Chapter 1: The Scent of Rust and Prejudice

Chapter 1: The Scent of Rust and Prejudice

The air in the garage was Kaelen Adebayo’s native element. It was a sharp, metallic cocktail of diesel, hot oil, and the faint, acrid tang of ozone from the welders. It was the scent of problems being solved, of chaos being ordered. For Kaelen, the cavernous workshop of the Cardiff HGV dealership was a sanctuary, a place where the logic of machinery reigned supreme. Here, a faulty injector was a puzzle, not a judgment. A stripped bolt was a challenge, not an insult.

He was deep in the guts of a Scania R-series, his long, lean frame contorted under the raised cab. His clean, dark blue overalls were a stark contrast to the grimy engine block. A single beam from his headlamp cut through the gloom, illuminating the intricate web of pipes and wires. His hands, though stained with grease, moved with the delicate precision of a surgeon. He had a natural talent, an almost telepathic connection with the machines. He could diagnose a transmission issue by the tremor felt through the floor plates, identify a failing turbo by a subtle change in its whistle.

A new voice, loud and grating, sliced through the familiar symphony of clanking tools and hissing air hoses.

“So, this is the engine bay. Big, isn’t it?”

Kaelen didn’t look up. He knew the voice belonged to the new manager, a man he’d only glimpsed that morning during the formal introduction. A man whose cheap suit seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

“And this one’s our specialist,” said Geoff, the senior supervisor, his voice carrying an undertone of forced cheerfulness. “Kaelen, this is the new gaffer, Mr. Thompson.”

Reluctantly, Kaelen slid out from under the engine, wiping his hands on a rag. He rose to his full height, his head nearly brushing the underside of the cab. Mark Thompson was exactly as Kaelen had sized him up earlier: a man in his late forties, soft around the middle, with thinning, greasy hair and a cheap tie pulled just a little too tight. His smile was a wide, wet slash across his face, but his small, piggy eyes held no warmth. They scanned Kaelen from head to toe, a quick, dismissive appraisal.

“Kaelen, is it?” Thompson’s voice was full of a false, booming bonhomie. “Bit of a mouthful, that. I’ll just call you ‘K’, mate. Simpler.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Kaelen said nothing, his face a calm, unreadable mask. He simply met Thompson’s gaze, his own eyes steady and direct. It was a habit of his, this unwavering eye contact. A quiet declaration that he was present, that he saw, and that he would not be the first to look away. Thompson’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he turned back to Geoff.

“Good lad, is he?”

“Best diagnostician we’ve got,” Geoff mumbled, avoiding Kaelen’s eyes.

Thompson grunted, a sound of dubious acknowledgement. “Right then. So, Kaelen… where’s that name from? Not from around here, I’d wager.”

“My parents are from Nigeria,” Kaelen said, his voice even and low.

“Nigeria! Africa!” Thompson bellowed, as if Kaelen had just announced he was from the moon. “Blimey. Bet it’s hot over there, eh? Proper jungle, lions and all that stuff you see on the telly?”

The words hung in the air, thick and stupid. Kaelen felt the familiar, weary tightening in his gut. He’d heard it all before. The casual, breathtaking ignorance that reduced a continent of over a billion people to a David Attenborough documentary. He had been born in Cardiff, had grown up navigating the damp Welsh winters, but to men like Thompson, he would always be from ‘Africa’.

“It’s a big country,” Kaelen replied, his tone giving nothing away. “Lots of cities. Not many lions in Lagos.”

Thompson chuckled, oblivious. “Right, right. Cities.” He took a step closer, his gaze fixing on Kaelen’s hair, a neatly shaped, well-kept afro. Kaelen braced himself. He knew what was coming next.

Before he could react, Thompson’s hand was in his hair. The man’s pudgy fingers prodded and patted, a grotesque, invasive curiosity. “Weird, innit? Like a brillo pad.”

A hot, white flash of anger shot through Kaelen. It was so sudden, so pure, it almost made him flinch. His personal space, his very body, violated with the same thoughtless entitlement a man might show when petting a dog. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t speak. He just locked his eyes on Thompson’s, the calm in his expression hardening into something cold and sharp as forged steel.

For a moment, the silence in their small bubble was absolute, a vacuum in the noisy workshop. Thompson finally seemed to register the intensity of the stare. He withdrew his hand awkwardly, wiping it on his trousers as if he’d touched something unclean.

“Well,” he blustered, turning away. “Best get on with it. Time is money.”

He clapped Geoff on the shoulder and swaggered off toward the office, leaving a wake of uneasy silence. Geoff gave Kaelen a look that was part apology, part warning, then scurried after his new boss.

Kaelen stood there for a long moment, the ghost of Thompson’s touch prickling his scalp. He took a slow, deep breath, the familiar scent of rust and oil calming his frayed nerves. He treated it as background noise. He had to. It was the survival mechanism he’d perfected over years of being the only Black face in a sea of white ones. You built a wall inside yourself. You let the casual insults, the ignorant questions, the unwanted touching—you let it all splash against that wall and slide off. You did not let it in. You did not give them the satisfaction of a reaction. You just did your job, did it better than anyone else, and went home.

He slid back under the engine, the world shrinking again to the cool, logical puzzle of steel and circuitry. He focused, his near-photographic memory calling up the exact schematic he’d studied earlier. Torque settings, part numbers, wiring diagrams—they were all filed away in perfect order. It was a place where Thompson’s brand of chaos couldn't touch him.

The day wore on. Kaelen lost himself in his work, the rhythm of wrench and ratchet a comforting mantra. But the peace was fragile, a thin sheet of ice over a dark, churning current.

Late in the afternoon, he needed a specific pressure sensor from the parts department on the other side of the workshop. The place was a din of hammering, whining drills, and the roar of an engine being tested. He saw Dave Williams, another mechanic, across the floor and tried to get his attention, waving to ask him to pass the request along.

Dave didn't see him. Kaelen raised his hand higher, trying to catch his eye over the top of a truck cab.

He saw Thompson standing near the office door, watching him. The manager was talking to Geoff, a smirk plastered on his face. Kaelen couldn’t hear the exact words over the noise, but he saw Thompson gesture in his direction with his chin, a lazy, contemptuous movement. He saw the manager lean in and say something to Geoff.

And then he saw Geoff laugh. It wasn’t a polite chuckle. It was a loud, genuine bark of amusement.

A momentary lull fell over the workshop as the engine test ended. In that pocket of relative quiet, Thompson’s voice carried, dripping with condescending glee.

“Look at him. What’s he doing? Sending smoke signals?”

The words hit Kaelen like a physical blow. Not because of the childish racism—that was just more of the same predictable filth. It was Geoff’s laughter that did it. The easy, complicit betrayal from a man he’d worked alongside for five years. In that single, shared laugh, Kaelen was no longer a colleague. He was the butt of the joke. An outsider. An other.

The wall inside him didn't just crack. It shattered.

The practised stoicism, the patient endurance, all of it evaporated in an instant. In its place, something cold and heavy began to form in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't the hot, fleeting rage he’d felt when Thompson had touched his hair. This was different. This was a cold, clear spark of fury, the kind that doesn’t burn out. The kind that waits.

He slowly lowered his hand, his expression unchanged. But inside, a switch had been flipped. The game had changed. A line had been drawn in the grease-stained concrete of the workshop floor, and Kaelen knew, with absolute certainty, that Mark Thompson was about to cross it. And when he did, Kaelen would be ready. The sanctuary had been invaded. The peace was over.