It’s the shadows I’ve been noticing lately. The play of light and dark, particularly in Macleay Street in Darlinghurst. The trees are close to the buildings there and the leaves dance on the awnings of the shops. It is still hot for April but the shade beneath the awnings is black and the pavements dappled.
I notice her walking near the Willow Cafe, elegant in a long white dress and stylish hat. She pauses for a moment, one leg slightly extended and then enters the cafe. I decide to wait, which is ridiculous. I have no idea how long she will be, but I find myself parking the cab down the street without thinking; I sit with my newspaper resting on the steering wheel and my flag down, unable to start the cab and drive away even if the surliest of customers demands it. It happens this way sometimes, these aberrations, and I am always unable to resist; eager to test just how far my powers extend as a fallen angel.
Since I came to this place, this southern Ultima Thule, I have found that I am observing more and judging. Judging. That was something we were never allowed to do in my former life. “It is not for us to judge but to guide.” How many times was I told this before I left? It was a maxim we lived by. Now I can judge without judgement. I am observed occasionally but I am sure they are unable to watch me every single day.
They have set me down here as some sort of penance but I will reap the benefits of this life as I choose and if that means waiting an hour to pick up a beautiful woman, then so be it.
My eyes follow the line of the street from the shops ahead of me back to the Willow Cafe. It does seem the shadows are ink black near the cafe, particularly in an adjoining corner where stairs lead up to another cafe.
I watch as a strange man, all angles and with a drawn-out look mounts the curving stairs to the Arabian Café, the name referring more to the coffee bean used than the clientele. A feeling I am now familiar with overcomes me. It is one of danger that exudes from him. He has killed someone. Momentarily I see a body in a back alley not far from here. Moonlight falling on a pool of blood near the battered head.
In my former life, as death used to conquer our charges, it was a call to be ready. Their time was near, the feeling was like an alarm bell and nothing more. Their last breath was just moments away and we would then escort their souls to their final resting place. The knowledge, the perception that I experienced then was nothing more than part of the whole process. Not fear for them and definitely not fear for myself. Occasionally since my exile I have felt both, particularly when some of my former colleagues are nearby.
The latter fear, I realise now, sitting in my cab with the autumn sunshine falling on me, a pleasant street glistening through my windscreen, is not for this body I inhabit but for the very real threat that they will take me away from all of this. The other fear is for those I encounter. I worry about some of them. Although as yet, I have not been granted the chance to save anyone. Perhaps one day. Meanwhile I will wait for the elegant woman in the white dress to come out of the café and hopefully get in my cab.
About the Author:
Debbie Robson has published a novella with Alien Buddha Press and previously Crossing Paths: the BookCrossing Novel and Tomaree, a WWII love story. She is fascinated by the first sixty years of the last century. Her poems, micro, flash and short stories have been published internationally. She tweets at lakelady2282.
