Clandestine meetings of the scope and scale that Trevor had suddenly become a part of had never been a part of what Trevor would have considered to be a worthwhile way to spend a Saturday evening. Certainly, Trevor would much prefer to, say, sit down somewhere, somewhere warmer, somewhere dryer, somewhere less unnerving than this place. Indeed, Trevor was standing in the middle of nowhere, in some god-forsaken park situated with a row of houses to the left and to the right, a school behind him and a dark thicket ahead. But, Trevor had begrudgingly agreed to this errand and had brought along the package that his friend, Jerry, had given him. It was a brown box about the size of a toaster wrapped in brown and clear packing tape and, knowing Jerry, probably did indeed contain a toaster. Trevor had known Jerry long enough not to ask.
And here, in the middle of nowhere, miles away from home and work, Trevor stood, waiting. It was around ten or eleven at night. The sky had taken on that dusty shade of night-time overcast and pollution highlighted by the impressively bright street lights that gave the sky that sort of rusted look, as though the sky was iron and it had wet itself. As mentioned before, the street lights were impressively bright. Trevor thought to himself that perhaps some child had been levelled at the crossing and the angry parents had petitioned, whomever a person petitions to do such things, to have a thousand watt bulbs placed in the lamps which lit Trevor up in a spectacular fashion, underpinning his presence as if announcing it to the whole world. How's that for a long sentence, but I'm allowed to since I was watching the whole scene unfold and I think of myself as a rather magnificent story teller, so shut it and listen up.
Trevor had waited for about twenty minutes before it started to rain. He was visibly upset. He thought to himself that perhaps he should have brought someone along, perhaps someone with their own car. How do I know what he was thinking? I don't know! He told me! I'm psychic! Get over it. He reached into his pocket for his phone to call a cab to come fetch him when Pete came shuffling through the thicket like a fox tearing through a packet of potato crisps. Pete straightened his jacket and walked cavalierly towards Trevor as if he was the essence of style and grace, while catching his boot on the edge of a see-saw in the long grass and falling headlong onto his face and disappearing into the wet grass. He bobbed up like a meerkat and cleared his throat. Trevor approached him and asked,
"You all right?"
Trevor shook the droplets from him and grunted, "Yea, I'm good."
"Are you supposed to be fetching this box?"
Pete looked at the box and Trevor could see the cog turn in his head.
"Oh yea! Does it snow in the towns in York?"
"What?"
"Do they go putting crowns on pork?"
"What?" Trevor was getting annoyed.
"I don't know, I can't remember. Do they show clowns riding on a stork?"
"What in God's name are you going on about?" Trevor was annoyed now and not afraid to show it, "Is this your box? Are you the one Jerry spoke of?"
"You're not Jerry?" Pete said with his usual face of, they didn't tell me what to do if this happens.
"No, who are you?"
"I'm Pete," he smiled and a voice harrumphed in the background from behind some trees, "I mean, I'm nobody, see. Did you bring the package?"
"This box?"
"Yea," he said blankly. There was a moment of silence when nothing happened. Even Trevor's mind didn't tick over.
The owner of the harrumpant voice strode from behind a tree and into the harsh light and the faint spray of wet stinking mist was now descending upon the company of three at the speed of depression.
"Oh for fuck sakes," Trevor said uncomfortably stashing the box under his right arm and scratching himself with his left hand, "Who are you now?"
"I apologise," the woman said, "My name is Amanda, you can call me Susan."
"What?"
"I believe Jerry sent you here with that package?"
"Yeees," Trevor answered in a sceptically drawn out way.
At this stage, I had also strayed into the river of wet grass and Trevor, upon seeing me looked as though a piece of his soul dropped from the inner shelves of his soul. He sighed heavily and looked on as if saying, now who the fuck is this?
"Good evening," I said, "Mr. Trevor Black, I assume. How lovely it is to meet you. Amanda, how radiant you look in the halogen light and Pete, you're also here."
"How do you know my name?" Trevor protested.
"Oh, I'm psychic, or somebody must have told me," I lied. "I believe Jerry gave that box to you to hand to us."
Trevor extended his arms, holding the package with his finger tips as if the events that preceded our meeting had made the package somewhat undesirable. I took the package and handed it to Pete.
"Go away now Pete," I said, "and don't drop it."
Pete smiled in his usual vacant way and trundled along like a walrus walking on syrup.
"I do apologise that we had kept you waiting this long," I said.
Susan/Amanda smiled sarcastically and turned around and disappeared into the thicket. I stood there with Trevor whom was processing an array of restrained outrage, utter confusion and budding hysterical amusement. I motioned to the road.
"Would you like lift?" I said to Trevor.
"Honestly, I'm rather too afraid to say yes."
"Aah, good. The car will be here in a minute or so."
"No, I meant to say no," Trevor protested.
"I often find that when someone says something that I do not wish to hear, I reject it outright, replace what I heard with something favourable and reply in such a way as to suggest that I had heard indeed what I wanted to hear and remind the person respectfully of how pleased I am that I heard what I wanted to hear because I'd have to hurt them otherwise."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What are you saying; You won't take 'no' for an answer," Trevor smirked.
And I said, "You picked up on this conversation rather quickly," I smiled widely and I do have a very lovely smile.
The car arrived as the descending mist turned into falling polluted jelly drops. Trevor stepped into the left back seat of the car, half curious, half taking my threat seriously. He sat down and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the reddish rain from his face.
"Disgusting isn't it?" I said as I closed the door to the right of the car. The driver was Mr. Tull. I had never known his first name, although I do admit I had never been given to care much.
"What do you want," Trevor asked of me like a hook plucking my thoughts from the seas of nomenclature.
"To take you home," I said matter-of-factly. He eyed me suspiciously and I smiled my lovely smile again. "I do have a lovely smile don't I?"
"Um..."
"I mean, not that you'd care, you know, your wife and everything."
"What?"
"So where would you like us to take you?"
"Soho, please."
"Urh," I scoffed, "How Bohemian. I bet you're a chef or an artist or something."
"Art dealer, actually."
"Thought as much," I said derisively
Trevor looked ahead to Mr. Tull, a giant lump of a man, whom ignored the two of us and I was trying my best to ignore him, he is rather dull, but Trevor looked at Mr. Tull then to the road, as if concerned about where we were taking him, because at this stage Mr. Tull turned onto the highway, which in hindsight may seem like we were going in the opposite direction. Honestly, speaking we were taking him directly home. I had the directions on my GPS and my Blackberry. Seriously, we weren't going to like kidnap him or shove him into the boot. Not initially. I promise. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
"You can ignore, Mr. Tull," I said, "He's a mute you see. I can call his mother a range of things including barnyard animals and low-rent prostitutes and he couldn't respond if he wanted to."
Mr. Tull at this point started to make angry gurgling noises that I would write out as, "Fug hoo, hoo fwuggri bafpup..." but you get the point.
It was at this stage that somebody had the nerve to start shooting at us. Darling Trevor ducked as glass sprayed throughout the inside of the car.
Mr. Tull spat, "Fuggi ell," and swerved the car from left to right as if he were a hoki-poki dancer playing you put your left car in, you put your right car out.
I sat from my undeniably suitable position to view the spectacle rather enjoying the view as if it had all been orchestrated for my benefit, and I would have believed that it was for my benefit if I didn't know any better and that this whole situation wasn't going to make me late for my midnight tea.
The car spun around somehow and the back lifted and landed in such a way that the back axel landed on a block of concrete, an already overturned barrier, situated here for purposes of the plot yet to unfold. Mr. Tull pulled out a thirty-eight and shot four rounds. The car, whom had shot at us stopped accelerating, lazily edged to the right and slowly punched into some upright concrete barriers. Glass flew everywhere, some smoke and mangled bones, but luckily Mr. Tull made sure that they were already dead.
Trevor at this stage got the strange notion into his head that now was a bad time to find the situation humorous. I was indifferent. Mr. Tull was proud, but who cares about him.
"Why the hell did I agree to do this for Jerry?" Trevor exploded as he kicked open his door and popped out of the car. He began walking, away, a direction that wasn't favourable for me.
"Mr. Tull," I said, "Would you be a darling and fetch him."
"Aai geh im fo woo," Mr. Tull gurgled, some spit dribbling thoroughly disgusting me and I retired my attention to my Blackberry. I rather enjoy social networking you see. It's all about staying connected.
"Mr. Tull, don't worry about me... hey... Hey!"
(Here's a good place to imagine a stereotypical bonk-like noise.)
I was checking for any incoming messages as Mr. Tull struggled to open the deformed boot of the car, deposited Trevor and pushed the car off the concrete block and returned the whole situation to a respectable one-eighty-degrees. We drove off slowly and the car bobbed up and down as the one back wheel was no longer touching the road, but I imagined myself to be on a fairground ride and enjoyed the bobbing for what it was worth.
We arrived about an hour later and I was grateful. Mr. Trevor Black in the back had gotten it into his head to start making noise. How odd this little man was - getting all these notions into his head. Such a good thing that he decided to come along with us. I can't imagine how I would have felt had he decided otherwise.
Amanda/Susan had arrived with Pete in the passenger seat in a much less exciting mode of transportation that did not bob up and down. Pete had taken to assuaging his boredom with one of those ball-on-a-rope-in-a-cup type toys that Susan/Amanda had bought for him to keep his tiny mind occupied.
We all disembarked and Mr. Tull had dragged the lively body of Mr. Trevor Black from the boot of the car and sat him down with some lovely restraints to keep him comfortable and warm. Pete had shuffled to the kitchen and withdrawn two dozen cups and saucers, two teapots and a number of condiments including tomato sauce, chutney and Worchestershire sauce. For some reason he always brought everything out for tea. I had made the mistake of asking why once, which resulted in an explanation that I don't fully understand to this day. You see, Pete isn't slow. Quite to the contrary, Pete is probably the smartest man here, barring of course my fabulous self. He's good with numbers though and computers: can get you into the Queen's computer with an abacus and a radish. If you want bat-shit crazy, that's Amanda, who we sometimes call Susan. Well Susan is fine, but Amanda you have to watch out for. Susan/Amanda is like our big sister, always checking up on us. Amanda/Susan, on the other hand, is everything but, moonlights as our resident psychopath, assassin and bitch; occasionally getting high on stupid notions of feminism and bra burning and empowered women and hating Oprah Winfrey for what she's done to some school kids in Nigeria or something.
Trevor was still making his bizarre noises in the comfy chair and Pete undid his gag and offered him tea.
"What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you people? Why the hell..." he went on. I sat down and enjoyed myself to some lovely sweet tea. I looked at Trevor and smiled. I did mention that I have a lovely smile. I got lost on his chin. He had one of those dimples in the middle of his chin. What did they call it again? A chin claft... oh a chin cleft that's right! His was unusually deep. I wondered for a moment whether if he laid down whether he could keep tea in it and drink from it by tilting his head back. His voice echoed but I was transfixed. Then my mind wandered to the notes and timbres of his voice. Do other people's voices echo like this? Or do you have to be tied up?
Amanda came by and sat down, she was angry. Susan asked her to calm down but Amanda wouldn't have it, so Susan poured them a cup of tea. Amanda drank it begrudgingly. Mr. Tull sat down and put his cajoling stick, the one that had resulted on Trevor's ride in the boot, on the table, signifying to Mr. Trevor Black that this was probably a good time to be keeping quiet. Trevor had reached the same conclusion and everybody was happy to be in agreement.
