217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
“Tell me stories Harry. I want a story."
It was Sunday. Margaret looked terrible, propped in the chair, fidgeting. Before the sickness she always used to go to church Sunday mornings. Harry never went. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe. Quite the opposite, really. That's what kept him away.
"Go on. Tell me a story." Her skin was grey. She was refusing to use the oxygen on account of the noise the pump made.
"I could read that book."
"No," she whispered. "Just tell me something. Something that really happened."
"Last night,” said Harry, struggling, “I looked in the rear-view mirror and I swear I saw this couple having it off."
"Harry!"
"It's true."
"Don't Harry."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask you to tell me dirty story."
"Sorry."
A pigeon perched on the balcony railing, head on one side, eyeing them. Margaret said, "In the back of your cab, while you were driving?"
"Yes. I think so."
"What did they look like?"
"I thought you didn’t want to know..."
"The dirty little bastards."
He knows they are both thinking of the day, was it 20 years ago now? He picked her up from Abertawe prison to drive her home, her possessions in the small paper bag they’d given her. How she'd said suddenly, "Take a left."
Why?
"Just do it for God's sake."
And that's how they’d come to the place by the river. And she'd undressed herself for him while he stood, gaping.