by Ashe Barker
I was just fifteen when I was run over, more than eight years ago now. It was my GCSE year and I missed those exams as well, though to be fair I hadn’t had especially high expectations. I’d always been into sport, always on the athletics track, never the academic type. I’d done the bare minimum necessary to get by and might have scraped a couple of Bs and Cs with a bit of luck and a good following wind, but I wasn’t interested. Sport was my future. Then suddenly it wasn’t and I had to think again.
I sat my GCSEs the following year and did okay. I’d realized I needed those bits of paper after all so I made an effort. I’m good at that. I can set my mind to something when I have to. I had no idea what I would do with my life, but qualifications meant options, and I wanted some of those. Six Bs and an A in maths was good enough to get me into sixth form, and I left school with A levels in maths, English and geography. I decided to leave it at that. I may live among students but university is not for me—or at least not yet.
The compensation for my accident paid for driving lessons and there was enough left for a clapped out Mini when I passed my test. I might have been able to wring more out of the van driver’s insurance company but I’d been wearing ear buds as I’d jogged and their legal advisers had claimed that I’d contributed to my own downfall. Personally I have always thought that was rubbish, but my solicitor had advised me to accept the out of court offer they’d made me, so here I am. It’s not too bad. I’m in one piece again, not far off solvent and gainfully self-employed. It’s a lot more than many can say these days.
Now all I need to do is deliver Mr. Dusseldorf safely to the Queens Hotel, then I can get back to the airport and collect my next punter.
The journey takes around forty minutes, and Mr. Dusseldorf makes no attempt at conversation. I don’t mind chatting with fares on occasions, but today I’m glad of the silence from the rear seat. I concentrate on the late afternoon traffic, threading my way easily through the city streets and gliding smoothly to a stop in the drop-off zone at the bottom of the steps leading to the hotel’s main entrance. I notice the red carpet, the sure signal that this evening will see some visiting dignitary arriving or a high-end dinner event. The Queens is one of the top venues in Leeds for such dos, a favorite haunt for the rich and privileged as they do their sparkly bit for charity.
I turn to my passenger. “Queens Hotel. That’ll be twenty-seven pounds, please.”
Mr. Dusseldorf nods and reaches into his jacket. His phone buzzes and he grabs that before his wallet, glancing at the screen.
“Fuck.” The one word is delivered in a deep drawl. He frowns, glances back at me. “Excuse me.”
I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for swearing, or if he wants me to wait a moment. I settle for waiting, but I hope he won’t take too long. I want to get back to work. He punches a reply into his phone then re-checks his papers. He glances at me again. “Sorry about this. I won’t be a minute.”
I nod. “Will you be needing a receipt?”
“What? Oh, no, that’s fine.” But my hint has worked and he’s again digging for his wallet. I reason that he might as well wait for his reply in the hotel foyer as in my taxi. Some of us have work to do.
He pulls thirty quid from his wallet, all in crisp new ten pound notes, fresh from the airport cash machine, I daresay. With any luck he’ll not be bothered about his change so that’s three pounds extra for my limo fund. I reach to relieve him of the cash just as his phone buzzes again.
Mr. Dusseldorf’s attention is back on his phone, his payment of his fare temporarily forgotten. I clear my throat meaningfully. He ignores me.
“Do you need any help with your luggage?” Another hint—it usually works.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Not this time apparently. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I want you to take me somewhere else, please.”
“Are you sure? The Queens is one of the best hotels in Leeds.”
“I don’t need to be in Leeds after all. My meetings tomorrow are canceled.” He shoves his papers back into his suitcase and turns back to me. At last I have his full attention.
“Oh, right. Is it back to the airport then?” Double fare. Bingo!
“No. Kilmuir. I fancy a little detour.”
I turn to fish in the little tray beside my gear lever for the remote control that operates my satnav. I don’t have much need for it. I grew up in Leeds and I know my way around. It comes in handy occasionally, though, and was fitted as standard when I bought the car. “Do you have an address, please? Or a postcode?”
“Neither. Sorry.”
“How are you spelling it?”
“K-I-L-M-U-I-R. It’s in Scotland.”
Now he has my undivided attention. “Did you say Scotland?”
“I did. Skye. It’s an island off the west coast.”
My patience is already stretched thin. It’s close to snapping now. “This is a taxi, not a boat. I don’t do islands. And I don’t do bloody Scotland. Have you any idea how far that is?”
“Not exactly. I expect you can find out from the satnav, though. And there’s a bridge.”
“A bridge?”
“A bridge over to Skye. You won’t get your tires wet.”
“I’m not driving you to bloody Scotland. Or Skye. Sorry. You can get a train. The station’s next door. I’ll drop you there instead.” I reach for the ignition key to restart my engine.
“No station, no trains. I don’t like trains.”
“Well, get a flight then. Like I said, I don’t mind taking you back to the airport.”
“I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours on planes or in airports. Now I want to drive. Correction, I want you to drive while I get some sleep.”
“That’s ridiculous. Have you any idea how much that would cost? Or how long it would take to get to Scotland. And it does not take twenty-seven hours to fly here from Dusseldorf.”
“No doubt you’ll be able to tell me. And where does Dusseldorf come into this?”
“You came off the Dusseldorf flight.”
“I flew in from New York, though what the hell that has to do with my forward journey is beyond me. So, go on then. What are your terms for driving me to Kilmuir?”
New York? Via Dusseldorf then. Shit, who cares? “I don’t have any. It’s not happening. So, are you getting out here or not?”
“I prefer not. Tell me, Miss…? He lifts one eyebrow, clearly expecting me to introduce myself to him.
I fold my arms and glare at him. Perhaps hotel security could help. I look hopefully up the hotel steps for someone who might be on sentry duty. Mr. Not-Dusseldorf shrugs. “Okay. So, tell me, how much do you make in a day? Usually?”
“What does that have to do with you?”
He ignores my belligerent tone. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay you double.”
“You’ll what?”
“You heard. Twice what you normally earn. All you have to do is drive.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is he quite mad? “Skye’s hundreds of miles away. It’d take hours. A day at least. And there’s all the way back, too.”
”I’m thinking it’d take at least two days to get there. Possibly three. I want to go the pretty route and see a bit of the scenery. I’ve heard it’s stunning up there. So, what’s your daily rate then, for taking me on a tour of the Highlands and ending up in Skye?”
“More than you can afford. I can easily earn three hundred pounds a day.” This is perhaps a slight exaggeration, but I feel justified. This man is crazy and I need to put him off this idiotic notion.
“So, I’ll pay you six hundred a day. Plus expenses. And I’ll pay for the gas.”
“The what?”
“Gas. Petrol. Whatever. Shall we start by saying three days at six hundred pounds. Do we have a deal?”
“No we bloody don’t. Apart from anything else, I’d have to drive all the way back.”
“Ah yes, of course. I’ll add on an extra day for
that. Four days then. Shall we say two and a half grand for the round trip?”
I can only stare at him, baffled. I don’t know many Americans, in fairness, but the ones I’ve come across haven’t usually been so ready to throw their cash at me. And this man makes me distinctly uneasy. For one thing, who in their right mind carries that sort of cash on them? No, this mad scheme is not for me.
“You could get to Scotland on the train for a fraction of that. And in just a few hours. The station’s your best bet, definitely. I’m not driving you and that’s final.”
“I’ll double my offer. Five thousand pounds.”
I stare at him, totally perplexed. He doesn’t look mad, but even so…
“Look, go to Scotland if that’s what you want to do. You’re right, it’s lovely—or so I’m told. Hire a car. You could hire a bloody helicopter and still have change from five grand, I bet, and you’d get a really good view if you want to play tourist. Just leave me out of it.”
“Is that your final word then?”
Ah, at last the penny’s dropped. “It is. So, are you getting out here?” Now I do start my engine. I’m done talking.
He smiles and dips his head. He looks…regretful. “It seems I am. Pity, though. I would have enjoyed your company on the way to Skye. It was nice meeting you, miss.” He leans to open his door and shoves the case out first. He follows it onto the pavement.
Enjoy my company indeed. I hardly wait long enough for him to close my car door behind him before I’m streaking back out into the Leeds traffic, retracing my route to the airport. Hopefully my next pick-up will be sane. Even shell suits would be an improvement.
Chapter Two
Shit! I forgot my thirty quid.
In my haste to be rid of my bizarre passenger and his even crazier scheme, I shot off without collecting my fare for driving him from the airport. Shit. Shit. Shit!
I realized my mistake almost as soon as I had turned the corner, but it’s already too late to turn round. The Leeds inner city loop doesn’t allow for such foolery. Instead, I’m locked on a course that will take me right around the edge of the city center and eventually back to the point I started, in front of the Queens Hotel. It will take me at least ten minutes to complete the circuit, though—time I could be spending making the return trip to the airport. Still, I’m not about to lose a fare if I can help it. Mr. New-York-via-Dusseldorf needn’t think he’s getting away with it. He’ll have to pay up.
In the event it takes me fifteen minutes then I have to find somewhere to park, as this time I need to follow him into the hotel. There is a possibility that the American might have realized his oversight and be waiting for me, though I realize that’s a long shot. Sure enough, when I pass through the revolving door into the hotel foyer, he’s nowhere to be seen. Feeling more than a little out of place in my Nike baseball cap, baggy maroon sweatshirt of indeterminate origin and cheap trainers, I amble as casually as I can manage over the expanse of carpet toward the reception desk. Even though my limp is not so pronounced these days, I still feel self-conscious about my uneven gait. That’s partly why I’m so fond of driving, I suppose—it means I can avoid walking.
The smartly dressed young woman on the other side of the desk smiles at me pleasantly enough as I approach. “Can I help you?”
“Er, yes.” I hesitate, not sure what to say next. I don’t even know the real name of my passenger. I blurt out the first thing that occurs to me, “The man who just checked in, he owes me money.”
“I beg your pardon.”
In fairness, I realize I’m not being very coherent. I try to explain. “I drove him from the airport. In my taxi. He forgot to pay his fare.”
I’m ready to accept that the truth is I ejected the American from my car without giving him much chance to pay, but the nice young lady on reception doesn’t need to be troubled with all that.
“I see. Do you have a name?”
“Me? Hope Shepherd.”
“Not you. The guest you were wanting to talk to.”
“No, I… I didn’t get his name. He’s American, though, about thirty, very smartly dressed. He only checked in a few minutes ago.”
“I see. I’m just back from my break so I didn’t check him in…” Her apologetic smile seems to be suggesting that’s that, finito. I can kiss my fare goodbye. I’m about to start making a fuss when another receptionist, a middle-aged man this time, turns to join us. He was occupied with another guest when I arrived but now he seems to be my salvation.
“Did you say you were a taxi driver?” He smiles at me through his rimless spectacles.
“That’s right. I just dropped someone off here, an American…”
“Yes, Mr. McLeod. He left this for you.” The receptionist bends to rummage under the counter. “Ah yes, here we are.” He straightens to hand me a white envelope, embossed with the hotel crest.
I take it, nod my thanks to both hotel staff, then without further pleasantries ram my thumb under the flap. I pull out two crisp twenty pound notes, and a sheet of hotel notepaper, handwritten on one side.
“You can sit over there if you like, miss. Would you like a tray of coffee? Tea?”
I realize I’ve just been standing staring at the sheet of paper as the male receptionist gestures across the foyer to a lounge area with low sofas and tables. I decline his offer of hospitality, shove the cash and the note back into the envelope and head for the door.
Back in the security of my car in one of the short-stay hotel parking bays, I pull out the note to re-read it.
Dear Pretty Cab Driver
Keep the change. My apologies for the oversight. I’m not in the habit of skipping without paying.
My offer stands, and I hope you will consider it. In fact, I’m prepared to increase it. £1000 a day, plus all expenses. I’m on vacation so I want to take my time over the journey—minimum eight days, though it could be more, possibly a couple of weeks. So you stand to earn at least £8000 from me, just for driving me to Skye. I won’t even insist you drive me back.
Have breakfast with me here in the morning, even if it’s only to turn me down again. But I’m hoping you’ll agree it’s a good offer, and surely a few days in Scotland would be nice. Think about it, sleep on it, then come back here, have a bacon sandwich with me, and say yes.
Regards
Harry McLeod
I may be a lot of things, but pretty is not one of them. I’m plain. Lanky, too skinny, a bit on the angular side, my dress sense could best be described as grungy, and I limp. Did he say he’d been on the move for twenty-two hours? Jet lag—that must be it. That’s the only possible explanation for such delusions. As for a thousand pounds a day—that’s just plain ridiculous. Mr. McLeod is quite mad, and he can keep his bacon sandwiches. I’ll be asleep by breakfast time anyway, with any luck.
* * * *
But I’m not asleep. I’ve hardly slept all night and it’s all his fault. I didn’t go back to the airport, nor did I do a lucrative evening shift in the city center. Instead I did the unthinkable and took the night off. Mr. bloody McLeod unsettled me with his talk of a thousand pounds a day and driving to Skye, not to mention his dazzling blue eyes and wavy dark hair. On top of that was his smile that could light up half of Leeds. I would have surely been a danger to other road users if I’d tried to work. When I left the hotel, his note fluttering on the passenger seat beside me, I just wanted to go home.
So that’s exactly what I did. I spent the evening stretched out on my sofa watching a repeat of Midsomer Murders and turning over in my head what I would do with the eight thousand pounds. I spent the next eight hours in bed, staring into the darkness and continuing to dream. I imagined my car loan paid off or perhaps a decent laptop to do my accounts on, meager though they might be. Perhaps I should pay some rent up front—that would give me a bit less to worry about for a month or two. Or maybe I could take an actual holiday. That’d be a first.
But all those fanciful notions assume that I might actually
take him up on his bizarre proposal. And if I did, would he actually ever pay up? He’d find some reason not to, I’m convinced of it. I suppose I could have asked for the money in advance, but who pays that sort of cash out to a stranger on a whim? No, the whole idea is ludicrous.
I get up, my eyes dry and prickling from lack of sleep. I study my face in the bathroom mirror as I clean my teeth. He said I was pretty…
Eight thirty that morning sees me once more pushing the revolving door at the Queens Hotel and loping across the corporate Axminster in the direction of the hotel restaurant. I’m here to tell him he’s crackers and to count me out. And because I like bacon sandwiches.
I spot my passenger from yesterday as soon as I enter the hotel dining room. He’s seated at a table laid for two, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast. I’m relieved that he’s selected a table close to the entrance—I would have hated to have to limp right across the dining room with his eyes on me the whole way. He smiles as soon as he sees me, just at the same time as the restaurant manager bears down on me from across the restaurant.
“Good morning. May I take your room number, please?”
“Oh, yes, I, right…” I’m not sure how to explain that I’m just here for the bacon butties, but in the event I don’t have to. Mr. McLeod comes to my rescue.
