Fag End

Cyril was like a headhunter’s trophy; the grey shrunken face with the rictus of a grin and a few tufts of hair.

That’s what forty fags a day for forty years had done for him. They’d also kippered and cured him against all infection. He was as indestructible as a flea and as difficult to brush off.

‘Hi there!’ I tucked myself in next to Anthea over by the door. ‘Good party!’ Her face was no oil painting but the rest of her I fancied something rotten.

Toying with his next cigarette, Cyril bobbed up between us. Christ, was there no escape. And where had Anthea gone?

Outside in the bleak courtyard I could at least breathe again and at the corner of the road jumped thankfully aboard a bus.

Cyril hopped on behind me. He flashed his freedom pass, sat down by my side and fiddled with his hearing aid. ‘How far are you going?’ he asked.

All the way with Anthea, given half a bleedin’ chance.