I Am the Messenger

I miss you, Ed, I hear her say from that afternoon in the park. Even today, in the look on her face as she runs past, I can tell she's saying, I'm glad you came.

I'm glad, too, but I leave as soon as the race is done.

At work that night, it happens.

I find the stones of home.

Or to be honest.

They find me.

Working in the city, I keep my eyes open for Alice, especially if I'm near the Quay or the Cross. She's nowhere, though, which is a bit disappointing. The only repeat pickups I get are old guys who always know a better way or yuppie businessmen who are always checking their watch or talking on the phone.

It's late now, about four in the morning, and I pick up a young man on my way home. As he waves me down I size him up. He looks stable enough and not in the least like a vomiter. The last thing I need is someone throwing up in my cab this close to the end of a shift. That can ruin your night within a few regrettable seconds.

I pull over and he gets in.

"Where to?" I ask.

"Just drive." His voice is threatening from the moment he speaks. "Drive me home."

I'm nervous, but I still talk. "Where's home?"

He turns and looks at me, ominous. "Where you live." His eyes are a strange yellow, like a cat's. Short black hair. Black clothes and two more words. "Drive, Ed."

Naturally, I do as he tells me.

He knows my name, and I know he's taking me where the Ace of Clubs wants me to go.

We sit in silence awhile, watching the lights lean past. He's sitting in front, and each time I attempt to look at him, I fail. I can always feel those eyes. They seem ready to claw me.

I try to initiate conversation.

"So," I say. Hopeless, I know.

"So what?"

So I try another angle. A gamble. "Do you know Daryl and Keith?" I ask.

"Who?"

His derision of me is horrifying, but still I battle on. "You know--Daryl and--"

"Look, mate, I heard you the first time." His voice hardens further. "Mention any more names like that and you won't even make it home, I swear it."

Why, I ask myself at this point, are all the people who visit me either violent, argumentative, or both? It seems that no matter what lengths I go to, I'm always winding up with people like this in my shack or in my cab.

For obvious reasons, I don't say another word as we near town. I only drive and try to steal a few more looks at him, unsuccessfully.

"Down the bottom end," he tells me when we reach Main Street.

"Near the river?"

"Don't get smart. Just drive."

Past my place.

Past Audrey's.