Mrs Davison, Genghis’s neighbour, who had become an acquaintance of mine, had messaged to say she needed my help.
“Just say yes.” Fionnuala was rushing out to work. “Take Dermot.”
I had to go to the mechanic’s first as the car was flashing warning lights like a short-circuiting space shuttle. And when I arrived, I was reminded why I really didn’t like going there.
The dark garage was at the end of a gloomy yard with other glum businesses and fresh rat traps. An aura of bodies in bin bags. Even worse was the mechanic himself: over-familiar, lewd and with a penchant for misogynistic metaphor.
“I’ll get under her and have a good rummage round her sump,” he guffawed, egging me on. “Eh? I’ll give her headlights a good polish.”
This would go on, even as he disappeared underneath, cracking up at his mucky jokes. “I’m just tickling her track-rod-ends now.”
I wanted to ask him to stop – did he not have any sisters? – but just stood there, grunting, with him shouting “Do you not get it, hi?”.
I envisaged an unsmiling upbringing out in the country where no-one cared about him and no-one laughed at his jokes until that one time that he said “Hi, I’d love to get a good hoke at her exhaust!” and someone giggled.
When I eventually escaped – I had to return later for a brake sensor – Dermot and I headed over to Mrs Davison’s and she was peeking out the window waiting for us.
“Hello, little Dermot.” She was getting him an ice lolly. “Isn’t your daddy very good for coming to aid a helpless old lady?”
The mystery was solved shortly after. “I have been getting phone calls and I don’t know what to do,” she said. “They are very nice, but it’s about my computer and I don’t understand what they want.”
“It’s scam callers, Mrs Davison.” I was sunlight. “They are not worth answering the phone to. Just ignore them.”
“But I can’t, Fabien. I always answer the phone. It could be my sister in Bangor. I would have to answer.”
What she wanted me to do was wait until the phone rang and answer it. “I’m just too nice to them. I’m afraid to say no.”
“The golden rule, Mrs Davison, is if it’s someone you don’t know, just hang up.”
“Oh, I could never do that. Sure, that’s bad manners.”
“Well then, just say you are very sorry but you don’t talk to strangers, and please don’t call again.”
“I always say a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met. What if they are having a bad day, Fabien?”
I simply couldn’t get through to her that these crooks were trying to steal her money.
“How are they crooks when they are so pleasant to me?”
“They have stolen information on the internet and use it to target people like you.”
“But what if they are right about my computer? They say that’s its being attacked and they can stop it.”
“For a ‘small fee’ no doubt.”
“No, they say I’m owed money from…” she checked a notebook, “...an anti-virus company. They are calling back so they can pay me.”
I sat her down and explained that they were just trying to get her bank details and that yes, I would wait and sort out the call.
And so, I did. Wait. And wait and wait. And no call. And (thankfully) because I had Dermot with me, I had to politely say goodbye.
“If they phone, tell them to ring tomorrow at two, and your solicitor will take the call.”
Back at the mechanic’s I thought I’d give it a go. “That car has a nice rear end, doesn’t she?”
“What?” He was po-faced. “I actually think they’re very poorly designed, that motor.”
I had to go to the mechanic’s first as the car was flashing warning lights like a short-circuiting space shuttle. And when I arrived, I was reminded why I really didn’t like going there