Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever by Phoenix Sullivan (easy readers txt) 📕

a wrestler’s torso, the headlamps a pair of wide, surprised eyes. The Facel II.His Facel II. He’s built it with his own hands, piece by piece, from the scavenged corpses of the few of its brothers that have succumbed to accident, disrepair or time, born out of weekends spent on roads to Monaco and Reims and Geneva, hunting down doors, fascias, seat covers, gear sticks. Damaged pieces, refurbishments, replica parts.Hundreds of hours.Thousands.

He’d bought the skeleton of it years ago, back when they’d just got the business started. There’d been no money for it, so he’d had to buy it out of his own pocket. He’d tried to convince Terry that they could make a profit out of it, but Terry hadn’t wanted it.

“Too rare,” he’d said, “Not enough parts out there to rebuild it.”

Terry was right; it was 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 unforgettable blend of surprise and joy. He holds up a ring, and she offers him her hand. She almost forgets to say yes.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sat on the bench. He looks at the empty space beside him. The rain is easing now, but it still colours the landscape in long shifts of grey. He wonders when that first supernova of passion faded, when exactly his obsession with the car began to corrode their marriage.

After the picnic they go for a walk, down the hill to the ruined abbey, then along the stream. They walk for miles, all the way to the weir. They hold hands, and he enjoys the feeling of the ring on her finger. They take some leftover pastry from the quiche and feed it to the ducks.

He doesn’t feel like doing that today. He gets up from the bench and walks back down to the car park. Does he feel better for having come here? He feels less alone, certainly. He can feel her energy here. Some part of that other day still remains on the landscape here, underlaid faintly beneath it. A watermark of the past.

He sits in the car for a while before leaving.