Page 27 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #2

“I’m natterbean in prison four times already and
I’ll never go back...”
we can get there as quickly and as peacefully as we can.”
without his Nikes or jacket, a few farewell slaps...he took his social welfare and medical cards just so he’d forget forever who he really was, left him there at the hem of humanity for the dawn to deal with.
He adjusted his mirror to take a closer look.
He had the same mushroom pallor and knee jerkiness as the other natterbeans, but with a thin pointy face that was extra alert; a morning fox in an industrial estate looking for crane- flies. His uneven shoulders and busted nose were also a bit typical. Teeth yellow as corn on the cob, stinking of Lynx over dirt and cherry bubblegum.
“It’s nice to be nice, don’t be all rough,
bud, like one of dem bleedin’ leg breakers,”
he said, ‘Didn’t I tell ye we were going up
as far as Meath Street. I’m natterbean up at the bank, ‘ve plenty of paper on me so I ‘av. I’ll give ye extra if ye wait for uz. I’ll give ye a tenner up front now even though yezer clock only says a fiver, how’s that fur a bargain buck- et?”
“Yeah yea yea yea what did I fuckin’ tell ye, he’s a messer, don’t mind him, fuckin’ spacer so he is,” he whined into his mobile. “I’m nat- terbean up there with Natalie dis morning and she says it’s sorted, I’ve to go here first on a message, gizza buzz back in an hour.”
“Do me a favour,” he said, this time pulling the taxi over at the side of the road before they headed further into the cesspit, “Will ye try to shut your hoop on the way, I can’t concen- trate if someone is nattering constantly, noth- ing personal, I’m sure you’re a nice fella, blah blah blah, but we’ll get on much better if
Homie was a fat man on one leg with a squeegee
June is a journalist, award-winning blogger and fiction writer. She has been widely published in, among
others, The Gloss (Irish Times), The Guardian, The Observer, Sunday Times, Sunday Life, Sunday
Tribune, Sunday Business Post, Sunday Independent, Ireland on Sunday, Irish Independent, Garda
Review, and Irish Crime. 18
He was glaring at his phone, pressing on the buttons like a physio prat would on a scabby foot. “Here, bud, will ye pull over there for a second, there’s me old Homie at the corner, I owe him a fiver.”
(continued on page 35)