Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever by Phoenix Sullivan Read Free Book Online

astonishingly, legendarily rare, but John was convinced that it could be restored, certain that sufficient fragments might be unearthed and procured and pieced together.
    “It’s like an endangered species,” he’d said, “When they’re gone, they’re gone. It’s our duty.”
    “It’s hardly a bloody polar bear,” said Terry.
    But the Facel II was never really about making money, and he suspects that Terry has known this all along. It’s a fable. A mythical car.
    Craig asks him about it from time to time. “I can’t explain it,” John will say, “It’s just something you either get or you don’t. It’s not the fastest car, it’s not the best to drive, it’s not the most comfortable. But it’s something . It’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
    “Beautiful?” says Craig, “It looks like a fuckin’ tank. Probably drives like one an’ all.”
    Craig would never understand. All they teach you in college is wires and fluids and tolerances. Hardware. Nothing about the soul.
    The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
    John doesn’t really hear what Terry is saying; his attention is taken by the car. It seems different today, somehow; the silver paintwork seems lifeless, the chromework will-o’-the-wisp not present. He feels none of its usual magic, none of the stomach-tightening thrill of imagining himself behind the wheel, cruising down through southern France to the Ligurian coast, the sun scorching down, just him and—
    Just him and—
    And who?
    “With these parts from Bill you’ll have that beast up and running in a few months, I reckon,” Terry says.
    “What?” says John.
    “The parts. From Bill. Should be enough for you to finish it.”
    “Yes, I suppose.”
    Outside, rain begins to smack down, streaking like quartz along dim windows, hissing from the pavement and the roof like white noise.
    “Are you sure you’re all right?” asks Terry.
    “Do the lights seem funny in here?”
    Terry looks up, frowning.
    “No, they’re fine. Why?”
    John doesn’t answer. The car seems dead. No, not dead; more as though it could never live.
    “I think I just need to get some fresh air.” He starts to strip out of his overalls.
    “Sure, no problem,” says Terry, “Take as long as you need.”
    He walks home, but instead of going inside he gets into the car and pulls out of the driveway. Before long he’s on the road, but he has no idea of where he’s going. The windscreen wipers squeak and thud; brake and traffic lights bleed red and green before him. He drives through suburban estates, high streets, arterial roads, until he reaches a motorway, and then, then he realises where he is going. He joins the traffic, hissing along, until the blue exit sign appears through the spray like an epiphany, and he turns off down the slip road.
    He reaches the car park at the bottom of the hill and parks up. He’s the only one there. He leaves the car, picks his way through the puddles and mud, and climbs the tree-lined path to the top of the hill. At the top he sits on the bench and looks down through the rain at the countryside that stretches away before him: the ruined abbey, the coiling river, the patchwork of fields flecked with sheep and cows. The motorway is barely audible. Nothing changes. Apart from the weather, it’s the same as when they came here before.
    They sit on the bench, looking out at southern England. He’s packed a picnic, and they spread cloths on their laps and eat cold quiche and salad. He pulls a bottle of champagne out from the bottom of the hamper. She asks him what the occasion is. You’ll see, he says. He pops the cork so that it flies off down the hill, which makes her smile, then he pours champagne into two tumblers. To us, he says, and they raise the glasses and sip champagne and gaze at one another. There is one other thing, he says, and she asks him what it is. Hold on, I need to be on one knee, he says, and her expression is an