The storm clouds form, over the sea.

The seal on the passenger side window has all but rotted away, and means my rusted old Ford whirs with the wind, and on days like today whistles with the pressure of air through the slight crack.

I start to feel cold.

I want to watch the swell a while longer so I put a hoody on that was sat on the backseat and stuff the gap with an old towel to stop the wind getting in.

The clouds have rolled in from the west, looking dark and bruised. They seem to be aching for the relief of the land. I turn the radio on and look for a station, but the static in the air makes it difficult so instead I root out a Lamb tape from under the seat. I listen to the heartbeat of Lou Rhodes unborn child in What is That Sound, the song a caressing hum of maternity. I feel like crying but I can’t, so instead I close my eyes and disappear.

I’m startled awake by rain hailing the car like gravel. I’m unsure how long I have dozed. I don’t wear a watch.

The tape has finished but evening hasn’t set in quite yet. The car feels still colder now so I turn the engine over and start the heater going. Once the heater has warmed I decide it’s probably time to go. I’ve been alone long enough.

As I pull out the car drives over an empty can, it makes a mechanical discomforting sound. Considering what a state the car looks, its body is a mess of rust and filler, it still drives well. My father gave me it a couple of years ago when I passed my test. He was never one for outward appearances, so never really took care of the bodywork, living on the coast this meant the cars paint had been stripped by the salt water in a lot of places. But he always made sure that the engine was in good condition. He said a car’s like a mongrel dog.

-They aren’t for show, but they should live a long life.

The state of the car doesn’t really bother me. I’m not one for cruising.

I drive down the promenade awhile, it cuts back past an old private school, a huge old estate, then I cut into the town centre and pull up in a pub car-park near to where my dealer lives. He answers the door more quickly than I expect. He’s wearing baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt. His face is covered by a leather mask – the type worn by wrestlers. His small pale white frame and gaunt features look comical under this garb and I’m tempted to laugh, but don’t.