Passenger on Board – short story over one week (or so)

… Once at school there was this kid in the year below (his parents were hippies or bohemians or something) who was having the crap kicked outta’ him. I saw the glasses go, fly right off his head and clatter on the floor but he wouldn’t go down – and believe me I was willing him to drop – figuring if he did they’d probably kick him a bit and maybe move on to someone else. The kid was a tryer and so I had no choice, I had to help him out. To be honest he looked as though he’d be able to take care of himself but four against one isn’t fair. That’s what I’m saying about injustice and stuff. If it had been a one-on-one situation I’d have walked on by and let him take his chance. I stopped it, picked up his glasses and tried to bend them back into shape but they just sort of fell apart in my hands … hopeless. Handing them back I informed him I was sorry for busting them and stuff and he shrugged. There were tears. Not like he was crying or anything but just like they were there in his eyes, waiting. I asked him his name and what class he was in and if he’d got any mates but he couldn’t speak and just kept shrugging. Blood started coming out of his nose ad he was wiping it on his sleeve which, to be honest made me want to puke. Awful thing was this kid wouldn’t stop following me around. Couldn’t get rid of him for months. He found out where I lived and started waiting outside the house … underneath my bedroom window. My mum wanted to invite him in ‘cos he looked … well he looked kind of pathetic I suppose. I wouldn’t let her. Funny thing is I heard this kid’s a doctor now. Guess I should sign up with him for special treatment or something but I wouldn’t know where to find him ‘ cos I can’t remember his name. They used to call him ‘Hippy’ anyway.

With the long hours and the lights and the fact I’ve got nothing to look forward to this stuff  is floating back. Stuff I thought had been buried and stuff  I didn’t even realise I’d remembered.

 Pick up at Leopold Avenue, Mansion Block. A Mr. Benson going to the hospital. Wants you to wait for him and run him back when he’s finished. 

So what? Another call like hundreds of others. At this time in the morning after the rush hour dies down we get a lot of hospital runs and old ladies going shopping. Nothing unusual. Benson is waiting outside the building in the rain, wearing a fishing hat and long coat. I’m telling you this guy obviously wears the coat indoors ‘cos it’s covered in fag burns and food. Usually I’ll help them to the car, opening the door, carrying their bags or whatever. He beats me to it though, limping towards the back door, and wrenching it open with such force it makes him go that really worrying kind of red. He dumps himself on the back seat like a breathless sack. Once settled he slams the door shut so violently that my teeth clatter.

“Where to boss?” I ask.

“The hospital. Don’t bother going around the houses either! I know the way and I know how much it is … so don’t even bother alright bud?”