Chapter Three, Part Three

Billy had had no fares, no calls, no nothing. He had missed three epic shots with his Nikon and one more of an arse to end all arses. His side hurt, his head felt heavy, and he was wondering if it was time for life to take a different direction.

Then the call came through and his day looked up.  He had a fare waiting for him, not only was it in the street of the running blonde – but from the very building she worked in.  Could it be?  He eyed his camera; he wouldn’t miss the next shot.  He was ready for her.

*********************************************************************

John Reynolds stared at his blank black computer screen.  This was not the first time his computer had played up, but certainly the first time it had crashed completely.  IT were idiots, they were incompetents, they were in need of being told this by John Reynolds, Head of Copywriting.  He picked up his phone, not for the first time in the last few months, but he put it down, deciding that a personal approach was what was required.

He left his office like a well-aimed arrow, head down, heading towards the IT department. And headed too eagerly for trouble.

*********************************************************************

Billy pulled up outside the Blonde Angel’s office block.  Could it be?  Would it be? He waited.  Then he could not believe his eyes.  Yes, this is why he carried a camera.

Emerging from the swing doors and strutting towards his cab was a sight to behold.

It was a man in a suit wearing 50 litres of white emulsion paint.  His hair was thick with it, his face was scarred with it, his suit was drenched in it, his shirt and tie were caked with it.  He had been gunged top to toe in white emulsion.  Evidently, he had tried to wipe it away, but with little success; and he was heading relentlessly towards Billy’s taxi.  Billy fired off a few furtive shots before the white monstrosity said “John Reynolds. Is this my cab?”

“Dunno, are you heading for Crouch End”

“Yeah” said the deeply irascible Mr Reynolds and made to open the rear door.

“Yo, Mate, no way you’re getting in this cab looking like that,”  Seeing the potential passenger looking downcast and wound up, Billy added “wait there mate, let’s see what we can do.”

Silence had reigned for five long minutes. The lights were taking an age to change. “So what happened to you,” Billy asked his rear seat passenger who was dressed in Billy’s rather gruesome overalls that lived in the smelliest corner of the boot his car – a space now occupied by J E Reynolds ex best suit.

“Some stupid moron, playing a stupid fucking trick, or more likely some fucking half wit from eastern fucking Europe skiving off early from our maintenance deptartment.”

Billy knew that silence would be the best reply, and the best way to get the story to unfold.  Sure enough, the tale continued.

“ . . . and there was no way I was going to the front door of the department, they have security locks, and I would be standing there like a lemon; but there is a rear way in through a facilities store cupboard, and access lobby, into the server room, and then out into IT – so I could take them from behind, so to speak. But as I entered the store cupboard, the door hit the shelving unit and the paint came down.  Why none of them had their lids fixed properly I have no idea. Lazy, fucking bastards!  I will find who is responsible and make them pay.  That was best my suit, cost a bloody fortune too. I woke up feeling shit, so picked my best suit to make me feel better.  Wish I hadn’t bothered now.”

J Reynolds did not stop until they got to Crouch End.  Billy waited; and took the washed, re-clad Head of Department back to work. At first his passenger seemed like a pain in the arse that deserved all he got; but calmer and more sullen on the way back he came over as a bit of a lost soul, more of a victim and actually a whole lot more human.

Not that Billy really cared, he was more keen to develop his shots – must get a digital camera sometime!

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About reneewilkins

I am a twenty-something Londoner who enjoys writing. As well as writing, I enjoy all the usual and unusual things people my age (and those older and younger) enjoy.

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