Cause and Effect.

'Oh shit,' he was going to be late for work again. Grabbing his briefcase and the keys he sprinted down the stairs, only to find himself looking up at the dingey cream ceiling. 'Blast it,' the black cat shot out from under his feet retreating to the safety of the basement flat. There was no time to go back and change his suit, brushing dust from his jacket he let himself out of the block of flats and got into his old Corsair. The chill January air must have made the engine sluggish, taking a bit of choke to turn it over. Which was probably why he neglected to look both ways and collided with the silver Volvo that seemed to be going a little fast for the residential area.

Expecting a furious driver to emerge from the crumpled side of the vehicle and turn him into mush, he was surprised to see the male driver trying to restart the engine. Managing to stand up on wobbly feet, he walked over, bent on apologising.
'My fault, my entire fault, I was going too fast. ' The man seemed determined to brush it aside, pressing Tom to take his business card.
'Let's make this a private affair, I'll pay for the damages.'
Tom looked at the minor damage to his bumper and the state of the Volvo, something strange was going on here.
'I think we should let our insurance companies sort it out, your damage is much worse than mine and ..Well, to be honest, I wasn't really concentrating.'
'Look, I don't want a fuss,' the man said, pulling a wad of ten pound notes out of his wallet and trying to press them into Tom's hands.
The situation was bizarre enough but it was about to turn even worse. A thick, meaty hand took hold of the businessman and pushed him onto the ground.
'You bastard, you've been screwing my wife, how could you do that to your own brother?'

'Um¦.could you excuse me, I'm rather late for work, 'Tom stuttered, but it was too late, the blonde woman from across the street waded in, fists flying everywhere. He took one look at the brawling mass and decided to call in sick, he needed a large whiskey right now.

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The driver of the white van that was just turning into the street saw the commotion going on and thought he'd better get as far away as possible before the police arrived. Unfortunately he neglected the fact that it was a one-way street and reversed into a passing lorry, sending him through the windscreen and scattering the contents of the van all over the dual carriageway. He spent the next few weeks in intensive care, before being transferred to a prison hospital. The cargo of drugs never made it to the dealer, who promptly went into hiding before he joined his mate in intensive care.
The class of pupils it was intended for got a brief reprieve from being trapped in the cycle of drug dependency, but the boss of the whole operation was mighty pissed off.

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The lorry driver was shaken up, but unhurt, not like the young woman following at a careful distance. Her entire life passed through her eyes before she pulled over and vomited up her breakfast. Leaning over the rail, looking at the bits of bacon and eggs, she vowed to go on a diet and find herself a man before she ended up as a lonely spinster.
The ambulance arrived and took the driver of the white lorry away; a second ambulance arrived with the police who couldn't believe their good fortune in capturing a drug runner (not to mention the bounty of some 1st class weed.)

Celia was rather flattered by the attention of the paramedic who seemed to hold her hand a lot longer than normal while checking her pulse. He was no Brad Pitt, of course, but he was a well-built man who seemed to like his food, going by the way he asked the driver to speed up before the canteen was closed.
She was not that shaken, but a well-timed faint in casualty gave her a few hours and a dinner-date for that very night at an expensive restaurant.

Meanwhile, the lorry-driver had nothing more than a scratch, but since the police needed to check the lorry; he was allowed to go home where he spent the whole day in bed with his young wife and their dream of saving for a family was rather rudely interrupted some six weeks later.

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Brandon Miles (actually Ted Harris, but the name sounded better) was cursing the dealer, the incompetent driver and the loss of £100K worth of various classes of drugs. It wasn't just the money either; he was going to lose some serious face over this. There were always rival gangs just waiting to step into his shoes. He needed something to take his mind off his losses; a good meal and a bit of skirt would put him in a better mood.
Sending his right-hand man to haggle with Detective Jones, who would take the weed as a bonus and half of the rest, he took a long hot bath and wondered which Armani suit to wear tonight. 'Maybe not the best one,' he thought, there was a rather succulent young waitress who may not take kindly to his advances, but the knife would solve that problem if money didn't.

Goldie, his wife, saw the signs and took her preparations for a night in by the heated swimming pool. (Actually she was born Mabel, but what the hell, she looked better than her chosen namesake in her eyes.)

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Celia was taking her time getting ready for her date. Her black dress was getting a bit tight, tossing it carelessly on the cluttered bed she decided on loose black trousers with a deep red plunge neckline. 'Whoops,' she had nearly forgotten her silk underwear, not that she expected that kind of date, but better safe than sorry. Draining her large glass of red wine (she was really rather shy), she crammed her feet into 3inch stilettos men loved a well-turned ankle.

Seated in the rather posh restaurant with Bill by her side, she recklessly ordered a Martini for an aperitif, Bill choosing a pint of best. 'Oh well,' she thought, 'at least it's the best restaurant in town. A rather stunning young waitress came to take their orders, long chestnut-coloured hair tied back in a black bow to match her (short) black skirt and her white blouse. Bill read the name-tag, 'thank you Fran, I think we'll have prawn cocktails, followed by steaks, ' he looked at Celia to see if that was alright, she nodded her approval, 'and all the trimming of course.'
'Thank you sir, would you like the wine list?'
'House red will be fine,' he replied.
Celia felt a bit put out, she would have ordered a posh wine, something like "Blue Nun, she'd read that in a magazine, but wine was wine, after all.

At least Bill was being very attentive, ordering her a second Martini while they waited for their starters. She looked around the room, making sure no one was dressed as glamorous as she was. There were the usual people, well-dressed businessmen, no doubt out with their floozies, a few middle -aged couples and a young man in a rather shabby suit seated near to the kitchen, on his own, of course.

They were halfway through their steaks when the man in the Armani suit started to cough and claw at his throat. Bill jumped up and ran over to his table, picking the tall man up as if he was nothing but skin and bones. Closing his arms across the man's midriff he jerked him around like a puppet. The face was beginning to turn purple, when with an almightily great squeeze a lump of steak shot straight out of his mouth and landed on the floor. People gathered round, some offering glasses of water and others patting Bill on the back. It appeared her date was a hero, stopping the man from choking to death.
Someone, she thought it was the shabby young man, suggested an ambulance, but the man shrugged it off. 'My chauffeur is waiting outside,' he said, 'I think I'll go home and lie down.'

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Brandon beat a hasty retreat, all thoughts of the waitress gone from his mind. He could spot a FBI agent from miles off, they wore shabby suits with well-polished shoes, he had seen the young man by the kitchen door, no doubt waiting to catch him out.
It was sheer bad luck he was eating a fine piece of T-bone steak at the time, still, the large ugly man with the cheap tart had saved his life. Fingering the knife he thought he'd go home and shake his wife up.

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Fran sighed, she was run off her feet, Friday nights were hell, but it was a job and something to help her save while she looked around for something better. At least that horrible man in the Armani suit had left without trying to maul her. She hoped she would never see him again. A pity one of the brash couple had saved his life; she had a strong idea he was up to no good. The one good point of the whole evening was seeing Tom eating a small meal on his own. She had fancied him for ages but thought she had really blown it this morning when Sam had tripped him up.
That horrible couple had only made matters worse, her and her fancy-man getting up to God's knows what when her husband was on the night-shift.

Sam would be having a rare treat tonight, not only did she have some left-over fish, but the remains of Armani-man's steak was tied up in a doggie-bag, (or should that be a catty-bag?')
Finally she finished her shift, putting on her warmest coat and hat she slipped out of the side entrance, only to see a looming shape before her.
'I'm so sorry, did I startle you?' it was Tom waiting for her.
'A bit,' she answered truthfully.
'It was a co-incidence my coming here tonight, I never even knew you worked here. I was just fed up, I got sacked today.'
'Oh Tom, I'm so sorry, if it wasn't for Sam you would have got to work.'
'Nah, don't worry, I hated the job anyway, in fact I'm looking forward to finding something else.'
'You and me both,' she replied as they walked home arm in arm.

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The couple who started it all broke up shortly after, she went to live with the brother, while he found himself a decent woman and went on to father three children.

Brandon caught his wife with the pool attendant, beat them so bad he got sent down for ten years and spent a lot of time with the driver of the white van, (they became bosom buddies, if you know what I mean).

Celia and Bill got married, produced two fat children and are on a constant diet.

Goldie sold the house, went back to Mabel and the last anyone heard of her she was running a small, but profitable leisure centre.

The ex-dealer got religion and is now somewhere in the USA, dealing in a different kind of vice.

Detective Jones left the police and it's rumoured that he's somewhere abroad, organising the Mafia.

As for Fran and Tom, they went home that night and Sam enjoyed the best meal of his life. He continues to trip people up on the stairs, but in a location more suited to his refined tastes.

© Lisa Fuller February 2006.