Mr. Jakes hid behind the Evening News at the corner table in the station café, allowing his tea to go cold. His eyes hungrily hunted the busy room for his next target. The city was full of young men carrying loneliness on their backs like sacks of coal.
He already had a frozen chicken defrosting back at his flat, in anticipation.
Mr. Jakes dressed soberly in black jacket and grey checked trousers; his clerical collar gave him further camouflage.
A man in his early twenties, dishevelled with long hair (the fashion), blue jeans and dark t-shirt, both in dire need of a trip to the launderette, sat alone, blankly staring into space. Mr. Jakes folded his newspaper, picked up his cup and saucer and went to sit next to him.
Mr. Jakes had polished his patter to perfection. He used it to great success for several years: everybody trusted a vicar. After a fresh cup of tea, a hamburger and sympathetic listening, nobody saw the pair leave the café. They had a choice of buses to take them to the flat. The frozen chicken wouldn’t go to waste. There were also potatoes, cabbage and some beer.
Mr. Jakes’ neighbours minded their own business and never noticed the boys he brought home. The young man stayed for about two weeks and then it was time for him to go. The young man wasn’t seen again after that.
Until three years later when plumbers came to unblock the drain round the back.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 