When I arrived at the Adelaide workshop, I didn’t hesitate to enter the building. Disappointingly, there was no valet, so I had to park my own car like a pleb, but I managed. As I entered, intending to fulfil the latest condition of my father’s will, so that I can get my billions of dollars, I called out to the nearest staff member. He turned out to be the manager and had been expecting my arrival for some time.

“Ah, Mr Hunter,” the man said, “there is something your father wanted me to show you while we complete your log book service. Around Adelaide, a good log book service is hard to come by, but you’ll find that we provide the best.”

The manager took me toward the back of the shop, into his office. There, he motioned for me to take a seat across from his own. The room smelt strongly of bitter coffee, a half-full mug sitting on the desk. As the manager picked it up and took a sip, he opened a draw and began rummaging through it. Finally, he put down his cup of coffee and pulled out a photo frame. He slid it across the table so that I could have a closer look.

The picture was in black and white, depicting my father in peasant clothing. He stood with the owner, cups of thick, dark liquid in glasses they held. I assumed it was red wine. Both men looked as if they hadn’t aged a day since.

“Your father was a master at charming others,” said the owner. “He convinced almost everybody in Adelaide to come here for their car repair. Without him, I don’t think we’d be here today.”

I shook my head, hands trembling. Pushing my chair back, I stood. It couldn’t be true. There was no way that my father ever would have done service for the working class. He was a billionaire. Such work was beneath him. Surely the manager had it wrong. My father had simply donated money to this workshop. That had to be it.

Before the owner could speak another word, I left the workshop, hoping this nightmare would be over soon.

– Will Hunter