Odyssey of the Fly, Prose
London, 2014
It’s around 3 in the morning. I talk to a verbose Irish man who invokes his crucifix and tells me he’s scared to go back to his family. He doesn’t want them to ‘know how he lives’. Around us hovers his colleague, a Londoner, who’s deep into his second four-pack and is talking to the buildings. A hybrid car swings round the corner and stops a few feet away from us. The driver is distant and, by rote, says to the two men, ‘I’ve got a job for one of you’. He then notices me and asks, ‘He’s not police is he?’ I tell him no and the Irish man backs me up, then murmurs to the Londoner, ‘You can take this one’. The Londoner moves urgently to the car, straightening his coat, and climbs into the passenger seat. They depart without another word and the Irish man turns his attention back to me and carries on, unfazed. After some time, he makes as if to leave. I give him the coins I have in my pocket and tell him to take care.
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