“Do you know who I am?”
The cab driver nods.
“I’m not dangerous.”
He looks for reassurance in my face, but my determination and anger won’t give him any.
I took my life in my hands getting him to stop.
The first cab I hailed simply sailed around me and into oncoming traffic, causing a lot of hard braking and a certain amount of swearing.
This bloke stopped, and as I piled into his cab, I yelled, “Follow that car.”
He didn’t reply, and he didn’t seem fazed by my command.
Maybe cab drivers get that all the time.
He was young and tall with very dark hair and amazing black eyes. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror and, considering my loud request; you may not think that was so strange, but I knew he’d recognised me.
My photo had been on the front page of the Herald-Sun for three days, just above the picture of a disgraced footballer, a coach caught up in a doping scandal and an ‘actress’, I had never heard of, who was outraged that her naked photos had appeared on the web, again.
I have found it relatively easy to keep my naked photos off the web; I don’t take any. I wouldn’t want to ‘frighten the horses’, as my mum used to say.
The twenty-year-old Mercedes with a damaged tail light had a short head start on us, but my dark-eyed cab driver was up to the task. The upside of tailing someone in a taxi is that no one takes any notice of the poor driving that is required to follow someone successfully; all cabs are driven like that.
The old Merc dived into a parking space opposite a vacant bloke of land. The driver got out as we sailed by.
I gave the taxi driver an enormous tip, and he smiled at me. Hopefully, he will take an hour or two before he reports having seen me. If this were a movie, he wouldn’t turn me in at all, but this isn’t a movie, and I’m going to be lucky if I stay one step ahead of the police.
The silver Merc’s driver prized open the security fence that was doing a poor job of protecting the vacant block and disappeared.
I’m only a chartered accountant, but it is amazing what skills you can summon up when your life has been torn apart. The Merc driver did not see me follow him, nor did he notice me see him enter the old house that was hidden behind a massive growth of blackberries. The house must have been empty for a very long time.
I put my hand in my coat pocket and felt the handle of the wood chisel.
One of us was going to come out of that house and live happily ever after.
From the first time since this all started, I considered scribbling my last will and testament on the back of the McDonald’s receipt that I found in the other pocket of my coat, but there wasn’t enough time, and I didn’t have a writing implement.
An accountant without a pen but in possession of a sharp wood chisel. It had been a very strange couple of days, but now it was about to get terminal.
I took a deep breath, and with the hand that wasn’t holding the chisel, I pushed open what had, at one time, been the front door.
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