They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

103 November 2017

Two men, one very tall, one very short, stood in protective oversuits and face masks, inside the lock-up garage in Munich. They looked a bit like a pair of rather shabby CSIs. This garage was shabby too, the kind you could rent cheaply pretty much the world over. Plasterboard inside a corrugated iron shell and a roller-shutter door. Big enough to fit a large car and to be able to work on it without bashing your elbows on the beat-up walls.

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to have bought a used one?’ the short guy asked. ‘There must be ones for sale all the time.’

‘The boss said no,’ the tall guy responded. He was adjusting the nozzle on the gas cylinder with which he would, in a few moments, begin spray-painting the stolen five-year-old Mercedes E-Class estate a specific shade of cream. The car was sitting up on jacks, minus its wheels, with its bumpers, mirror and chrome grille covered in protective tape.

‘You know your problem?’ the short one said. ‘You’re halfway up the boss’s backside.’

‘And you know yours?’ the tall one replied. ‘When you were born they threw the best part away.’

Both of them pulled their masks down over their faces as the tall one fired up the spray gun and set to work.

When he had finished, the short one set to work on the electrics, checking everything was in working order. And, most important of all, the yellow and black roof light.