Crazy Lady. James Hawkins

      CRAZY LADY

      Every man deserves to know one true love in his lifetime.

      This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to Sheila, my true love, and is in loving memory of her sister, Elizabeth Khanna.

      With particular thanks to all the wonderful women in my life, especially my publicist and mentor, Sandra Baird, and her sister, Barbara.

       chapter one

      "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God."

      "Yes, I'm aware of that, ma'am."

      "And the Word became flesh and lived amongst us…"

      "If you say so."

      "… and we have seen his glory."

      "Well, you may have seen it, lady. But all I see is a busload of ticked-off passengers who wanna go home to their wives and kiddies. Now have you got the fare or not?"

      "The Lord Saviour says it is better to give than to receive."

      "Look, lady, I'm a bus driver, not a charity. Now either pay the fare or get off."

      "Peace is my parting gift to you. Set your troubled heart at rest."

      "Get off! Freak."

       Now what? It's pouring and it's getting dark. Oh, God. Mummy'll be cross if I'm late for tea again.

      "You'll have to walk," the woman's God tells her. "Do you know where you're going?"

       Yes. It's 255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England, The World, The Universe —

      "Have you got any spare change?" A voice breaks into Janet Thurgood's musings, and she leaps. The sixty-one-year-old's eyes dart around, seeking escape from Vancouver's near-deserted Chinatown and the dull-eyed, prickly-haired youth who has cornered her in the bus shelter.

      "Turn to Our Lord Saviour and he will provide —" she starts, but the panhandler backs her against a glazed advertisement featuring a busty perfume vendor.

      "Get a life, lady. I just wanna buck for a coffee, not a freakin' lecture."

      The Lord Saviour is my shepherd. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, Janet prays inwardly, saying, "I'm sorry. I haven't got any —"

      "Don't give me that crap. I've got a knife."

      It's a poor excuse for a knife, stolen, like everything else in Jagger Jones's world — including his name. But the ten-cent table knife, filched from Giorgo's Corner Coffee & Souvlaki, has been honed to a stiletto by Jagger (a Hollywood substitute for Davy, the forename thoughtlessly given by his teenage mother while she had more pressing matters on her mind than registering the birth of an unwanted child).

      Janet Thurgood turns to her faith for defence, but her words are hollow as she warns, "The Lord Saviour's sword will protect me…"

      "Oy. Punk. Leave the lady alone," cautions a scurrying businessman with his head down against the rain. But he has no more clout than Janet's God, and he's not big enough to step in to ensure that his instruction is heeded.

      "I said, don't give me no crap," continues Jones, unfazed by the warning, as his knife goes to his victim's throat.

      "My Lord Saviour is with me," chants Janet with the certainty of a televangelist as she is stretched onto her toes. "His rod and staff comfort me…" she continues as her eyes go to the darkening heavens and the palms of her hands join in supplication.

      "I mean it," threatens Jones as the sharpened blade hollows a dimple in Janet's neck.

      "… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord Saviour forever."

      "Shuddup, you crazy old bat. Shuddup and give me the money," spits the young addict as he flattens Janet against the wall on the end of his knife and rubs her down. However, his anticipation turns sour as he realizes that beneath the rain-soaked mackintosh the aging woman is wearing only a flimsy nightdress, and she clearly has no purse. Despite the four decades between them, the youth's hand momentarily idles on Janet's naked thigh, and his face and tone soften as he sneers, "Mebbe you've got something else to give me, eh?"

      "Help