The Taxi Passenger

The Taxi Passenger.

The taxi brakes, hard and fast in the dark. The squeal of tires rip the air, tendrils of smoke and the acrid pang of burning rubber left in its wake.

thud



Silence.



The taxi driver swears, harsh and foreign. He throws open the door, jumping out. Crouching by the wheel, he wipes the sweat from his brow. He is still for a moment, focusing on his breathing, in.... out... trying to swallow the rising sense of deja-vu. He stands, pushing the heap of blood and bone to the side with the toe of his boot. Sighing, he slides back into the taxi.

A dark-suited man collects himself from a heap in the back of the taxi. Without a word he replaces his sunglasses and rearranges his suit.
The taxi driver turns around. “Ss-sorry. It is animal only.”
The passenger stays silent, cold as a mountain.
The driver begins to speak again, then stops, and turns back to the wheel. With a shaking hand he puts the taxi in gear, and continues down the road. He adjusts the radio dial, and tries to put the passenger and the incident out of his mind. Just a job, just a job, he repeats in his head.
Kirsya, his wife's sister is coming for dinner tonight. “Fuck.” He curses softly. Last year she spent a week trying to convince her sister to leave him for wealthier man.

His passenger, on the other hand, can't escape his fears so easily. His memories haunt, things of nightmares. A leech latched onto his mind, sucking his life, consuming him. He leans back against the fake leather seat of the taxi. A rust red stain takes pride of place beside his head, and he imagines he can smell a salty tang.  He senses the tidal wave of memories at the edge of his vision, and giving up, lets them drown him. Every image sharp enough to cut, every smell still lingering in his nostrils...

… I slip my uniform on, the coarse fabric brushing my skin, reminding me of my dreary zombie-job, the way the hours crawl, the way I hate every minute I sell my life, all for the insult in my pay check. I drag my feet, though I am already late, the presence of my boss, the devil at the end of the tunnel. The greasy, fatty smell that permeates everything here, invades my nostrils, and brings with it the familiar burn of bile. There stands the devil, in the haze of grill smoke and heat. She wears the same uniform as us, the minimum wagers, cleaner than we could ever keep ours. I wonder if its an attempt to make her approachable, to bring her down to our level. It's pitiful anyway.
“Where have you been?” says the devil, whipping me with her words. “You've already got a warning, one more and you're fired! Do you hear me? You better get your act together pretty damn fast! Now I want to see that grill spotless. I'll be watching.”

The shot rings out, echoing, again and again, fading away into silence. The customers, hidden from view, are a picture, a Picaso, frozen in time. Then the moment disappears, the dots of paint rushing down the plug hole, the buzz of conversation filling the air. Its a car back-firing of course. Old trucks forever doing it around here. Farmers too lazy to do anything about it, they grumble. This town is much too small for any type of violence.

In the kitchen, the chatter of customers rising louder and louder is a train approaching, building up steam, the clattering wheels faster and faster, about to hit me- and then it's on top, unbearable in its weight.  Slowly, I become aware of the kitchen again, and I scramble to my feet, slipping in... blood. The blood that pools out from the head of my boss. Her blonde hair, now died red, fans out around her head. My boss who lies there, mouth open, eyes blank, staring. She reminds me of a goldfish I owned, found one morning, floating on it's side at the top of the bowl. In the empty kitchen, she doesn't seem as dead, as If I could just shake her, and she would come back to life again. I laugh at the thought, and the laugh expands in my chest, growing bigger, and bigger, filling the room, pushing against the corners, so that it seems as if the whole world is about to explode. The laugh rocks my body, harder and harder, pressing me against the wall, and I am sobbing, but still I laugh.

Finally the laugh drains away, leaving me standing there, empty, raped. I walk out the back door, not stopping to wonder why there is no circle of police cars, no megaphone screaming at me, why I am not riddled with bullet holes. This things will come, I know, and for the moment I am content to wait..

The passenger looks out through the rain-battered window to the world outside. The taxi is a cocoon, a time machine, something to keep the present at bay. The taxi begins to slow down, pulling into the curb. The passenger leans forward, tapping the the driver on the shoulder. The driver jumps in his seat, wrenching at the wheel, taking the taxi over the curb and onto the pavement, where he brakes, ghost-white.
“Keep on going,” the passenger murmurs.
“But...” The driver begins. “...OK. Where do you go?”
“Anywhere. It doesn't matter. Just drive.” The passenger replies, still in that soft murmur.
The driver starts to protest, and in response the passenger pulls out a tightly wrapped bundle of notes.
“Yes, OK. I do this.” The driver nods. Fuck dinner, fuck that bitch, Kirsya.

Back onto the road, the taxi smoothly eats up the tarmac of sin-city, heading nowhere into the darkness. The passenger leans back, and waits.

I head into the forest. I had grown up with my hunter-uncle, and most of my life I spent in the depths of the forest, learning how to hunt, to stay alive in there. It was more of a home than this town. Something makes me wade through the river to mask my sent, and I suspect that some part of me doesn't want to be caught. I could evade the soft dogs of the police, I knew.

Later, much later, I emerge from the forest, unkempt, half-starved, eyes wild, clothes in shreds. I have a single friend, his name burning in my mind, and I hope I can trust him with my life. For weeks I travel by night, unable to steal food for fear of being seen, and I eat what I can find, rodents and pets. Finally I turn up on the doorstep, and it is only now that I realise that he might have moved, that he could no longer live here. But it is too late now. I am too desperate, to weak, to do anything else. I knock. Wait. Knock again. A muffled call comes from inside. It doesn't sound like him. The door creaks open, and I prepare to run...

A bearded face shows, and I collapse with relief.
“Dave,” I manage to choke.
His eyes wide, I dimly hear his voice. “Shit, shit, shit SHIT!”
He drags me inside, still swearing under his breath. “What the hell, man. What the hell? You're gonna get me arrested you mother-fucker. I do NOT want jail time, you hear me?” He chuckles, softly.
“Thanks, Dave,” I whisper. Then everything goes black.

For a few weeks I simply build my strength, telling my side of the story, letting him tell his.
“It was in the local papers for months”, Dave says.
“It never made the local papers, though. It was election year, and the government must of wanted to keep it under-wraps. I guess that''s why it never escalated into a full scale man-hunt.” This came from Louis. When I found out about Louis – Dave's wife- I imagined trouble from her. But she appeared even calmer than Dave about the whole mess. Like-minded people attract each other, I guess.
“The hunt, limited to the local police force, died after a few months. They just didn't have the resources for anything larger. The only reason you're still free.”

Something outside catches the passenger's eye, and he smiles, sadly. “Stop”, he says.
The taxi slows to a halt, and he passes the bundle of notes to the driver. “Here is where I get off.”
The driver sees the passenger's face. “Good luck.” Is all he says.
The passenger steps out, and lifts the boot to get his suitcase. He stands, one hand in his pocket, watching the red lights of the taxi fade into the dark, his suit jacket billowing in the wind. He turns after a while, and begins to climb the hill.

A statue on the peak of the hill. The faint glow of city below, illuminates the white froth of the tempest sea. The statue lifts his arms, a shadow that could fly... and never come back.
The moon has moved in the sky before he drops to his knees, by his suitcase. He runs his hand through the dew soaked grass, and clutches something in it. He lifts it, examining it the moonlight. A flat stone, weathered and pock-marked. Perfect. He grips it in his good hand, and begins to dig.

Her slim, pale hands dig into the soft earth. Gently, she lowers the plant in, caressing, pressing the earth back around the plant. She turns to where I stand. Smiling, she brushes a lock of stray hair behind her ear. “You want to help?”
“I nod, my mouth dry. I kneel beside her, and she flashes that quick smile, twisting my heart.

This hole, bigger than the suitcase, is large enough. But still he digs, with fingers raw and bleeding. His blood has painted the stone brown in the silver light of the moon. Finally he stops, satisfied. The hole resembles a coffin shape now. He moves to the suitcase, unzipping it. He lifts the lid and lets it fall open. He reaches into the suitcase, lifting the items from within, fitting them into the hole like a puzzle. He lifts the last piece. It is similar to a soccer ball in shape and size. He brushed the hair back from its face, tucking the blood-soaked locks behind its ears.

Dusk falls, flashing against the raging bonfire. Presently a shadow slips into the yard, making its way towards me. I draw in, the tip flaring.
“I didn't know you...” Louis begins.
“I don't.” I say. I lean in towards her, tilting my head to the side, lips parting slightly.
She snorts, and pushes me back. “Where's Dave?” She asks, her voice light, lips brushing my ear.
I point to the bonfire.
“I don't understand...”
I stare into her eyes. “He attacked me Louis. He was irrational. He found out about us... He was going to kill me.”
She stares back at me, and raises her hand. I tense. She plucks the cigarette from my fingers. Looks into the bonfire. Takes a long drag.
“So you killed him?” The whisper hangs in the air, a lighted fuse.
“It was an accident.” I say, my voice steady. I wait for a moment, then begin, “We're free now...”
She turns to me, face glistening with tears. She grips something tight in her hands. A warning sounds in my head. She plunges the knife towards me.

The knife misses my chest, stabbing deep into my shoulder.
The fire of pain raging my senses.
Her lips curl. “Die Mother-Fucker.”




He bends his face toward it, and lays his lips upon it's cold, pale lips, and kisses them tenderly.