Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller by Anthony O'Brien Page A

knitted black
shawl. Gold framed spectacles sit on the end of her nose. She smiles and
gestures that he’s welcome to step inside. The living room is dark and dismal;
the walls covered in a chaos of graffiti, mathematical and religious symbols.
He reads a few of them, realizes that they mark important family dates: births,
marriages and deaths. There’s a child drawn inside the womb alongside his own
birth date. The old lady reaches out and takes him by the hand towards a cellar
door; red letters are sprayed across it: ‘The end is near.’ Jeff reaches for
the door handle; before his hand touches she calls out his name. He looks to
her as she shakes the side of his arm, only to see her face morph into Eve.
    “Jeff.”
    “Uh.”
    “Wake up.”
    “I’m sorry.” Realizing it
was a dream, he manages a lethargic smile. “I must have nodded off.”
    “Come on, sleepy head, it’s
time to get ready.”
    Jeff gets to his feet and
can’t help but stare. Eve stands before him with sparkling eyes, wearing a
black dress and a beautiful smile. With her slim waistline and seductive legs,
Jeff can't stop his body's reaction. Yet he’s wise enough to understand that
one uninvited touch will destroy any chance he may have later tonight.
    “You look beautiful.”
    “Thank you. Now go and get
yourself in that shower.”

 
    Taxi drivers in New Orleans
see human nature at its best and worst. Many are well-educated, interesting:
individuals who find themselves chained to their steering wheels, working hard
to support families. Alberto is such a driver; he’s seen more than most, and
yet he is a delightful guide with a wealth of local knowledge. This can lead to
an enjoyable night out at a local watering hole, or an expensive night in
casualty for the less-than-polite tourist. He drives into the Pink Lady car
park; after thirty years in the business he knows every street, all the
celebrities, hustlers, room numbers.
    “Taxi’s here.”
    Jeff and Eve radiate
anticipation as they walk towards the cab. Alberto reads them in an instant as lovers,
tourists and an easy fare. He steps out of the car and opens the rear door.
    “Thank you.”
    Eve steps inside closely
followed by Jeff; both are clearly excited. The door is closed, and Alberto
gets back into the driver's seat.
    “Good evening.”
    “Good evening; would you
take us to Bourbon Street please?”
    “Sure.” The white limousine
leaves the Pink Lady behind, and starts the journey towards the heart of New
Orleans. “First time here?”
    “Yes, we arrived earlier
today.” There’s a slight pause before Jeff asks. “Could you recommend a nice
restaurant or bar for the evening?”
    “What flavor you looking
for? We got bars, night clubs, casino, jazz and blues. Don’t just stop at
Bourbon Street; Frenchman Street will give you the best live music.”
    “Quintessentially New
Orleans, but also cozy, with intimate cocktails, and a welcoming atmosphere
would be perfect.” Jeff laughs, knowing he's asking for the impossible.
    “I know just the place.”
    Jeff and Eve sit back and
enjoy the myriad of architectural styles passing by, so reflective of New
Orleans's long multicultural heritage. Stucco, wood and brick exteriors,
single, double and multi-storey houses. Roof aprons are supported by lacy
Victorian columns. Jewish and Greek Orthodox congregations stand alongside
African American store-front churches. Italians sell fresh produce and the air
is filled with jasmine blossom and spicy food. New Orleans was born from Native
Americans intermingling with African and European settlers, the city founded as
the cultural gateway into North America.
    Alberto explains the history
in many of the street names in the French Quarter. Bourbon Street isn’t named
after alcohol; Bourbon is a Royal House of France. Many are named after
Catholic saints, and Canal Street once acted as a division between cultures.
The busy streets start to narrow; horses pull carriages whilst tourists