Drop Off Point [revised]

Thursday 21^st March 2002

 

I ain’t never been in a church. Maybe, if there is a god up there, he’ll forgive me for what I’ve done. Gutting the bloke was never my intention. How was I supposed to know? He didn’t look the type to fight back. I wasn’t prepared for a wrestling match with some soft-looking geezer in his suit and tie.

 

So that’s my life down the drain. Well, over the pavement at least.

One minute you’re hailing a taxi, pissed off - with the weather, cancelled meetings and every cab that speeds past with passengers already inside, warm and on their way - the next, you’re sprawled in the gutter with your wallet on its way down the road inside a tracksuit pocket.

 There was a brief struggle for priority, between the desperate need for oxygen in my lungs and the pain in my side, which grew sharper each time I shakily sucked in some air, and then…all that went away.

 

It’s like new babies what die, innit? They’ve never been to church, so they must go straight to heaven because, like, if they didn’t know about religion, how can they be kept out for not praying and stuff like that?

 

I should have just given him the f*****g wallet. There was only about forty quid in it.

All of my cards, though. What if he’d dragged me to an ATM and I ended up in overdraft?

 

But then, new babies don’t kill anyone. I suppose that’s the difference.

 

What a pathetic thing to have died for.

 

My mate Danny says there’s a place called Limbo where babies what haven’t been baptised go. They don’t get to go to heaven or see their parents or nothing. His mum’s Catholic, so he should know.

I’m fucked.

 

 

 

  

Wednesday 21^st March 2008

 

I was seventeen then, just a kid. Doesn’t mean I don’t still think about it.

I take a walk near the station, down the same path.

No blood on the kerb, nothing like that, just the memory of it in my head. It’s busier this time. I wouldn’t get away with stabbing nobody today , it's a proper little taxi rank, people all waiting about and that; someone would see my face or come after me or remember something to tell the police after.

I think back to the weeks that followed; shitting myself whenever mum bought a paper, flinching away from headlines [HUNT FOR KILLER CONTINUES]; checking for police vans outside the front door every time I came home.

It’s all forgotten about now. Probably even his wife’s over it. Yeah, I did the guilt trip thing and read what was in the paper: wife, kids…probably a cat or something. I’m not brainy but I’ve got a good imagination. I took away a dad and a husband and a son and maybe a brother - which means maybe an uncle to countless nieces and nephews - and definitely work mates. I know he worked, because he had a briefcase, which is why I picked him in the first place: suit and tie… briefcase…flagging a taxi. Minted, I thought.

Forty quid! I sold my soul for forty quid. Like Bart Simpson…only he gave his up for five dollars.  Not that I believe in souls, life-after-death is a load of bollocks. You have to make your peace with knowing that worms and maggots are going to eat you. That’s all.

 

Hector tells me to keep an eye out for our next passenger. I tell him to f**k off and do his own job. He tells me watch my language, the boss doesn’t like it. He tries to mess with my head this way, acting like he’s in on a secret. I suspect sometimes that Hector may have as little choice in this as I do. It’s been six years since I first found myself here and he’s never left. Many others come and go, but Hector and I remain.

 

The traffic light told me to walk, I swear it did.

 

 We watch from around the corner as a young man, in his early twenties, waits patiently for the beep before crossing - model citizen, a rare breed. Having witnessed so many by now, I don’t wince, but I still feel the twinge of injustice when he is swiftly and suddenly mowed down by the gang of blatantly joyriding kids, who plough through the red lights, swerving drunkenly towards the kerb, too late to make a difference.

 

I reckon everyone says ‘nah, not me’ when it happens. I’ve seen forty-a-day smokers, puffing away in-between sucking on ventilators, look shocked when they wind up in a hospital bed with ‘cancer’ on the clipboard. Nah, not me. F*****g kids! What were they playing at?

 

We rumble forward slowly, and pause by his body. A few moments later, he is sitting beside me in the backseat. Like all of them, he wants to know what’s going on.

 

F**k me! It’s that bloke, the one I cut up - the reason why I’m walking around this side of the city, musing on the anniversary of bad times - come to collect me. Probably going to give my arse a good kicking through the Gates of Hell. Killing him is definitely the worst thing I ever did…but, still, it’s not the only bad thing. So where’s Tom White, the kid who used to cry at playtime when we’d tackle him to the ground and stuff wet grass in his mouth? He died a few years ago. Where’s Kelly “Meatball” Campbell, that fat geek who hanged herself not long after exams? I helped make her life miserable. Where’s my Nan, always leaving her f**s and purse on the sideboard within my grasp? S**t, maybe it’ll be a ‘This Was Your Life’ set-up, with random people striding out onto the stage to yell at me and sprinkle me with lighter fluid, all ready for the eternal BBQ below. Me on a rotating spit.

 

He’s staring at me open-mouthed, the nerviest-looking one I’ve seen. Poor lad.

 

Nothing’s happening. I’m confused, bricking it…and then, I work it out.

He never saw my face. How could he know it’s me? I’m six years older as well, so I probably sound different. Then again, god might have told him, and that’s why he’s here. Nah. He’d have said something by now - I don’t care if he’s a f*****g angel sharing a penthouse up there with Jesus and the donkey - if you meet your killer, you’re bound to have something to say to them.

 

Something relaxes within his mind, maybe resignation or acceptance: so that’s that, now what.

It’s human nature to adapt to changing situations. I’ve seen a lot of it by now.

He starts fidgeting about on his seat; putting his feet up, shifting his weight etc.

“F**k me,” he says. “How old’s this cab? They’ve still got signs on the fold-downs about the footy ground being under construction. They finished building that ages ago - I’ve been going there about four years.”

I feel myself fading, or everything fading around me…however it works…like I’m going to pass out. Not that you can lose consciousness when consciousness is all you are. I suspect not, anyway.

“You…you can see the same taxi as me? With the football poster?” I ask.

“Well, yeah.” He looks at me like I’m a moron.

None of the others did. Some of them saw taxis, naturally [it’s a near-perfect analogy] but never this one. This March 2001 replication.

Instantly, I know who he is.

Hector gives me a slow, conspiratorial wink in the rear-view mirror.

 

“So,” this other bloke says, sounding a bit shaky, “what were you?”

“Eh?” Maybe he means what sin is it I’m going down for.

“What did you do with your life? Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker…the dole queue, perhaps?”

“Well, it came close to queuing for me Giro, I’ll admit that.”

He grunts knowingly.

“I messed around through school, didn’t get no exams, spent a year not knowing what to do - basically getting myself in deeper s**t and all that. Then -” This is weird, it feels like a job interview with someone whose missus you’ve been shagging on the sly. “Well, then something really bad happened. It sort of turned my life around. I went back to college, took some courses, and now I’m a part-time social worker, doing volunteer work with kids the same as I was back then. Kids with learning difficulties, kids who need a second chance…stuff like that.”

Suddenly, it sinks in that I won’t be going down the centre to see the kids tonight - not ever again, in fact - and it chokes me up inside. All that progress I’d been making with Tiffany and Connor and Brett…

 

I don’t care.

OK, it isn’t what I wanted to hear, I’d wanted even more reason to hate him completely, but this ‘turn-around’ doesn’t change a thing. Plenty of other people do good deeds, without requiring the initial motivation of unprovoked murder.

“So where are we going?” he asks.

“Nowhere. We never go anywhere.”

You’d be surprised, guv says Hector.

“There’s no Heaven and Hell, then?” he asks

No, I think. There’s just chaos….although the chaos is equivalent to a personal hell.

Angered by his lack of recognition, by how clear he makes it that my life meant little to him, I demand:“Don’t you even want to know my name?”

 

I know his name already, of course; it’s engraved in my mind like trauma…but I can’t let on.

“Yeah, of course…and your driver’s name,” I say casually.

I’m not his driver, I’m just a driver.

The bloke in front - the driver - doesn’t actually speak, but I hear what he says; it’s like a buzzing inside my brain or something. Looking at him is reminiscent of trying to watch telly when a storm’s knocked over the aerial; there’s something static about him, no clear picture even if you strain your eyes.

I’m Hector.

“Good to meet you Hector.” He’s not human, could even be god himself for all I know.

“And I’m John. John Waters. No, I don’t want to shake your bloody hand!”

I drop my hand back down to my side.

Don’t mind him, guv, he’s a grumpy sod.

“For f***s sake, Hector, could you not try to understand - just one time - that I might be finding it difficult?” John screams.

This is a really messed up situation. I can’t believe I thought death was gonna be peaceful.

 

So what’s your name, guv?

Hector and his mind games. He knows the name of everyone who comes through here, he must do, if he’s so omnipotent as to be pre-informed of exactly where and when we will die. Killer, I want to say, his name is Killer, AKA destroyer of lives. But I don’t. I’m curious too; six years of mystery surrounding my assassin.

“Jason Carey, mate.”

It hasn’t taken him long to get comfortable. I’ve never once called Hector ‘mate’. 

“So what happens now?” Killer asks.

“Well...Jason, as I’ve already said: nothing bloody happens.”

“What, we just live in a taxi? Don’t be daft. Can’t we go and have a little wander, have us some Casper the Friendly Ghost time?” He reaches for the door-handle and, despite myself, I shout,

“Don’t!”

It’s awful, god it’s so awful out there. Apart from the moments of reckoning, when we approach a figure due to exit life as they know it, the windows are darkly tinted black, like a celebrity’s limousine except from the inside out - so there’s no knowing where you are. If you open one of the car doors, you find out why…it’s like staring directly into the sun’s ice-cold twin…swirling blue and white, blinding, so bright it seems to sear through your corneas …and it’s dead…dead lights…no oxygen, which shouldn’t bother someone who’s left behind their lungs…but you can feel it trying to steal whatever breath might have remained, the precious dregs at the bottom of your barrel…trying to tear apart your mind…and you know you have to look away or it’ll drown you in overwhelming insanity…but you CAN’T…

I throw my arm across my eyes to protect them as the blue seeps in through the ajar door. Jason throws himself backwards into the taxi like someone being electrocuted.

“Shut it, shut the door!” I yell, not daring to look but terrified that it might swing completely open and expose us to…well, the elements. Jason makes a dive, now also shielding his eyes, and the door slams closed with a reassuring clunk. I take my arm away from my face and see him huddled up on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, and sags sideways.

“Next time listen to me, you idiot." 

Is he OK, guv? Hector calls back, but without much concern in his ‘voice’.

“Yeah, I’ll live,” Jason calls back, and then splutters, laughing and shaking his head at the inappropriate phrase, one that can no longer be applied. For a second I think that it actually sent him mad.

 

JESUS, what the f**k what was that? It was worse than a bad trip, even brighter than the flash of white when you take a punch to the head. Felt like my eyeballs were being melted.

“I never imagined Hell being like that,” I gasp out loud.

“Why would you assume you’re in Hell?” John says quickly.

Good point.

“Well it’s not exactly orgasms and pasties out there, so I assume it weren’t Heaven.”

He laughs a little bit, but then stops like he’s pissed off with himself for finding it funny. Score: 1-nil.

“Have you ever gone out there?” I ask him.

“Gone out? What, do you mean like step outside…into THAT? Would you?”

Another good point. Not for all the cherub sex in the world.

 

He should be in Hell. Someone’s dropped the ball on this one. None of this lovey-dovey, last-minute Redemption, I’m-a-social-worker-now bollocks. That’s where newborn Christians always got it wrong, I used to think. It’s like they all skipped the first half of the Bible, omitted the wrath of God, and went straight to Jesus healing the sick. No f**k-ups allowed, that’s the rule of the clubhouse. Not that I’m a Christian or believe the Bible, particularly not now. Don’t try and tell me Hector is Jesus in disguise; the first time I opened that taxi door all he had to do to set himself off laughing was look back at my ashen face in the rear-view. Still, I never have approved of the new-age, wishy-washy, pic’n’mix religious ‘experience’. I decide to demonstrate to Jason his mate’s impassivity and call out,

“Are we in Hell now, Hector?”

That’d be telling, guv.

“Don’t tit about, Hector. Where are we? Where we going? Or don’t you know?” Jason pipes up.

It’s up to you, old son. I’m a taxi driver. Where do you want to go?

This is a new answer. Jason and I exchange a quick look.

“How much to get to Heaven? You got the meter running?” he jokes.

I’ll have to check my A-Z; I don’t know that one.

“So you’ve never been to Heaven?” I say.

Silence.

“So much for Rest in Peace,” Jason mutters to me. “This is a mind f**k.”

I shuffle further along the backseat to stop him getting too chummy.

“So how long did you say you’ve been in this thing?”

“I didn’t,” I reply. “But about six years.”

Jason lets out a long whistle.

“Me, I dunno if I can take it for another six minutes. We got to figure something out.”

“Yeah, thank Christ you’re here. I’ve spent the last six years sitting around on my arse, having a cozy little daydream. But now, phew, you’re right! We should try wondering what’s going on! F*****g eureka!”

“Sarcastic b*****d, ain’t you?” he mutters and turns away.

You two having a nice chin wag back there?

“We’re conspiring,” I say. “Your mate Jason’s got it all sussed: we just need to put our heads together and have a nice think…”

Hector slams the brakes on so hard that Jason and I fly forward and smack our faces off the glass protector; it’s been years since I stopped wearing the seatbelt. Ah, the erosion of life-preserving habits…

Right, out you get.

Jason rubs at his nose. “Take it easy on the pedals, mate, yeah?”

I said: right, out you get.

“You’ve got to be taking the piss? I’m not going out there, it’s all mental and freezing.”

“He’s right Hector,” I chime in anxiously. “We can’t go out there.”

Cheerio.

With that, the taxi disappears from around us.

 

You know the saying ‘out of the frying pan, into the fire’? Well for us it’s out of the mysterious taxi and into the desert. We’re not standing in that scary, soul-sucking blue light, instead we’ve landed in some kind of barren wasteland. Everything’s brown and starved; there are a few trees around but they’ve withered up and died.

“Like a metaphor, innit?” I say to John, because someone’s got to be the first to speak.

John’s on his knees with his head hanging down, all despairing like, but at the sound of my voice he lunges up at me, eyes blazing.

“You...f*****g...moron!” he screams.

I hold up my hands in a surrender pose, like when your mate spills out of the bar searching for a fight and you have to calm him down with your body language before he’ll listen to anything.

“Whoa, John, take it easy yeah?”

He’s scrabbling at my neck, trying to get a good grip so he can throttle me. I push him away, a bit rougher than I meant to, and he falls on his arse in the brittle-yellow grass at our feet.

“It’s not my fault, mate,” I say.

“I AM NOT YOUR SODDING MATE! It is your fault…been in that taxi…six years…you come along… wreck everything. Take a bleeding look around at where we are!”

“We were in a taxi illusion. Going nowhere,” I remind him.

He puts his head in his hands, more or less sobbing.

“But I had a contact, someone higher up…Hector…now I’m alone. With you!”

He spits the last sentence in disgust.

“Thing is…I think this has, like, significance. Yeah? Something’s triggered this. He put us here for a reason. D’you get me? We’ve not just been dumped in the middle of nowhere for sweet FA.”

John’s head goes still, like he’s concentrating too much to keep on crying.  Then he shakes it.

“No. No. All alone. This is Hector’s idea of a joke…he’s had it in for me from day one. It’s hopeless. Completely f*****g hopeless…”

I can’t let him go on like this, he’s upset and shaking and stuff.

“Look, get up,” I say.

He glares up at me. “What would be the point?”

“Get up…you tosser. I’m not messing about. Up.”

I poke his leg with my foot. He pushes it away.

“Three seconds before I kick the s**t out of you. Get up. Come on. I’m taking charge for a bit, we’re going to take a look around and sort this out.”

He doesn’t move; obstinate twat.

“UP! One…two…I’m not kidding…two and a half…”

He lunges to his feet for a second time. Lunge II: the sequel.

“Don’t you think you should be avoiding violence as a solution?” he says. “What if someone’s watching, what if they’re tallying up your sins right now?”

“That’s the spirit, now we’re talking! Yeah, someone might be watching. This might be a test. Good thinking. Right, which way should we walk " toward that dead tree or the other one?”

 

Perhaps I should have let him put the boot in. One: it would ensure that, if we’re not there already, Jason will be going to Hell. And two: I’m suddenly intrigued to know whether the deceased can hurt each other. It’s not like we properly exist; we have no blood so surely can’t bruise; no bodies, so surely our bones can’t break? On impulse, I flick his ear.

“Ow! What you doing?”

“Testing a theory,” I reply grimly.

“OK,” he says.

We’re tramping across this wasteland towards one of the dead trees; why, I don’t know. Wherever we are, the murderers are in charge. It could easily be Hell.

“Gives it more feeling of ceremony, don’t it, under a tree?” Jason asks.

I look ahead. The tree is bare and broken; gnarled and bent over like a tortured old woman.

“No.”

He gives the tree a cursory glance.

“No, alright. But it’s something solid to stand next to. All that nothingness was freaking me out.”

He pats the tree, caressing its stumpy branches.

Unable to help myself, I also reach out and touch it.

“OK,” I sigh. “Now what?”

We both have a hand splayed out on the tree’s trunk like kids playing: we're on Den.

“Right. Look…the thing is…I think the only way we can get out of here is if I’m honest with you…if I confess. It - it was me. OK? Me. I’m the little s**t that killed you and took your wallet.”

I feel suspended on the brink of time. The words have been spoken, the truth is out there.

I swallow hard and say, “I know you are.”

“I’m really, really sorry John. I can’t even describe how sorry.”

We both pause, waiting for a clap of thunder or a booming voice from overhead - something dramatic. Nothing happens. The wasteland is a vacuum, with no breeze to disturb the grass or changes in light or temperature.

Jason shakes his head.

“S**t, it’s not enough. I think - they want you to forgive me…”

He steps away from the tree and looks up at the ‘sky’.

“How’s he meant to do that? I killed him! I took away his life! You can’t just say alright, fair enough, forget about it. For f***s sake, it’s asking too much. Just take him to Heaven, will you? I - I’ll stay here, it’s only fair, but let him get on with his…death, will you?”

His words are loud but fall horribly flat. There’s nothing for them to echo off.

“Don’t shout,” I whimper.

 

God isn’t your mum. God isn’t a dinner lady. You can’t say ‘sorry Jamie, for pushing you over’ with your fingers crossed behind your back and expect to get away with it. He knows s**t. John can’t fake this, he’s going to actually have to forgive me and we both know that’s not going to happen. Unless…well, sometimes when you get to know a person and you like them, it doesn’t matter what they’ve done in their past because it’s who they are in the here and now that matters. I had a girlfriend once who was a total slag for years but she loved me and I loved her and that’s what counted, not how many STDs she’d narrowly avoided contracting before she met me.

Maybe it’ll just take time.

I say, “I think I see another dead tree over there. About a mile walk. You up for it?”

John nods glumly, so we peel ourselves away from the confessional tree and begin the long trudge towards the first tree of unforgiving. I suspect there will be many more.

 

 

Hey Hector, welcome back.

 

Hey.

 

Where’s your regular passenger, the one who got stabbed?

 

Huh, don’t even mention that prick. I ended up with him AND his killer. Left them sweating it off in one of the Fifth Dimension wastelands. Heaven this, Hell that. Got f*****g sick of it.

 

Hey, I know what you mean old son. What’s wrong with these humans, why they so confident that there’s some kind of system in place? They’d pass over a lot quicker if they stopped worrying so much about what it all Means.

 

Tell me about it. I’d have been better off missing John Waters off my list. Let him spend eternity as a bitter ghost.

 

So you going back for them later?

 

Yeah, soon as the third party arrives I’ve got to go back, set up a meeting.

 

Which Fifth Dimension wasteland did you leave them in?

 

…

 

Hector?

 

S**t. Pass me that A-Z, please?

 

 

 

“John?” he says.

“What?”

“I am sorry, John. I wasn’t just saying it ‘cos God might have been watching.”

We’ve been trudging towards the second tree for a long time. It seemed like a good idea when Jason first suggested it but I’m now convinced that the tree is a mirage. We’re no closer to it than when we started.

“John?”

What does he want me to say? Don’t worry about it kid, everything’s hokey-dokey now?

“Did you have fun spending my money?” I ask.

“I " I never spent it. I put it in a box under my bed. So I’d never forget what a bad thing I done. I took it out the day I started working at the Centre, just held it in my hands and looked at it ‘cos finally I was doing something towards making up for it.”

We trudge a little further.

“John?”

“What?”

“I made that up. I spent it on weed. Sorry.”

Figures.

 

I know it’s wrong to be angry with John. He doesn’t owe me s**t, it’s me who owes him. Still, I’m trying my best to make things better, to keep his chin up when he’s feeling all desperate and abandoned…and he just throws it back in my face every time.

“You can punch me if it makes you feel better. I won’t dodge it.”

“I thought you said this was a test? How is that going to look, if we meet God and you’ve got a black eye?”

I snort; I can’t help it. “You reckon you could give me a black eye?”

He stops walking and turns on me. “Listen, I’ve spent six years thinking up hideous tortures to put you through…so yeah, I reckon I could manage to give you a black f*****g eye!”

“Yeah, sorry. Fair enough.”

“Sod this!” he snarls. “You carry on this way, I’m going THAT way. I don’t give a s**t where it takes me, just as long as I don’t have to spend my afterlife with you.”

I watch silently as he storms off, knowing that I’ve failed. Then, suddenly, he disappears from sight.

“John!” I leg it after him, thinking that maybe he fell down a hole. But there’s no sign of him. I figure God gave him a break, took him up to Heaven. I’m glad for him " but it sort of implies I’ll be wandering around the wastelands forever. Sighing, I turn around to continue heading for the second tree…and bump into John.

 

So it’s no bloody use…whenever I try to walk away, I pop back up next to him.

“Well…in a way, that’s good news, ain’t it? Somebody’s keeping an eye on things here.”

“Somebody’s having a laugh at my expense, that’s what’s happening!”

“There’s got to be a reason for it. There’s something we’re supposed to be doing.”

We’ve already established that I can’t forgive him. He destroyed my life and I’ve spent six years thinking about nothing else - how can they expect me to feel anything other than bitter resentment?

“YOU killed ME. There’s something YOU’RE supposed to be doing. Don’t drag me into this crap.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Maybe you sinned accidentally or something?”

Is he seriously suggesting that I’m as liable for atonement as a murderer?

“Otherwise, why would you be here? It ain’t fair to punish you at the same time, unless -”

“F**k off! You and your theories can take a running jump.”

“You gay?”

“F**k off!”

“Wife beater? Paedo?”

My fists are swinging and he goes down. Finally, I understand the phrase ‘blind rage’: I register nothing except the feel of my knuckles pounding his body. “Don’t...you...talk...about...my...wife...you...murdering...piece of s**t! You’re...not...fit...to lick...her boots!”

 

Again, God is not a dinner lady. No one’s coming along to break this up. It could go on for eternity, or at least until John’s arms give out. Back in real life, in a bar or whatever, I could beat my way out of this but I told him to punch me and wound him up until he did, so I just have to lie there and take it. He’s kneeling on my chest and I’m suffocating but technically I can’t suffocate because I’m dead so I don’t breathe any more. This isn’t exactly a comfort though, as my vision starts to swim and my lungs beg to burst.

“John…mate,” I gasp. “Stop it now. Please.”

Weirdly, he does. He drops his fists, shuffles off my chest and crawls a few feet away from me. I pant like an overheated dog for about a minute, and it’s not until my heart calms down that I can hear John sobbing again. I scoot towards him.

“It was supposed to help,” I say lamely.

“My hands hurt,” he sniffles. “Why do my hands hurt, they don’t even exist…”

“Well, my whole body hurts, if that helps?”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Good. Would that be Heaven for you, if you could just punch me forever? ‘cos it would be Hell for me, and that makes sense, right?”

“I don’t think Heaven’s full of people beating up their enemies…arrgh, what am I talking about? I don’t believe in Heaven. And this definitely isn’t it.”

Anxiously, I look round. “John, I don’t think you should bad-mouth Heaven…just in case.”

“You heard what Hector said: there is no Heaven.”

“Maybe he’s just never been there, maybe that’s someone else’s job.”

We sit quietly for a long while. I start thinking that neither of us will ever speak again, and wondering how long it will take before that sends me insane, when John says,

“Say something.”

 

Anything is better than being left alone with my own thoughts. We’re trapped in the most depressing place I’ve ever visited, with no sign of hope. I don’t even have the option of suicide. Although I can’t bring myself to make small talk with Jason, although his presence makes me sick, I need to hear human noise. I lie back on the hard sand and close my eyes; if I can’t see him, perhaps I can pretend it’s someone else.

“Sure, ok,” he says. “Like what?”

“I don’t care.  Just start talking.”

“Erm…two pints and a packet of dry roasted please. Yeah, one’s for John. What you drinking, John? Oh, he wants a Guinness. Lager and a Guinness please…”

“A bitter,” I correct him, and then squeeze my lips together. It’s cheating if he pulls me into his game; I want background noise, not interactive role play.

“Sorry, make that a bitter please Tommy. Yeah, so good game last night. 3-1, weren’t it? Yeah I only caught the first half. I think John watched it though. John, what did you think?”

“I don’t want to talk to you Jason.”

“You’re not talking to me, you’re talking to Tommy innit. I’m not even here now, I’ve gone to the bogs.”

“Well…Tommy…they had some good penalties. To be honest, I don’t give a toss about football.”

“Oh right,” says Jason, in a mock-Irish accent. “Why’s that then?”

“It’s overpriced hooliganism.”

“I t’ink we should change the subject then. You enjoying the bitter?”

“Yes, it’s nice thanks. I’ve not had a drink in six years. Hits the spot.”

“You’ll be drunk before the night is through then, is that not so, John?”

“I suppose you’re right…Tommy.”

“Dancing on the pool table and all?  Ah begorrah!”

Jason pauses, presumably trying to think of another conversational topic. Seized with an urge to take another swipe at him, verbally this time, I jump in.

“Did you read about that killing in the paper, Tommy? Teenage thug knifed a bloke on his way home.”

“Is that so, John? Terrible world we live in, eh?”

“Not a bad world, Tommy. Some terrible people living in it though.”

“If they catch him, he’ll go down for life John, don’t you worry.”

“I doubt it. He’ll maybe do ten years. Pathetic. Besides, what if they don’t catch him?”

 

Screw the Irish accent. Why is he trying to ruin it when we might have made some headway?

 

Author's Note

Big thank you to the people who reviewed this previously; you were a great help last night, I took your words home and used them as a sounding board.
This story is a lot closer to finished than it was before, but I think it still needs fixing and tweaking.
Could you let me know any places that need more description, any places where the dialogue seems off and any other problems you spot, please? Thanks, much appreciated.

Reviews

[ganymeder]

Well, I thought the style of having the main characters talk in regular type and italics and red was a really interesting device. I'll admit, I had to read the first couple sections twice before I caught on, but once I did I was hooked.

It's a very cool concept. I like that John winds up "welcoming" (for lack of a better word) his killer to the afterlife, an afterlife that he never believed in. And he didn't recognize him.

Aside from it being a little confusing until you get the idea of what you're doing with the italics and regular type, I'm not sure what to suggest. I think its worth pursuing as a longer story. What would naturally flow from this situation? Maybe John and his killer could be forced together for extended time, eternity? I don't know... Maybe Hector instigates that they stay together. John and his killer become friends, and the reason they had to be together was because forgiveness is part of the healing process for both main characters. That could make the afterlife Heaven instead of hell. Or Hector could be the devil, John not such a nice guy, and they're in hell? Or maybe the killer was a good person when he died, but John wasn't... It could just be pergatory, a pit stop on the way up or down. I mean, there are so many ways you could go with this story. You could put all sorts of twists in it. I'd definitely pursue it.

Thank you for posting this. Please let me know if you post a follow up! :)

[Tony]

I read this again to expose the 'missing' thing I felt here.
One of the things I like about your work is the way I feel when I read it. For whatever reason, this story seemed to carry a distracting element. What I mean, I think, is that usually, your stories do the walking, and leave the imagination free to wander the sidestreets of the story.
In this one, I can't seem to get out of the damn taxi.
It is a good story, your imagination knows no boundary.
Thanks for sharing.

[Kairi_Lynn]

Nice and easy read, I suggust though that you revise the begining, to me and as I read it, it did'nt seem to flow the right way like the rest of the story, A little confusing at first too. But for me I caught on quickly; it was a fantastic concept and other than thoese two things the story was fantastic.

[Tony]

Upon finishing my first reading, I am a bit confused. As Mick above says, this is an extremely complex undertaking. I find the story very interesting, with your usual twisted points of view, but I feel as though there is something missing here. Perhaps a bit more disclosure about the Gods and Demons and thier inner workings, the A-Z if you will. But then, I also hate overdescription, soo....
Well, I like it C, but I am going to have to read it again.
Hope that helps you a bit......

[Emily B]

I got stuck a little here . . . The traffic light told me to walk, I swear it did.

Never quite got back in the rhythm until Hector came back to finish off the story. I love the way it ends.

[Susan S.]

This is a hell of a piece. There is so much wedged in there!

We think we have a handle on this whole thing. Reading the others I got that impression strongly. What if we really don't know these three? What if the perpetrator really is an innocence? His life is turned around, but neither he nor his victim has forgiven him. Until that happens there is no redemption for him.

John is perceived as the one wronged. What if the reason John was in that place at that time was that he was late seeing his paramour? On top of that he could have been embezzling from the company for years. ...or pimping pot or harder drugs. As the story continues, this can be pulled from him reluctantly.

As for Hector, he could be the original owner of John's company, dead for many years. John would have never seen him, but Hector would be hard pressed to forgive John either.

Hector could even be a new soul. Perhaps to eventually become a man of power. Maybe Pope, maybe President but he will have influence and power. He could be the real primary character here. Perhaps it is necessary for him to find a way to reconcile these two characters. To make them both forgive the other. Upon forgiveness, they will fade just as the others have. Only they will end up on earth, twins or destined to be facing each other in battle or in court or in a reversal of roles. If they follow the same pattern, they end back up on the taxi with Hector and if they follow a different way, they are redeemed.

As I was writing this, I realized there were at least another half dozen ways this could go. Weather you take pieces of my list or become inspired to make your own, I wish you luck. Maybe this massive missive will get your juices flowing.

Let me know when you've worked on it more. I'd love to find out where you went with it.

Susan S.

[Emily B]

Here I am again, you had me until the last two lines. I'm not sure what threw me off there . . . but I like the chaos idea.

[mick weller]

This is a tremendously complex undertaking...
two opposing characters - so very different... yet so much in common, being human...
reliance on complex textual structure too...

I think dropping straight into the action is good - very good.. but... and it's a big BUT

straight away I have a problem with the villan:
'Knifing the bloke was never my intention' - see, already he's too nice... " - I never mean't to stick the f****r would be more believable (?)
...then when I read that the victim is lying in the gutter wondering about being in the red - suddenly it's got to be a comedy - ah! I get it....
but no, the bad guy's got a conscience - in fact he's just got too much conscience...

it's kind of 'Peepshow' funny...
- but then it's not - it's serious - and:

"but I've lost my grip on the original plot..."

so have I - and I'm just the reader...

- and then you explain it all:

' "So where are we going?" he asks.

"Nowhere. We never go anywhere."
This is a really messed up situation. I can't believe...'

I know where you're coming from...

I like the idea behind this piece - eternal damnation in a taxi (?) I don't know..
I think you need to look at your characters in more depth to start with - I think you should look at dropping any third character cos' even you meet the complexity here:

I'm not his driver, I'm just a driver. The bloke in front, the driver, doesn't actually speak, but I hear what he says; it's like a buzzing inside my brain or something. I'm Hector.

"Good to meet you Hector." He's not human � could even be god himself for all I know.

But YES this is definitely worth saving. Did you make any notes? Have you got anything to fall back on?
Life experiece? There must be something that originally inspired this piece..?
as it is it's very demanding on the reader... but its a terrific idea!
So it's good, could be masterly, but I think it needs a kick up the arse basically - Stick with it!

[NCPanthersgurl]

Perhaps rereading it a couple times and maybe re editing would help you regain the plot? If not I'd definatley try to continue with what you have.

[Kevin Andros]

Well this is a totally gripping read. this is what I call heavy material. I have a choice for heavy things by the way. I like listening to heavy metal, if that's a starter.

Anyway, It's nice to written as point of a journal with two persons speaking simultaneously. One cannot decipher the meaning of this peice with just a light read. This is something that demands one attention. You cannot read this while munching of a sandwitch or while listening to music or arguing with your brother. The reader has to give this peice his full and undivided attention.

I couldn't relate as to why this sentence was placed at its place, however.

Nothing’s happening. I’m confused, bricking it…and then, I work it out.

And in this sentence,

“So,” this other bloke says, sounding a bit shaky, “What were you?” (how can you Sound shaky?)

Apart from these, I enjoyed it a lot. Kinda dark stuff, but I enjoyed nonetheless. ~KA~

[TL Boehm]

I would definitely continue with it. Its a complex story - not one of those things one can just skim and say - oh how nice - and move on....This one demands the readers full attention - its dark in a sublte, almost dry way - and it could go anywhere from this point. I enjoyed the irony in it myself.