Cabbie Chas Chandler

   “Don’t s’pose you’ve considered goin’ to couple’s therapy?” John sighed deeply, utterly sincere. Maybe he should have asked that question in the first bloody place. “Listen – I’m sorry. Reckon I’ve not been round t’be a proper mate lately. When I’ve got this sorted, we should hit a pub, catch up.”

Knowing John, that suggestion would sound more like sarcasm than advice, but why did he feel like he was wrong? Let’s suppose Chas suggested Renee to go to couple’s therapy -- Renee would laugh at him all the time in front of the therapist, you make him look like a clown. Ah he’s a joke! He doesn’t even bring proper money! Or things like his dick is so small that an ant does more the work than him. That was Renee -- always embarrassing him. As abusive as it sounded, he hated being alone, and a divorce would just break his comfort zone.

    “Don’t be a twat. Last I checked y’didn’t get me up the duff an’ pop the question due t’some backward sense of honour or tradition,” John huffed softly. Maybe he didn’t get it, but there was a lot Chas didn’t get about his life either. He had the strong suspicion Chas still thought his life was a big party despite seeing it was otherwise on a semi-daily basis. “Your problem is that y’jus’ let people lead you by the nose.” 

    “I told y’not t’marry her, an’ I’ve told you how many times that y’need t’get divorced if she makes y’that bloody miserable. Can’t tell if you jus’ don’t wanna deal with the paper work or you’re a bit of a masochist.” 

    “Oh aye, y’gonna whinge the whole way round, but honestly, Chas, wot would y’be doin’ if I hadn’t rung y’up?” 

A defence of previous action did not need to be shared– his mood was already black as soot without the exterior irritation, his body racked by a cough that speckled the sleeves of his trench coat crimson with each fit that seized his chest. Worse still, he wasn’t convinced it was necessary to say it out loud – not even to his best mate – that a life filled with so many mistakes may have managed to catch up with him… again.

In such matters, ignorance was the better action to take – if to starve his own niggling fears.

“I couldn’t give a single fuck if it ‘appened last week or fifty years ago. Th’ next time ya get a ‘ouse call from another brimstone wanker, usin’ my name, ya get in touch with me immediately, Chas. Is that understood?” A hard enough feat to pull off in isolation, made worse in practice; for Constantine seldom carried with him a mobile phone.

“Well, don’t ya think I didn’t try to contact ya? Yer ‘ard to get in touch, John.” Chas gave the man a shrug, still trying to make his point valid. Wasn’t he right, though? When John disappeared, not a single soul could find him. Not even his best mate. Wasn’t it frustrating? As if that was his fault.

“Ya wouldn’t pick up the bloody phone. And now yer coughin’ blood for some reason, and I just ‘ope it’s not another disease. Or that soddin’ demon who was lookin’ for ya.”

    “Dunno. Wishful thinking? Sounds like a personal problem.”