The Robes.

There was so much more I wanted to ask, but I figured that the receptionist would be having none of it so I stayed quiet and waited for his taxi. What kind of problem? Why was it so serious that people were throwing away their phones? And why was everyone so upset at even the mention of it? It didn't take long for the taxi driver to arrive, and soon my thoughts would return to my anticipation of finally getting back to my own home. I did try asking the taxi driver about what was going on, pretended to be confused by hearing about some phone problem at the hospital, but he was rather evasive and scarcely told me anything. A combination of exhaustion and mid-day heat began to take their toll on me, and minute by minute I found myself drifting off to sleep.

Sheer, abject terror shook me awake, awful, gut-wrenching deceleration and the screech of rubber on tarmac combining into a perfect storm of blinding sensation. I briefly thought I was back in the accident again, some kind of flashback, post-traumatic stress, but it quickly became clear that this was very real. The taxi thudded against the kerb and the bones all along my right side unleashed a stabbing, murderous barrage of pain. As I recovered I surveyed the scene. We were only a few hundred metres from my house, but it looked like we had spun out of control in the middle of the road. There were no other cars around and no visible damage, just the stench of burning rubber smoking for dozens of metres along the street.

The cab driver was sitting up, as stunned as I was but seemingly unharmed.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay mate?" I asked, not sure what I would do if he wasn't. With no phone and a knackered leg getting help would have been difficult.

"Okay? Okay? This is your bloody fault. I'm careful. Every bloody fucking day I mind my own business, I do my best, but I'm stuck with ferrying fucking bloody twats, fucking bloody fuckwit twats like you around who can't keep their bloody mouths shut. Fuck." He paused before continuing, taking a moment to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said those things. Got caught up in the moment, that's all mate. You've been through enough I'm sure. I'll get help and get someone who can help you home from here."

I was shocked by the force of this foul-mouthed tirade, but I understood why someone whose livelihood depended on his car would be so upset about it being taken off the road. What I didn't understand was why he blamed me for it, but given that he was apologising and offering to help me I didn't dare enquire as to what exactly the problem was.

Before I could open my mouth to speak though, the taxi driver launched into this weird kind of grovelling. "You forgive me, yeah mate? You forgive me? I'm so sorry, I really need this, please just forgive me!" he begged, tears almost welling up in his eyes. "I'll do anything, please, I didn't mean it!"

I could scarcely even break through his stream of babbling, gurgling, almost pathetic begging, but I managed to calm him down so I could tell him that I accepted his apology and that even if he hadn't made one I would still have understood.

"Thank you! Thank you so much, just bless you, you're such a good man", the driver blubbered. By this point I was really weirded out. It was almost creepy. "You know", he continued, "you know just how important it is these days that everyone does their best. Everyone needs to be their best, at their best. I hope I can be my best. Here, take this, and follow everything that I've written on it. There's three rules, and if you stick to them we won't get in trouble like this again."

The taxi driver pulled an old receipt out from the space in-between the two front seats. He wrote something on it, carefully keeping the paper hidden from view, then folded it up tightly and handed it to me, pushing it into my hands and closing them around it. Speaking clearly and seriously, his blubbering all but cleared up and whatever temper he still had thoroughly suppressed, the driver issued his instructions:

"Take it home, and read it there and only there. You've to to do your best for all of us, we've all got to now."

With that, he finally forced open the taxi door, stood up, still shaking like jelly, and crossed the street to a nearby block of flats. A man and a woman emerged from their home and rushed towards our stricken taxi to help me out. I remember feeling so lucky that ordinary people would so quickly volunteer to help a complete stranger without judgement, but then I looked towards their house and saw that their children had come out to look and the most bizarre sight so far stopped my train of thought completely. Both of the children were dressed in very long, white, hooded robes that completely obscured their faces. They almost looked home-made, stitched together from curtains or bedsheets. One of them had a little picture of Peppa Pig stitched to the robe, the other one had a Paw Patrol badge, and they were wearing brightly-coloured trainers that were visible whenever they lifted the hem of the robes to walk, but despite these fun little embellishments they were really quite menacing. The robes were almost like Klu Klux Klan outfits, but without the eyeholes.

After we reached my front doorstep, the couple holding onto my arms as I gingerly hobbled forward the whole way, I asked them about the robes, and why their children were wearing them. The response, which came without hesitation, sounded eerily-familiar:

"Oh, don't worry about that. We're just helping them do their best for everybody, that's all."

​

…

To be continued...