AT THE PETROL station the forecourt was empty except for my car, an old red Volkswagen that used to be Mister Salgado's. I unlocked the tank and filled it right to the top as he had taught me to. Thick fumes rose in the cold night air. Then I wrote down the mileage, the volume, the date in a little logbook and went up to the cashier to pay.The door was locked but someones face peeped from behind the reinforced service window; almost a reflection of my own. I asked him whether he was from Sri Lanka. He smiled sheepishly and nodded. I passed my money over and he punched the keys of his electronic till. Nothing happened. He hit the side of the machine and smiled again at me. Wait, wait he said. He banged it again and looked under his counter.I asked what was wrong.