MORNING SERIAL

UNDER the old corrugated iron roof the air was still and smelled powerfully of the engine oil that still slicked the concrete floor.

There was an old car tyre lying about which I latched onto immediately as something to play with, and I began rolling it across the floor. It was so heavy that each time it lost momentum, spinning slowly to a wobbling standstill, it took a huge amount of huffing and puffing to right it and get it rolling again.

Sweaty with effort, I gave it an extra powerful heave, and this time it rolled and disappeared over the edge of a mechanics’ inspection pit in the middle of the floor, landing at the bottom with a loud rubbery thud. Annoyed at losing my plaything, and without thinking, I lowered myself down the side of the pit until my arms were completely outstretched and I was dangling from the edge with straining fingers. I had no choice then but to let go and I clattered to the bottom.

Then I realised I was stuck. The vertical walls of the pit were too smooth to gain any purchase, and I was too small to reach the lip of the pit and drag myself out. I felt a flutter of panic in my chest. Inside this hole in the ground I could hear the sound of my rapid breathing echoing off the concrete walls and all I could see of the outside world was a rectangular section of the garage roof.

The sounds of the diggers and lorries working nearby had become muffled. I felt suddenly cut off from the outside world.

I tried a running jump to reach the top edge but it was no good, the walls surrounding me were too high, and I clattered against them, skinning knees and elbows. So then I rolled the tyre upright and propped it against the wall and tried to balance on top of it on tip-toe to reach the edge. This almost worked, and I managed to get my fingers hooked over the edge of the hole, but I ended up skinning my knees again as I slid back down to the bottom.