217 Babel Street | Harry's Taxi
The trick to removing unpleasantness from upholstery was ammonia. Harry kept a small quantity in the boot, along with a pair of yellow Marigold gloves, too small for his big hands. It took about half an hour of scrubbing before the stain was gone, then he filled the interior with a thick mist of Hawaiian Paradise and unwrapped a new Magic Tree to dangle from the rear-view mirror.
Blinking from the chemical fug, he distracted himself with the radio, keeping it quiet so as not to disturb the sleepers in houses nearby. It was just after five - too early for him to sleep, to late to start picking up fares again, and still too dark to start burying the daily treasure. It would be a few hours yet before Margaret woke.
On the bad days he felt as if he were caught in a loop, going back over the same old story again and again. Only the little things changed. They were bringing oxygen today to help Margaret's breathing.
When Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight" came on, Harry couldn't take the sentimentality. "Oh just fuck off," he exclaimed - too loudly, and reached for the off knob.
A light came on in one of the nearby house; a face came to the window. He reached up, switched off the interior light. Still she peered at him. He recognised her; it was the woman he'd driven home the night he'd found this parking spot. When was that? A week ago? A month? A couple of days?