Well, damn. Here she was.
Never, she’d said. Never coming back of her own free will. Yet as she sat in the taxi crawling up the darkened esplanade, no one was holding a gun to her head.
The taxi inched along and Abigail knew it wouldn’t make the driveway. Wind peeled up from the sea, as if to urge the cab further, but it drew to a halt well short of its mark. Surely the driver mocked her, the way he crept so slowly even though the meter continued to count up in the way dollars only did when you had to pay them. The taxi sat there idling, headlights pushing out cones of light and she felt an impotent fury.
‘That’s fifty,’ said the driver.
It was almost ten pm. She had forgotten how utterly dark night time could be: stars winked, surf flashed at the edge of the headlights’ beam and then—nothing. No light anywhere. With effort she craned forward, looking up the hill, but her view was blocked by what she knew was a row of old pines.
‘Can’t you just—’ Abigail gestured towards the driveway, maybe two hundred metres further.
‘You got more?’
‘No.’
The driver shrugged. ‘You said go as far as fifty.’
She sat back. Stuffy hot air blew from the vents in the dash. Salt spray, or drops of rain, or flakes of some crusty coastal crap blew through the headlights. It would be cold out. This enraged her too. Inside the taxi was too hot; outside was too cold. When was the last time she had felt comfortable? Just pleasantly, mildly content?
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