The dance more complex than the most elaborate mating ritual: Or, how to buy a new car

There comes a moment in our lives — a moment of dread and horror — when we country folk must descend, like visitors to the Underworld, to do battle in a realm of wraiths and horrid fantasy. Like avatars selecting armour to fight demons, we must gird ourselves with hours of patient study, unholy powers of resistance, X-ray specs and the mantle of cunning. Sturdy shoes, too, for kicking tyres. We’re about to buy a new car.

New, that is, to us. Too long ago, the car itself was driven from a showroom and lost half its value the moment its tyres hit the open road. The life it has led since is known only to the god of motors, its sins feebly hinted at by a sheaf — if you’re lucky — of MOT certificates and service records and a long number on the instrument panel. The person who knows most about the vehicle is, unfortunately, the same person whose interests lie in manufacturing its history, often involving the quiet old lady who once owned the car and drove it rarely, carefully and exclusively on a motorway.

As a rule, these agile historians are called Paul. What their mothers called them is anyone’s guess: Paul seems to be the second-hand car dealer’s preferred nom de guerre. Once, attempting a three-way switch for a van over the phone in Somerset, I was even co-opted into the brotherhood by a man with a gruff voice who started calling me Paul, until he realised his mistake. Jason is also quite a good name to bandy in this shadowy milieu: add it to your armoury, with my blessing.

My man came from Belorussia and had abbreviated his name to David. I met him in a compound in east London — I am inclined to believe that cars are cheaper in a big city. Dante had Virgil to guide him through the nine circles of Hell and Aeneas took Deiphobe to the Underworld, but I had Facebook Marketplace, where I tracked David down, via his Big Diesel Estate, among photographs beneath a banner warning that this deal might be a scam. I got his number off Gumtree. We were off.

'So far, I have emerged unscathed. The car runs. The boys at the garage, where I took it for the funny noise, were satisfactorily impressed'

A rule of buying a second-hand car is that, once seen, it is sold: to you. That’s unless it has obvious oil issues (although I did once buy an old car, with quite obvious oil issues, because I was ashamed of that Paul’s egregious lies and I wanted to shut him up). David was a burly, middle-aged man with good English and an engaging, open and honest manner. He buys fleet cars with high mileage and clean insides, then sells them on to people like me.

It looked clean and smart. We took it for a spin. The faint banshee wail as we cornered was nothing to worry about. David’s phone rang as I was driving and he talked levelly to a punter asking after the car. ‘If it’s still here, I will call you in half an hour,’ he replied. ‘You timed that to a T,’ I said, with a knowing smile. David looked pained. ‘It is genuine enquiry.’

A warning message told me the alarm system needed maintenance. Back at the compound I gazed fondly into those mild blue eyes and suggested £250 off for the alarm and another £250 for the funny noise. David sniffed the air of Bow. ‘It’s ok,’ he said and led me through a series of manoeuvres on my phone that gave me possession, tax and insurance on the spot.

I had come on a bicycle. I left in the Big Diesel Estate. So far, I have emerged unscathed. The car runs. The boys at the garage, where I took it for the funny noise, were satisfactorily impressed. Of course now I have the problem of getting rid of the car it replaces. I’m Paul, remember? Ring me. No timewasters.

Jason Goodwin is a writer and historian