trust

"Come on," he says. "We've been watching you. "

"I've run out of fuel," I say stupidly, swinging my jerry can. Bad time to run out of fuel. Shortages are rife once more. I have just run to the nearest garage to find they have only diesel. My child needs to be picked up NOW at a bus stop a good four kilometres away. I have no money on my cellphone. My husband's car is out of action because his tyre was spiked.

"Get in and we'll take you to the garage," he says.

The car is a black Merc. Three youngish guys inside. Everything my mother ever told me screams no. So I make a snap decision, and climb in.

The driver snaps down the central locking. But the windows are open. I think I could scream, if I needed to. I gabble worriedly about miscalculating how far 5 dollars of fuel will take me.

"You need to set your mileage clock," says the large one (Albert, he says he's called). They drive me to a garage. One of the three takes my jerrycan. I panic slightly, manage to unlock my door. Climb out. Get into the scrum by the pump. "How do you know him?" asks an attendant, gesturing at Albert. Who really is Albert, I wonder?

Should I slip away now? I climb back in. And of course, they drive me back to where my car sits abandoned, blinking on the side of the road. Help me pour petrol into the tank. Ask for my phone number, of course and 'phone five minutes later, just to check I'm OK.

No more, no less.