THREE-SEVENTY

‘How much is a Day Rider?’ I asked the bus driver this morning.
‘Three-seventy,’ he said.
‘I’ll have a Day Rider, thanks.’
‘That’ll be three-seventy.’

AS HE PASSED

Late afternoon as I waited for a friend I leaned against the corner of the Polish Advice Shop on Stokes Croft and Ninetree Hill.
I waited fifteen minutes.
Saw a man with a red mohican make his obviously drunken way down Sydenham Road with a woman had long blond dreadlocks.
I didn’t see my friend.
Red had a can of Special Brew in one hand and I watched him and Blond walk down the road, on to Stokes, until just out of view. Almost immediately, ‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ in a man’s voice followed by Red and Blond back in view.
‘What?’ said Red wobbling on his feet.
‘You cunt, I’ll fucking kill you,’ and I saw Shouter.
‘Leave him,’ said Blond, ‘Leave him alone. Stop it. Falon, let’s go, come on.’
‘You can shut up, you slag,’ said Shouter, pushed Red onto the road forcing a car to stop. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’
‘I hardly said anything,’ said Red. ‘You’re my friend, come on, talk to me.’
This went on a while. Shouter hitting and pushing Red back up Stokes Croft, via the road and pavement, then Sydenham Road, Blond saying, ‘Falon, let’s go, just leave it, come on.’
Red protested his innocence, ‘What?’ until Shouter, gave up, came back past me.
Red, angry, dropped his can, picked up a rock and a length of pipe from a nearby skip, started waving them above his head, shouted, ‘You wanker, I hardly said anything.’
‘Falon, leave it,’ said Blond.
Shouter turned, ran towards Red, chased him further up Sydenham before coming back down the road towards where I stood. His phone rang and he answered it.
‘It’s the missus,’ he said to me as he passed.