An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Monday, December 11, 2006

A Kerbside Fairy

Charlie took a cab back to his flat ... a very black Nigerian mini-cab pilot driving a Vauxhall Corsa that would fail any roadworthiness test you might devise no matter how slack. BIts of bodywork peeling back; deep gashes in the upholstery; gouges down both sides; and half of the front bumper entirely absent as if the Iron Man had taken a snack on this scabby morsel. Charlie was nobody's fool - he had checked that the guy knew where his place was before committing himself by entering this automotive flea pit: he had had the driver rehearse the route for him.

Sinking into the horrid and broken plastic rear seat he laughed to himself about the naivete of the "other players". Seeing the driver's face in the rear-view he realised that he was laughing out loud. It happened - to him it happened a lot. It had not been wasted effort though: he had stood outside the missing wall for a while and had studied the speech patterns and inflexions of all of them. Had stood there with his eyes closed and his ears cocked picking up every nuance.

Sonia had surprised him - she was brighter than he might have otherwise suspected. A Chechen he'd guess: and it would be a guess or rather a judgement that he'd back with money and he was no mug punter. Boris though, bothered him. That high tone was a real shock and distracted him from giving his accent the close attention it deserved - there was something distinctive about it but Charlie couldn't quite place it. He leant forward and jabbed the driver in the shoulder with his index finger -

"This'll do - I'll walk from here". The driver stood on the brakes and the Corsa slowly came to rest about 3 feet from the kerb. "It's OK I'll get another cab to the kerb ...", he stuffed a fiver into the cabby's shirt pocket and opened the kerbside door nearly unseating a bicycle courier racing past on the inside. Charlie rushed out, stood up, flicked a vee and shouted at the cyclist's back. "Careless cunt".

The cyclist braked hard ,stopped in the middle of the junction, and spun the bike around. Charlie watched him, smirking. He watched the distance between them close. He judged the distance and closing speed. The courier was fuming. His face was set in a rictus of sheer bloody mindedness. Charlie ran forward suddenly and punched the cyclist flush in the face as he was still pumping his legs vigorously. The bike went down. The cyclist went down. Charlie walked slowly away toward his flat. He looked over his shoulder, spat, and murmured, "That'll learn you - you cunt. Get some fucking manners". He registered the look of total disbelief on the cabby's face and waved him away.


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