On a rainy night, a heavily pregnant taxi driver offers a homeless and injured stranger a free ride to the hospital. The next morning she wakes up to a parade of SUVs outside her house. Men in suits knock on her door and tell her a truth that will change her life forever.
In her two years behind the wheel, Cleo has seen every passenger a taxi can carry: crowds of partygoers stumbling over their feet at three in the morning, families rushing to catch flights, and guilty businessmen reeking of cocktails and bad decisions. She’d listened to all the stories, drained more than one tear, and learnt to read people before they even opened her taxi door.
The headlights of the yellow taxi cut through the November fog as Cleo drove it through the empty streets of the city centre.
Her back ached, and the baby seemed determined to do gymnastics against her ribs. Eight months pregnant, her night shift was getting harder and harder. But bills don’t pay themselves, right?
‘Just a few more hours, my love,’ she whispered, rubbing her bloated belly. ‘Then we can go home to Chester.’
The baby squeaked in response, making her smile in spite of everything. Chester, her orange tabby, was probably sprawled out on a pillow in her house right now, scattering orange fur everywhere. The cat was the closest member of Cleo’s family these days.
At the mention of home, unwanted memories came flooding back to her. Five months ago, she’d walked up the same stairs to their flat, her heart pounding with excitement.
She had planned everything perfectly – the candlelit dinner, her husband Mark’s favourite lasagne, the little pair of baby shoes wrapped in silver paper.
‘We’re having a baby, honey!’ – she said, holding out the package across the table.
Mark stared at the shoes, his face losing colour. The silence stretched on until Cleo couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Say something.’
‘I can’t do that, Cleo.’
What do you mean you can’t?
‘Jessica’s pregnant, too. With my baby. Three months pregnant.’
The candles were burning out as Cleo’s world came crashing down. Jessica. His secretary. The woman he’d sworn to call ‘just a friend.’
‘How long have you been cheating on me?’
‘Does it matter?’
It really didn’t. Not a week later, Mark disappeared. In two, he had cleaned out their joint account. Now, at 32, Cleo was working double shifts trying to save money for a baby.
‘Your father may have forgotten about us,’ she whispered to her baby bump, holding back tears as she went back to that moment, ’but we’ll make it work. You’ll see.’
But that night, just three weeks before her due date, with swollen ankles and a tight maternity uniform around her belly, Cleo was faced with something else.
The clock read 11:43pm when she spotted him, a lone figure trudging along the side of the motorway.
Through the haze of streetlights and drizzling rain, he appeared like a ghost from the shadows of 42nd Street. Even from a distance, something about his appearance made her heart race.
His clothes hung in dirty shreds, and his dark hair was in wet strands on his face. He clutched one hand to his chest, dragging his right foot, stumbling on the empty pavement.
Cleo instinctively pressed her hand to her rounded belly, watching the man through the windscreen. She should have been home an hour ago, curled up curled up with Chester, who always purred on her belly as if he were serenading a baby.
But something about the man’s desperation, the way he swayed with each step as if trying to stay on his feet, made her grip the steering wheel tighter instead of driving away.
In two years of night driving, Cleo had learned to recognise trouble. And in this scene, everything spoke of danger.
Through the fog, she made out more details. It was a young guy, about twenty-five years old, dressed in what had once been expensive clothes.
He was clutching his right arm, and even in the dim light she could make out the dark scarlet stains on his sleeve. His face was covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut.
A car appeared in the rear-view mirror, moving fast. The man raised his head, horror written all over his face. He tried to run, but stumbled.
‘Don’t do it, Cleo,’ she whispered. ‘Not today. Not when you’re eight months pregnant.’
But she had already pulled over to the curb.
Rolling down her window, she asked: ‘Are you okay? Need help?’
The stranger turned around, his eyes widened with fear. Dark scarlet-coloured sweat trickled from the cut above his eyebrow. ‘I just need to get somewhere safe.’
The engine of the approaching car roared louder.
‘Get in!’ Cleo unlocked the doors. ‘I’ll take you to the hospital.’
The boy climbed in and collapsed into the back seat as Cleo stepped on the gas. The headlights of the pursuing car flooded her mirror.
‘They’re still coming,’ he muttered, ducking low. ‘Thanks. Most wouldn’t have stopped.’