One Good Turn

The stench was… well, I thought I had a corpse for a hitchhiker. He’d been dot-and-carrying down the slip-road to Montevista, I’d seen him the moment I turned on to it.
His progress had been painful, and looked it. I’d vaguely recognised him: a blurred face from a blurred night in the Venta. He’d flagged me down. I had pulled up.

– ‘Can yiz gizza lift, man? Jes’ roon’ the cornah, like?’
– ‘I s’pose.’ I’m a sucker for the north-east accent. Sounds from when I was young.

He looked ragged: 18-hour-bender ragged. And the plaster cast on his leg could have been months old, or second-hand. He hopped around the car. It’s right-hand drive and gives the lie to the Spanish plates. I supposed that was why he’d stopped me. The man struggled in – not bothering with the seatbelt. About 25 years old I thought, but a tough 25 they’d been, if so. It was 11 o’clock, a bright morning.

– ‘Been somewhere exciting?’ I asked, as I pulled away from the verge.
– ‘Malaga.’ He grunted.
– ‘Must have been awkward on the bus, that leg.’
– ‘Walked.’ He must have set off at midnight, if it was true.
– ‘Walked? All the way?’
– ‘Jist from Churriana to the motorway, then from Cartama.’
– ‘That’s still a fucking long walk.’ I said.
– ‘Roon’ the one-way system, drop uz at house B6, thanks.’

He was actually filthy. I had no idea if he had walked as far as he said, but he looked and smelled like he’d been sleeping rough. With no access to toilet paper. I wound down my window.

– ‘This it?’ I asked. He was already struggling out.
– ‘Cheers, mayut!’ And he hobbled up the drive.

Yesterday, I was having a beer with Andreas in the Venta.

– ‘Someone arrested yesterday. Here in Montevista.’
– ‘Really?’ I slurped some beer, which occupied most of my interest at that point.
– ‘Si, he threaten someone with a gone”
– ‘A gone?’ I was intrigued, if mystified.
– ‘Seguro, Bang! Bang!’
– ‘Who was it? Fred?’
– ‘I no know, B6, I think.’