In Traffic

The guy in the white van is taking photos of his bare feet on the dashboard. Probably for one of those Japanese websites. I’ve been told my feet are sumptuous, but I’m not interested, even at fifty quid a pop.

The car in front is spewing out black exhaust fumes. The driver’s a big unit, wide of shoulder and thick of neck. I might have magnificent feet but I’m a coward, so I say nothing.

The oncoming traffic starts to move. A truck, a bus, an ambulance inch by. The ambulance driver is picking her nose, two knuckles deep. She winks when she sees me.

Dave calls to ask how I’d dispose of a dead body.

“How big?” I say, because size is important.

“Five-ten. Twelve stone.”

The beach, I say. Definitely the beach. Wait till it’s dark and chuck it over the cliffs. You’ll need gloves, and a balaclava. Let Mother Nature do the rest: the rocks, the waves, the fish. He says, “That’ll work,” and hangs up.

Dave’s got scabby feet and doesn’t believe in washing. He tried it once and said it was over-rated, like Breaking Bad and avocados.