Rant by Alfie Crow Page A

out. I’m sure your average visually impaired person could get a lot from standing on a pile of broken glass, hoovering up the overwhelming smell of dog shit and the sound of an old alcoholic alternately throwing up and singing snatches of ‘I Will Always Love You’. It certainly awakened my senses.
    I forced myself to organise my thoughts. A list. A script of sorts, that’s the order of the day.
    1) I needed to think.
    2) I needed to talk to the guy who was supposed to receive the parcel delivered to me and find out where it’s from and what it’s all about. Preferably without either of us assaulting the other.
    3) Before this I needed to go home – avoiding aforementioned wife – and safely hide the gun and ill-gotten gains. Or maybe I should take the gun with me until I figured out who said recipient of hit money was.
    4) In order to do this I would have to avoid the police and/or whoever sent me the money (or rather, accidentally sent me the money – or rather again, sent the money to someone else and had probably since discovered that I was now in possession of it and wished to eliminate all trace of me, the money and the weapon before I contacted the police or ran off to wherever people who steal hit money run off to. The Costa del Sol? Brazil? Bognor?)
    I was lost for a moment in the nightmare of sitting in a “Traditional English” Taverna surrounded by wrinkly old villains with no necks and Cockney speech impediments (that’s Bognor for you), being hunted by Speedy Gonzales look-alikes, when I realised
    5) I needed to find fifty pee for a cup of tea mate.
    I shook myself out of the pleasant reverie.
    â€˜What?’ I said.
    â€˜Got fifty pee for a cup of tea, mate?’ the Whitney Houston fan bellowed at me, obviously assuming I had some kind of sensory impairment that enabled me to enjoy the hedonistic pleasures around us, not to mention his camaraderie.
    I muttered something to do with the Labour party and their promises and stupid bloody theme tunes that even I didn’t quite understand, and then an idea came to me all at once.
    I didn’t have any change on me but reached into the bag and offered the first note I came across. ‘Here, take this—’ I started to say, but he cut me off with a strangled laugh and bellowed at me again.
    â€˜NO – MATE – THAT’S – A – FIFTY – POUND – NOTE – YOU –WANT – TO – BE - MORE – CAREFUL – WHERE’S – YOUR – HELPER—’
    â€˜Shut the hell up!’ I said, in as friendly a manner as possible under the circumstances. I took off my sunglasses and fixed him with what I hoped was a steely stare. ‘Shut up and take the money and—’
    â€˜I can’t take that!’ he bellowed. ‘What d’you think I am? Some kind of scrounger?’
    I nodded blankly but he didn’t even notice in his incensed state. He leant over so that he could get a good clear spit straight into my face.
    â€˜I only want some money for a cup of tea, not to set myself up in the bleedin’ heroin trade! I don’t know what this country’s coming to, I really don’t, people making assumptions left, right and centre just because you’re a bit down on your luck. I fought for this bleedin’ country in two Eurovision Song Contests when I used to play trombone, but you just assume I’m a nobody and always have been because of my externals, but you should have a look at me internally, young fella-me-lad!’
    I shuddered so hard the gun slipped under my waistband and lodged itself firmly in the crotch of my underpants. I shuddered somewhat harder.
    â€˜Ha! That struck a chord, didn’t it! You’re not so dapper-looking yourself, but do I make assumptions about you? Well, maybe I do but they’re not all bad. Coming in here pretending to be blind – I’m sure there’s a law against that