Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

two crimestories

Flann, the Púca

“Hitler!” He called this out every time we ran into each other at the rubbish bins. At this point, I could actually count on him popping up whenever I carried out the garbage. It was as if he automatically materialized as soon as I opened the back door to the courtyard area. “He’s the reason I went to France and Belgium!” I nodded amiably. “I haven’t gone abroad since then.” By this part of the conversation, I had dropped off my trash and was on my way back inside. “I’m ninety-five,” landed before I could slip through my kitchen

door. And I’d always lob back: “Congratulations! Keep it up, and take a trip sometime. Maybe Italy.” He would then jerk his thumb to the left: “Our Flann here doesn’t like to go so far.” This was followed by a shrug and raised eyebrows, a sigh and a thoughtful nod. I would nod back and disappear into my kitchen. Every time. Early on, I made the mistake of actually asking him questions. Why do you bring up Hitler? Why don’t you travel? Why ˲

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