Give The Devil His Due (5 page)

       ‘I'm Will, pleased to meet you.’ I shook her hand. What a gesture! WHAT A WANKER!

       With Dave probably badgering her from the moment she arrived, coupled with the professional welcome I'd just given her, she must either think (a) He must work on the door at ASDA as a greeter or (b) Shit! I've moved house to Geekland – AKA ‘Tosspot-Central’!

       What was the betting her house would be back on the market within forty-eight hours? I tried to make amends.

       ‘That's a nice little dog. What's its name?’

       ‘Maude.’

       I was lost for words. ‘Pardon?’

       ‘Maude. It was my grandmother's name.’

       The dog wasn't my kind of dog at all. It was small and poodlesque. It looked like someone had put 10,000 volts through it and unfortunately the bloody thing had survived. It would have looked more in place on top of Barbara Cartland's head than running round the park. With brown food stains round its mouth, I'm sure it probably had halitosis.

       ‘Oh, she's one of a kind. There's not another like her.’

       I thought
Thank God for that.
I changed the subject. ‘I hear you've met Dave.’

       ‘Yes, the bond dealer!’ She gave me a knowing look.

       ‘Dave's a nice guy, once you get past “the front”.’ I didn't tell her he'd been trying to camp out in my front room with the hope of seeing her in the buff.

       ‘Yes, he seems nice.’

       At this point, ‘Barbara Cartland’s wig‘ was straining like a good'un to evict a bad tenant. One of the sickly-looking white-marbled type, no doubt.

       ‘Oh Will, I haven’t got any poo bags with me.’

       CRISIS. What should I do? Do I volunteer to clear up the wig-mess or do I just hand her the bag and let her get on with it?

       ‘Here, let me.’ I put one of the gloves on and did the gentlemanly thing.

       ‘Thanks. I'll do the same for you one day.’

       ‘No need. I finished my potty training last month!’

       She laughed. Perhaps she thought I was funny. She obviously had a lot to learn. We carried on chatting as we walked. All-in-all about half an hour's worth. In that half-hour I found out quite a bit about Tegan.

       Returning from the park, we walked up the street and stood outside my house to say our goodnights. She had her back towards my side of the street. It was then that I noticed my body-parts weren't the only things doing a bit of twitching. Dave's curtains were so animated it was almost as if they were trying to transmit a Morse code message. What on earth could it be?

       ‘I--S-A-W--H-E-R--F-I-R-S-T.’ I reckoned that the green-eyed monster was lurking within – and he was angry!

***

An hour or so later I called Phil. ‘Hi Phil, what's happening?’

       ‘I'm slowly turning into a vegetable.’

       I was curious. ‘Which type?’

       ‘Cabbage or perhaps couch potato, I guess.’

       ‘Strange, I'd see you as less of a vegetable, more of an ugly fruit.’

       ‘Very droll, Rees – for someone with an IQ of less than fifty.’

       ‘Thanks Phil. Do you fancy me putting a stop to your boredom?’

       ‘How are you going to do that?’

       ‘Well how's about I take you off to some exotic location at the end of next week?’

       ‘Wales?’

       ‘Fuck no. Peach has invited us both to London for an exciting weekend!’

       ‘Excellent! Whereabouts in London?’

       ‘He didn't say. What he did say was that he'd phone with all the details Friday morning.’

       ‘Why the last-minute thing?’

       ‘He's got some course or other going on, so hopefully he'll be free by the afternoon – that's why he doesn't want to commit till Friday.’

       ‘Fair enough. So we're in for a replay of last week then.’

       ‘Er, not exactly. No, Neil.’

       ‘Ah, so those two have had a lover's tiff?’

       ‘Probably.’

       ‘Oh well,
c'est la vie
. Roll on Friday.’

       ‘Yes indeed.’ I didn't mention Tegan. I wasn't quite ready for the Spanish Inquisition. ‘I've got to go Phil. My grub's ready to come out of the oven.’

       ‘No probs. Call me back after you've eaten, if you manage to stay awake.’

       ‘OK.’ We put our respective phones down and I returned to my thoughts about Tegan (who was way out of my league – and I wouldn't be getting involved with) and dinner: lamb shanks with rosemary and red wine sauce, not half as grand as it sounded. They were out of a foil packet. It looked like the lamb must have been reared in Ethiopia during the height of famine, or else it was a relative of Tegan's dog. Whichever, I had the feeling my hunger pangs would not have abated by the end of this meal.

       Meal over, I didn't fall asleep, but didn't call Phil either. I'd give him a bell over the next few days. I got heavily into some programme on the TV about snakes and how you shouldn't handle a python any longer than nine feet without someone else present. Apparently the snake could quite possibly eat you, anchoring its fangs into your shoulder then slowly constrict around your torso as you exhaled until you could no longer inhale. Then as your brain starved of oxygen, it would consume you at leisure. The narrator was more than keen to reveal the stats of how many people had been enjoyed by pythons this way … nice. My hunger pangs were no more. I made a mental note: must monitor Dave's movements over the next few days. If spotted anywhere near
World of Reptiles
on the retail park, seal up letterbox immediately.

Chapter 3

Friday 5.45 a.m.
After taking the dog out for a constitutional, I began work at an ungodly hour. A ridiculously early start was a killer. It never ceased to amaze me why I did things like this when there were very few jobs about at these times. The taxi business in the town was pretty over-subscribed to put it mildly. All it usually meant was that by two in the afternoon I was nearly falling asleep at the wheel.

       I turned my mind to other things, and kept on planning the next week's outing. A change of scenery would do me good. I’d already made the decision not to take the car, certainly not as far as London anyway. I might drive to Phil's but trying to park in London was always a nightmare, both in terms of inconvenience and car park charges. And driving all day long for a living, the thought of becoming everyone’s chauffeur for the weekend didn’t exactly have me jumping for joy.

       Around 11 a.m. I called in at mum's for a cup of tea. The usual stuff, loads of chat about absolute rubbish. My mother still had her fridge signs up.

       As far back as my memory could recall she had always done this. She’d write on a Post-it note and stick it on the front of the fridge: ‘Marion, you weigh 12 stone 9 pounds 2 ounces’. I never understood the ‘2 ounces’ bit. Shouldn't you just concentrate on sorting the ‘12 stone 9’ bit out first, and then worry about the 2 ounces?

       She was always keen on custard slices. I was more of a coffee-puff man myself, but couldn't eat them in the car. The cream and icing would get everywhere. Tea break over, it was back to work. The day went OK until late afternoon. I knew as soon as soon as I heard the dispatcher give me the address for the pick up, my luck had run out.

       Chelsea Drive was about as far removed from Chelsea as you could get, and unlike televised darts matches, number 180 was not a number that provoked any cheering as far as I was concerned. Steven Morris lived at 180 and he could truly lay claim to the title
World's Smelliest Man
. Words could not accurately describe this man's whiff. It was vile.

       Months’ old faecal matter probably formed the base of his fragrance, while a combination of dried urine (mainly his own), stale sweat and general ‘cheesiness’ of both the foot and arse variety made up the remainder. The ratio of ingredients was his own closely-guarded secret. Probably with the help of scientific analysis, even the most accomplished of perfumers would have found it nigh on impossible if asked to replicate it. There were several problems associated with carrying this man.

       First, he insisted on sitting in the front of the cab, which in itself was an unpleasant enough distraction when you were trying to drive. Don’t forget the fact that after he'd been in the car you were going to have to drive round (at high speed) with the windows down for about half an hour in an effort to remove his musk from the vehicle.

       Second, was his stammer. Although I realised a stammer to be an awful thing to go through life with, and I do really sympathise with anyone who is unfortunate in this regard, Steven Morris's stammer was horrendous. You’d have to wait while he tried to tell you where he was going.

       Last (alloyed with Morris‘s second problem), were his overactive salivary glands. You could pretty well guarantee that during the course of a journey, if he tried to engage you in conversation you were going to get at best a light spraying. At worst, it was something that should carry a severe weather warning. Don't forget the saliva he produced stank almost as much as he did.

       So, when on this particular afternoon I was asked to go and pick him up, I was less than enthusiastic. I arrived at the address and Morris was waiting outside, unshaven with stains all over his trousers and quilted anorak. How I wished it was deep midwinter and I had a cold. He got in. I asked him, ‘Where are we off to then?’

       ‘A-teh-teh-teh …’

       A fleck of spit hit my cheek. This was starting to get on my toot.

       ‘A-teh-teh-teh …’

       Another two flecks shot in my direction, this time landing on the left lens of my driving glasses. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I was like one of those kettles with a little whistle attached, just on the threshold of boiling point.

       ‘A-teh-teh-teh-teh …’

       Then – daymare – as if in slow motion, a huge globule left his tongue. My eyes transfixed in horror as I tracked its flight path. Like a Tomahawk missile it dipped below my radar to avoid detection before the moment of impact. I had followed it with absolute dread. Now, in a nanosecond that seemed like an eternity, my life flashed before me. I hadn't said goodbye to the dog; I hadn't told my mother she didn't always talk crap and I hadn't spent up to my limit on all my credit cards. My time had come too soon!

       The globule entered my lower peripheral vision and then it struck … my bottom lip. Unadulterated shock produced an involuntary response. My jaw dropped, my mouth agape; suddenly, aided by gravity and the newly provided momentum of the moving jaw, the globule moved southward and into … my mouth! I tasted what Steve had for breakfast, and he'd had bum nuggets on toast!

       ‘A-teh-teh-teh…’

       ‘Shut up, SHUT UP, FUCKING SHUT UP!!’

       My rage was all consuming. Morris moved against the back of his seat, his eyeballs were no longer eyeballs; they were golf balls. He had reason to worry. One false move and I would have wrung his bloody neck with my bare hands. Terror reigned supreme.

       I grabbed the two-way radio mic that allowed me to speak to the job dispatcher. ‘Where's he going?’ The dispatcher didn't answer.

       ‘I SAID, WHERE'S HE GOING?’

       ‘Woolworth’s.’

       I turned to Morris and he edged further back into the seat. I stared at him and growled very slowly. ‘Woolworths starts with a "wuh" not a "teh". Have you got that?’ He just nodded, abject fear in his eyes.

       I drove him to Woolworth’s in silence. I dropped him off at the back of the store where there was a layby to pull in. The fare was £4.50. He gave me a stinking £5 note and quickly got out of the cab not waiting for change. I kept the fiver separate from the rest of my money. I'd be looking to off-load that at the soonest opportunity – even his money was rancid. I phoned my mother.

       ‘Have you got any Propranolol there?’

       ‘I think so.’

       ‘Well find 'em! ‘cause I'm coming over.’ If only cabs had the drop-down oxygen masks that they have in aircraft. A simple sensor detects the ripeness of the customer. Stinker gets in and hey presto! Mask on, business as usual.

       By the time my mother had peeled me off the ceiling of the cab and administered the blood pressure tablets, there was nothing left of the day. She repeatedly told me. ‘
Change your job. Get a nice job in an office somewhere
… etc.’

       Nice for her; not so nice for me. I could never go back to a nine-to-five. That would kill me. I finished my fourth cup of tea for the day and went home.

       The dog was waiting as usual. It was amazing the calming effect that man’s best friend could have on me. As I sat there, stroking him with my left hand, assisted by the glass of agreeable claret in my right, my troubles ebbed away. The afternoon had drained me. Tomorrow would be another day.

       It did turn out to be just another day, and so did the next and the day after that. They all passed without major incident.

Chapter 4

Tuesday 9.27 a.m. South Wales
I was just about to leave the house for work when the phone rang. It was Phil.

       ‘Hi Will, how’ya you doing?’

       ‘Not too bad, how's yourself?’

       ‘Bit of a downer mate. I'm not going to be able to do this weekend.’

       Damn! I knew Phil was really looking forward to the London trip. ‘What's the problem?’

       ‘A project I'm writing some stuff for is way behind deadline. Not my part of it. Some incompetent who shouldn't even been given the nod in the first place has screwed up his bit. The team leader's having puppies over it, can't cope with the pressure. He's called all hands to the pumps this weekend to try and get it back on track.’

       ‘Is there no way you could bring the work with you and do it in London?’

       ‘Afraid not, I've got to be at the office where the thing's happening.’