SHORT STORY: Taxi!

Taxi!

I watched him, stepping in front of me, hailing the taxi though I had been waiting there much longer. It had been a long train journey and I was not in the mood to argue. I had been down to Southampton to see some friends from University. This was the station; there would be another taxi along any minute. 

         “Ah,” I said, lumping my bag across the pavement, calling for the next taxi that was pulling up.

         Another man, a tall man stepped in front of me, not carrying any luggage, and called for my taxi. This now irritated me. 

         “Excuse me,” I said, and I stepped past him and put a foot into the road.

         The taxi driver pulled to a halt.

         “Wow,” he said, winding down the window. “Nearly ran you over there, mate.” I gave him a thumbs up.

         “Sorry – just been on a long journey and people keep cutting in!” 

         The taxi driver looked behind me at the man who had been about to steal my taxi. 

         “Ah, I see,” he said. “Here, let me help you there.” He helped me lug my case into the boot. 

         I smiled and got into the taxi.

         “Thanks,” I said, as I settled back. I gave him my full address, he nodded, and we set off. 

         “I wasn’t actually ahead of that guy,” I said, to myself as much as the driver. “Hope he’s not too angry, but I’ve been waiting there and he just tried to push in front.” 

         The driver nodded.

         “Oh, he’ll be fine. He catches taxis outside this station all the time – or tries to – but we all know who he is now and he won’t get a lift tonight.”

         I opened my mouth. 

         “Why? Is he a bad man? Should… somebody be told?” 

         The driver laughed. 

         “I don’t know what kind of man he was,” he said, as we headed on to Bootham. 

         “Then… why didn’t you pick him up?” 

         The driver shrugged.

         “We know him. He doesn’t talk much, but then you wouldn’t, would you?” 

         “Why not?” I said, and the driver smiled.

         “We know it costs money to drive him, but we also know that he’s a man who died in the river fifty years ago, and that’s his ghost, trying to get home.” He grinned at me as we pulled onto my street.

         “He never pays the fare and he never tips. We don’t pick up ghosts – they just don’t help themselves!”

By Robin Lewis-Light

Robin Lewis-Light lives in York, and occasionally takes a taxi, but he always pays. As for the many ghosts of York, well, he can’t speak for them…