Every night in the scrapyard, ghosts raced in the wrecked cars in which they died – half of them fuelled by anger, half by shame, as the angry tried to beat the scum who’d smashed short their beautiful lives, and the guilty tried to rev away their shame – to prove it was so much better to be killed than kill, that anyone could have a lapse, a flash, a moment of impulsive selfishness – that none of us are innocent.
Dawn broke as they tore along the final straight, and before the chequered flag could wave the sun wiped them all away.
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