steps made from dark steel piping and pieces of cross hatch plate.  Rosh slowly seated himself on the top step, his legs resting two below.  He reached into the front chest pocket of his stained dungarees and pulled out a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and a chrome lighter with a BMW logo emblazoned on the side. With a cigarette alight he leaned back onto his elbows and stared up at the darkening sky.  The sky was completely covered with cloud.  They were the usual orange/pink hue, which Rosh knew to be the reflected light from a million street lamps.  The atmosphere was oppressive with the threat of rain, the hazy, discoloured clouds looked as though they were straining to retain the load.

"Hey lazy arse, how about spending sometime with your Wife?" Senga was standing across the compound, framed in the low doorway to his office.  She had rung that morning to say she would pick him up. The light coming from inside the building gave her an eerie glow.  She was wearing a pair or faded denims and thick soled, tan walking boots.  She had an oversized white cotton shirt which, backlit as it was, clearly showed the shape of her rounded shoulders and wasp-like waste.  She had driven up from the apartment to pick him up.

Rosh smiled.

"I be with you in five" Although he had mastered English he had a habit of missing out the occasional word in the middle of a sentence. It infuriated him at times because it usually happened when he was in a stressful situation or a crucial business deal.

He took a final pull on the half-finished cigarette and tossed it over the handrail. It skimmed across the top bar sending it spinning to the ground in a cloud of glowing sparks.  He hoisted himself up and made his way across the compound towards the office door.  

 

He had been born Roshan Salec Moshen, the son of an Iranian businessman. His mother originated from southern Italy and after marrying his Father had lived out her adult life in Tehran.  She was a quite woman who always seemed to be nervous around men, it was only when Rosh was older that he found out why. His Father owned a number of businesses but the only one that Rosh ever saw him take any interest in was a BMW dealership in the Ankhesh district.His Father spent most of his time between the dealership offices and London. As a young man, Rosh never quite knew how his Father made the vast amounts of money that the locals said he did. The local paper also made him out to be the most charitable of benefactors, usually just after he had presented someone with a large cheque.  There were never more than ten or fifteen cars in the little show room or on the bleached flagstones that served as a forecourt, what puzzled Rosh the most was that no single vehicle was there for more than two weeks. 

He remembered the day around his tenth birthday when he had hidden under a desk in his Fathers office, waiting to spring a surprise attack on him.  One of the dealerships Iranian employees entered the office followed by a man with a Russian accent. Rosh recognised the first man as Jannis, the only person at the garage that ever spoke to him or slipped him the occasional bag of sugared cashew nuts when no one was around.  The two were arguing about a shipment from a place called Sevastopol, which had been delayed in a seaport because of incorrect paperwork. The shipment, it transpired, was bound for London via the Iranian dealership.  Rosh could hear the edge of fear in the Iranians voice. At first Rosh had thought that they were talking about a shipment of cars.  Then he realised that all the cars that came through the site had little plastic labels on the windshield that clearly stated the name of the German factory where they had been manufactured and dispatched from. After the two men left the office Rosh had crawled out from beneath the desk.  He had a sickly feeling in his stomach and for some reason he didn't feel like waiting for his Father to return. From that day on he started to notice things around the site that he simply hadn't been aware of before.  Suited strangers arriving which parcels, cars being driven into the covered workshops bays only to be backed out again within minutes.  There was an Iranian policeman who visited the offices every month. He always entered through the delivery doors at the rear of the main building and never, even once, had he looked around the place. Rosh hadn't known what was happening back then but he knew that he didn’t like it and soon after the office incident his Father arranged for him to go to a boarding school in Kuwait.  Before he left he went back to the dealership to say good bye to Jannis.  He never found him. 

 

The first tentative spots of rain began to fall. As Rosh made his way across to where Senga had stood he veered to the left of the compound so that he could have one more look at his days acquisition.  He knew that she would be inside now and wouldn't mind waiting five more minutes.  His recovery flatbed was parked adjacent to a set of large double garage doors.  It was a ten year old Iveco Kodiak with a few slight modifications.  At the rear of the yellow and black stripped cab was a 'shoulder' attachment for a multi-jointed hydraulic grab arm.  The arm curved over and in on itself and held the pose of the tail of a giant scorpion. Where the sting would be, a three fingered steel hand was clenched shut showing shiny hydraulic rams, which unlike the rest of the vehicle, looked as new as the day they were made.  Resting below the arm filling the full length of the open sided flatbed was what looked like a jumbled pile of black and silver airliner wreckage. It was secured to the flatbed with rusted, dark brown lengths of chain which encircled the mashed steel work like the strings around a joint of beef.  As he made his way around to the back of the vehicle he checked the ratchet mechanism that kept each piece of chain taught. Standing at the back of the twisted load, Rosh could make out the distinctive, round, blue, black and silver logo that evoked a curious mix of emotions in him. 

 

Rosh had fond memories of his early teenage years in the Kuwaiti school.  He mastered the use of the English language, which, after sometime time with his fellow students, became his preferred language. He had little contact with his parents, even when he returned home for holiday breaks he never felt welcomed by his mother. His father seemed to be spending more and more time in England and was never there.  After graduating at the age of nineteen he returned to Iran only to find out that his Father had arranged for him to start work for him in London. For twelve long months Rosh worked as a 'hospitality manager' (his fathers words) in and around Hammersmith.  His father would bring foreign guests, mostly Russians, over to Britain and Rosh would arrange for them to visit the best night-clubs, theme casinos and exotic hotels.  It was during one of these corporate evenings that Rosh realised what he always knew deep inside.  He hated his father and everything that he stood for.

Rosh had arranged for two Armenian guests, himself and his father to dine at an exclusive back street Greek restaurant in Knightsbridge.  After the meal he had chauffeured them over to a members only casino that his father visited on every trip to London.  The three older men had consumed a large amount of red wine and vodka during the meal, and were talking in loud voices. Rosh had drunk water all evening.  He signed them all into the casino and showed them to a card table where, over the course of the next two hours they proceeded to lose thousands of pounds in 'chip' equivalent. Throughout the game they continued to drink a myriad of cocktails and spirits supplied by the scantily dressed waitresses.

They moved onto a dice table and, unperturbed, continued to lose copious amounts.  Rosh eventually ushered the three inebriated men, his father fairing the worst, away from the gaming tables and seated them at a round, low table which was half encircled by a high backed, padded sofa.  Three attractive women followed them from the table and settled themselves in amongst the older trio.  Rosh had never seen his father act this way, and although he was used to his `charges` cavorting with the package deal prostitutes he was visibly shocked to see his father in the same light.  What cauterised the hatred that evening was the fact that his intoxicated father seemed to have forgotten that Rosh was even there.

“So, my friends, or maybe I can now call you associates” his Father bellowed in faltering English “do you not agree that these tasty English ladies are finer than any of your home grown produce” the three women giggled with pleasure.  One of them spilled half a glass of Pernod over the shorter of the two Armenians.

“They are most definitely finer but are they cheaper?” retorted the taller one. Again, exaggerated laughter

“Cheap!…Cheap!…do you think that I would provide you with cheap women.  To you my friends, these delicacies are FREE?..Had you not heard back home that the streets of London are still paved with gold?” one of the women shot Rosh a sideways glance.  He very slowly shook his head at her and she returned to business reassured that the payment, as usual, would be coming from Rosh.  She faked `pissed` well but the word 'free' did not sit well with her.

The talk across the table stayed informal.  Rosh was pleased.  When his Father decided to discuss business with his guests it always became tense.  Tonight, his Father was relaxing. 

Rosh was looking around the room when his attention was snapped back to the table by the mention of his mother’s name.

“….and brought her home with me.  She was pregnant with that bastard son of mine.  They had me by the balls and when in Italy even I bow down to their will” Rosh felt like he had been punched in the stomach.  His Father continued, not seeing Rosh’s face who was out of his line of site on the sofa behind the taller guest.

“Arrgh…he’s a good boy but he doesn’t have the edge.  He has too much of that thin Italian blood from his fucking pissant Mother” Rosh needed to run. He turned his back to the table again and stared out at a crowd of people around a roulette wheel. He could hear the shorter Armenian who was now locked in an embrace with one of the girls.  His Father, talking to no one in particular, carried on with his alcohol-enhanced narrative.  Rosh’s eyes filled up as he heard the full story of how the Mafia had forced his father to take his Mother back to Iran after making her pregnant and set her up with a luxurious house.  He heard him speak about the murders that had left his father in their debt.  The drunken mans slurred words cut Rosh into little pieces inside and at the same time, gave him an indication of the way his life would turn.  He would not end up like his Father and from tonight, he would not be part of this world.

He looked round expecting to meet his Fathers eyes.  The old Iranian had his head slumped over his empty Vodka glass.  He was still mumbling but it was now incoherent.  His tanned head was sinking downwards, bleary eyes half closed, towards the table top in slow motion coming to rest, cheek down, between the glass and a three quarter full bottle of Smirnoff.  Rosh’s last memory of his father was of a hideous, contorted face seen through a Vodka bottle.  There had been an advert around a few years earlier which showed how things became surreal or monstrous when viewed though a Vodka bottle.  The commercial used state of the art computer modelling to show the `bottle` creatures leering through the glass. The monster that Rosh could see through the bottle was his father.  It had taken nineteen years for Rosh to see the real man. 

 

He had the use of corporate credit cards to ensure that he always had the funds to provide whatever depraved entertainment the visitors required.  After deserting his father and their guest that night at the casino he returned to the apartment that he had been staying since arriving in London.  He opened the beginning to plan what he needed.  He took nothing.  The room and all its contents were part of his father world and Rosh wanted no part of it.  He caught a taxi outside the Coca-Cola building and asked the driver to take him to Euston station.  It had been four AM when the taxi pulled up outside the station, Rosh placed his card in the door slot, the fair was deducted and the door latch released.  He could see the driver staring at him from the rear view mirror.  For a second, through the smeared piece of protective Perspex that separated passenger from driver, he thought he saw his father’s bloodshot eyes.  He bolted from the cab without closing the door, leaping the steps up to the station entrance two at a time.  Behind him he could hear hailed abuse coming from the driver who had climbed out to close his cab door.

He paused by a row of opaque black booths, above them were signs showing all the major British banks logos.  They were suspended on wires from a tubular support beam stretching across the length of the booths. He entered the first empty one drawing the concertina door shut behind him. He clicked a 'red' button on the wall marked 'SECURED' and heard a hiss as hidden bolts slid into place.  He turned to the wall mounted bank machine, noticing as he did that the black plastic walls were transparent from the inside. He withdrew his card and inserted it into the slot.  When prompted, he placed his eye over a small grey sensor, which looked like a little green eye wash cup.  When the machine has verified his ID he punched for cash withdrawal.  He planned to take only what he felt he had earned over the last twelve months.  He wanted no more. 

Leaving the booth he passed a row of red plastic bins.  He tossed the card into a bin and walked towards the ticket office.

 

Rosh fished for the Kodiak’s keycard in his back pocket.  He held it against the drivers door handle and heard the central locking release.  He threw the door wide and, placing one foot on the notched metal rung he hoisted himself up into the cab.  He didn't like to leave his vehicle and it's precious cargo open to the elements or, maybe more importantly, open to be seen by one of the frequent low flying helicopters that had been hanging around.  Rosh was used to them buzzing around the gas tower but recently there had been a couple that didn't have the police, or 'eye in the sky' traffic reporter ensignia emblazoned on the underside.  He started the engine with the keycard, flicked on the main bank of lights and pushed the gear-stick down into reverse.  As he manoeuvred back away from the double doors he glanced over to the office. The door was closed now, and all the lights had gone out.  His face creased with a smirk.

He reached up above his head to where an odd assortment of gadgets were Velcro'd to the roof of the cab.  Sandwiched between a wrist mounted catapult and an old  Minidisk player was a stubby, back plastic coated two-way radio.  He pulled it away from it's holder and, and with his thumb, slid a switch on the side to 'on'.

He depressed a switch on the opposite side and held the top of the unit to his mouth.

"Baby? What your problem. Over" he whispered in his soft, gravely voice. No reply came back.

"Baby? I know you back there. Pick up, pick up, pick up. Over"

Again silence. His words hung in the air in the empty cab.

He sighed, moved the gear stick into neutral and killed the engine. He made to get out of the cab and tell her he would be done as soon as he had secured the truck inside the tower.  As he jumped down he looked across the compound at a light outside the main gates. As he looked more closely he could see that it was Senga in her black Misubishi.  She was sitting in the driver’s seat looking directly at him. She held up her two-way indicating that she had just dug it out of the glove compartment.

His two-way crackled.

"Get back into that cab numbnuts.  Don't be long, Over." She had turned all the lights off in the offices and locked down for him.

"On my way baby. Over" Rosh gave her the thumbs up and turned to get back into the cab.

"Hurry up, or this `marriage` is……Over!” He looked back to see her laughing at her own joke.  He jumped back into the Iveco and started it up.  He pressed a stud on the dashboard and the large double doors started to slowly slide open on well-greased runners. When they were fully open an automatic switch filled the interior with light.  Rosh edged the vehicle forward and with a wide sweep turned into the gaping doorway.  Once through the opening the double door slid too sealing the building from the elements.  Rosh used this building as a receiving area for new wrecks.   The room was large enough to hold the laden truck and had enough empty floor space to, if necessary, turn the vehicle full circle.  Around the perimeter walls hung an impressive array of heavy machinery.  Pressure powered grinding equipment, hydraulic cutting arms and clamps of all shapes and sizes.  There was a chainsaw obviously designed for cutting metal.  There were numerous canisters of assorted colours, oxy-acetylene burning tools and protective gear hung with them.  The wall at the far end of the building had an opening as large as the door through which Rosh had just driven. It lead into the tower.  It was dark inside and it was impossible to see what lay beyond because of a line of vertical, flexible Perspex flaps.  They were the kind that could still be found on the loading bays of slaughterhouses preventing temperature loss (which as it happened was where these had been acquired).  Rosh slowly moved towards the tunnel, a sensor picked up the movement of the vehicle.

 As he started to push through the curtain the darkness dissipated, replaced by a flood of light from way up in some distant roof recess of the tower from a hundred halogen spots.  He moved the vehicle into the centre of the gas-tower interior and withdrew the keycard from the ignition.   He secured the two-way back on the roof of the cab and climbed out.  He could hear the whine of turbines slowing down.  When carbon monoxide was detected inside the tower two huge extractor turbines kicked in removing the harmful emissions, they had cut out when Rosh had switched the engine off.  Rosh thought back to the day when he had haggled with a scrap merchant for the turbines. He had bought them from a security guard at Manchester Airport.  He also remembered that terminal one was under going it's fifth major refurbishment since the turn of the century and wondered how long it would take for anyone to notice the two gaping holes high up on the back of a hanger wall.

Half of the towers interior wall was made up of scaffolding gantries.  Each of the gantries could be accessed from a ladder at the end of each run.  Along each of the scaffold balconies were pigeonhole type bays constructed from sheet metal.  The whole assembly looked like a concave wine rack, instead of bottles in the holes, there were BMW carcasses. It was easy to get to each of the bays by climbing the ladders at the end of the run until you reached the correct level, then walking along the curved gantry until reaching the required bay.  There were six levels stretching almost to the top of the gas tower.  Hanging motionless from the centre of the ceiling was a set of pulleys and a winch.  A cable ran from the winch, down the wall opposite the racks to a switch box on the wall next to a personnel exit door.  The one that Rosh had left from earlier.  The winch was used to lift damaged cars and place them into any one of a dozen free bays.  He made his way over to the exit door, looking up at the towering rack of car parts he remembered how, and why, he had come to own the tower.

 

After leaving London that night, Rosh never heard from his father again.  Occasionally he would check his fathers legitimate business activities over the net.  He could see that he was still moving Russian merchandise inside BMW engine blocks by the import export logs.  Rosh had all the access codes to his father’s data banks and they never seemed to be changed.  His father’s employees would have been given instructions to report any activity that that matched Rosh’s code.   His father never came looking for him, Rosh new that he wouldn’t.  They were both happy with that relationship.

 

He settled in Manchester and after some months sorting out accommodation and equipment he started work for a car dealership south of the City. Most of the time he sat behind his office terminal and matched client’s on-line requests to available makes and models around the world.  By then, very few dealerships actually every saw the vehicle that they sold. He made a good living from the commission but never settled into the job.  He needed to work for himself.  He began to see a gap in the market that he felt he could exploit.  More and more clients began asking for older, exclusive cars.  BMW’s, Mercs, Lexus, Mazda, any of the high-end turn of the century models.  They were becoming rare all over the world and had come to command massive price tags.  He hatched an idea to plug this gap after seeing an advert on a Mexican Net-Site one night.  It advertised a `Parts-Bazzar` for pre Millennium American cars.  Prospective buyers could view a parts list on-line for any of the cars listed, select the bits they needed to keep their existing antique cars on the road, bang in their card details and have the part in twenty four hours.

Rosh trawled around the search engines and found that no one in the West Manchester area was offering that type of service for the older makes of BMW.  His future was set.  He spent a year looking around for a prospective site.  He came upon the gas-tower which was due for demolition, put in an anonymous bid for the small patch of land around it, the bid was accepted, his future was secure.  He converted the tower to a holding area and one of the outbuildings became his office.  

He exited the tower from the access door, set the alarm for the second time that evening. He made his way over to the main gates and his ever patient Senga.