The Driver

Bill was not massively against the idea of dying. I mean, it’s not the best thing that can happen on a Thursday morning, but it’s not the most hideous idea in the world. As an atheist, he always thought the idea sounded kind of peaceful, you know? No more nagging mothers, no more accidentally touching something icky when you’re washing the dishes, no more walking into the changing rooms of the clothing store you work out at the end of the day to find out that another goddamn person seems to have mixed up the goddamn changing rooms and the goddamn toilets.

And anyway, if death turned out not to be the ending of sentience, then hey, he could always come visit Jeff Bezos on Christmas Eve and guilt him into giving all his money to his employees.

That being said, if he was being completely honest, it had not been on his to-do list that morning. Pick up a ready meal for dinner? Sure. Go to the gym? Sure. Take out the trash? Sure, he probably wasn’t going to do it, but it was on his to-do list. But dying? Nope. Nada. Definitely not. So driving at 120 mph through London being followed by three police cars, a helicopter and a motorbike, with four men in the car, all at least 6 feet tall, each holding a gun, and, if they’d even been listening, well aware this car was only made for a driver and three passengers? Not exactly ideal.

But hey, when life gives you lemons, right?

“Next left! Next left!”

Bill pulls down the steering wheel as hard as he can, picturing his driving instructor clenching his jaw at the fact he was not in second gear.

“Down that road! That road over there! Faster!”

Bill mentally rolls his eyes at the obviously American man in the front seat, because yes of course, he was only going as fast as the car could go, the fastest he’d ever driven in his life, and at least 50mph over the speed limit, maybe he should go a teensy bit faster. Of course, he rolls his eyes mentally, because the obviously American man in the front seat is at least 6 feet tall and is holding a gun.

“Right okay, keep following this road here and we should get there in a minute or two.” Continues obviously American man in the front seat. “Sven said it should be fairly obvious when we get there.” Presumably-Sven grunts from the backseat. “And it better be fairly obvious this time, because there is still no GPS in this car, which I’ve said a million times is dumb. What do y’all expect me to do, pull out a map of England from a fanny pack like Batman or something?”

“For the last time mate, it’s called a bloody bum bag, a fanny is a bird’s lady parts.” Grumbles potentially-Sven.

At this point, Bill arrives at the bottom level of an empty multi-story car park.

“Right, nice work, dude, this is where we leave you. You’re pretty good by the way, much better than the last guy. What crew do you usually work for?”

“Crew?”

“Yeah, who do you drive for?”

“Oh no, I’m not a driver. I just saw the ad on Craigslist yesterday.”

Three faces in the car turn simultaneously to look at potentially-Sven-potentially-not-Sven. He shrugs.

“What, you gave me like three days to find a driver, what did you expect me to do?”

“I expected you to hire an actual getaway driver, you dumbass. I knew I should have got Sven to find one.”

Not-Sven just shrugs again.

“Anyway,” Obviously American man in the front seat starts, climbing out of the front seat. “You were damn good. Tell you what, take this.”

Bill takes the small black notebook. It’s clearly falling apart, has ripped out pages, and a playing card sticking out the middle. He opens it to that page, which has today’s date and a time, as well as the exact location and directions that had been in the Craigslist ad.

“On every page is a time, a date, and a location.” Obviously American man explains. “Make sure you’re there on time. And maybe bring your own car next time, if it has GPS.”

Bill looks up in complete bafflement at the men staring down at him. What on earth, what on this whole Godforsaken lump of rock, could possibly make these men think that he would be willing to, on a regular basis, hurtle down side-streets in his tiny car, surrounded by guns and policemen and -

“Oh, nearly forgot.” Says not-Sven. “Your cut. Should be 20k in there, let me know if there’s not. Sven here is bad at maths.”

He hands over a briefcase.

“What side of the building should I pick you up from?”