Текст книги "Driver Chronicles: Book 1 - The Passenger"

Автор книги: Niall Roche

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Driver Chronicles

Book 1 – The Passenger

Niall Roche

Niall Roche Books

Copyright (C) 2015 by Niall Roche

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author (me) greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it.

The idea of ever releasing these books scared the living crap out of me, so I hope you enjoy them!

Dedicated to everyone who encouraged me to keep going when I didn’t want to.

What people are saying about Driver Chronicles – Book 1. I’m genuinely flattered by these reviews folks, I really am.

'A highly entertaining read, I couldn't put it down. I feel I will spend my days begging the author write more. The Author creates a tension in the story that is enrapturing, the character development is almost 4 dimensional and the plot will have you completely engrossed.' – Stephen Stone

'Not certain how to describe this book! I only know that I am calling Mr. Roche's home to see when book 2 will be ready. I would have bought it tonight! This takes the most controversial headlines, puts a ring of truth to the conspiracy theory behind them, and then plunges you into a tub of ice water! I don't have enough yet so I am ready to go back for another plunge! Just read it!' – Raindance

'This book caught me by surprise, I haven't read fiction in an age so was sceptical about reading this but it came highly recommended so I gave it a shot. I did not regret it, the pacing is excellent – the story rolls along wonderfully, in fact I couldn't put it down – my only complaint is that it finished far too quickly. A friend compared this to Dan Brown but that is a disservice to the book, its way better than that. I'm looking forward to #2.' - shibboleth

'A great story based on real events but what really happened. Leaves you wanting more. Get it you will not be disappointed.' - Paul M

Things do not happen. Things are made to happen.

– John F. Kennedy

Driver Chronicles

The Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Driver Chronicles – Book 2 – Chapter 1

The Author

Niall Roche started out in life wanting to be a rock star, but when the reality of that ever happening vanished, he decided he should have a career doing stuff. He wasn’t quite sure what he should be doing (and some people would argue that’s still true), so over the space of the last 22 years, he’s worked in IT (nerd), as an IT trainer (teaching other people how to be nerds), and finally settled on doing something that ranges between freelance writing and working as a business communications specialist for a company.

Now that’s he finally grown up, at the ripe old age of 42, he’s now decided he wants to write books for a living, and for fun, too.

Niall lives in Waterford, Ireland with his long-suffering girlfriend, Trish, and their dog, Butters.  And, yes, Butters is named after the character in South Park, despite the fact she’s female and looks absolutely nothing like Leopold “Butters” Stotch.

If you really like his stuff why not leave a nice review of this book, or any of his books, on Amazon?

And if you’d like to keep up with his writing you can always add yourself to his mailing list:

http://niallroche.com/subscribe/

P.S. He will totally bribe you with free stuff for subscribing.

Chapter 1

There'd been some crappy days in his life so far, but today was definitely moving a notch higher on the 'Day from Hell' charts every time he looked around. In the end, he was just glad to park his cab, turn the ignition off, and say "laters!" to cheap fares, traffic from hell, and a throbbing headache that made his left eye feel like it was trying to eject itself from his head with as much force as a small nuclear weapon. It hurt. A lot.

His small-ish apartment had that smell you only got around single guys – old food mixed with stale farts and even staler beer. He liked this dump though, it was his dump after all. It was the kind of organized chaos that appealed to him in its own special way, he knew where he could put his foot on anything. He wasn't a neat freak, hell no, but he wasn't a slob either, or at least not a very serious kind of slob. If there were a “Slob Olympics”, he was from one of those poorer countries that would show up, do badly, but get a round of sympathy applause anyways.

He looked around at a room that was lit only with whatever light was streaming in through his blinds. It had been a long time since he’d actually lived here, now he just existed here instead. Turning on the lights would only remind him of how he was coasting through his life instead of actually doing anything with it. It had also been a long time since this place had seen a woman. That goes on my ever-growing ‘to do’ list then, he thought to himself.

Being a taxi driver was a strange job at the best of times. For example, he’d accepted that taxi drivers hear a lot of stories – that was part of the job. It was the same deal for people working in bars. People come in, tell you their woes, and then leave again. He’d heard it all in the last few years, but today had been a lottery win of crazies. From the suicidal business man, to the lady who wanted to pay her fare in a currency he was sure she’d printed at home, right on to the crazy guy who kept telling him he could be “saved” if he wanted to. Today had been enough. This day had been more than enough.

The word "beer" appeared inside his head again, almost like it would in one of those old hilariously violent cartoons kids used to watch when they were...well...kids. He missed cartoons. Sure, kids had edutainment programs, filled with important moral messages, but they’d never know the pleasure of laughing so hard at cartoons that they squirt milk out their nose. Maybe they do. Maybe he’ll ask that giant purple dinosaur he always sees on TV.

He threw his jacket across the room, landing on top of the other jacket he'd thrown there yesterday, and slumped into a chair, staring at a TV that was switched off. Probably just as well really because the only news they seemed to show lately was bad news. War, famine, death, and more war. Wars fought for oil and land now turning into wars fought for the sake of big business. Wars fought for water were coming next – it was only a matter of time. He’d had his share of warfare. A big fat slice of it he was still chewing on years later.

He felt a lot older than his years tonight. A lot older and more tired than he had in a long while. It was that kind of whole-body tiredness where you almost ached from it. "Bone tired" barely even covered it.

Beer would make it better. At least he hoped it would. He decided to get up and test that theory, rubbing the sleep from his face as he pushed himself upright.

Fortunately, he had a few cold bottles of that imported German stuff in reserve. In case of personal emergency, open fridge, he smiled to himself. He reached inside, pulled out a bottle, and opened it. Each motion was completed as if he was on autopilot. It was like a sixth sense for a seasoned drinker. He drank down as he vaguely listened to the static of life floating in off the street, a constant hum of existence that never really went away. Some people would hate it, but he found it kinda comforting to know that they world was still ticking along out there, while he was ticking along inside here.

A few swallows later, he was starting to feel slightly more human, and maybe even a little bit relaxed. The sigh that came floating out of his chest moments later pretty much confirmed that for him. He was just glad that day was done, period. The whole struggle of "just getting by" was bearing down on him lately. The harder he worked, the more broke he seemed to get. Not exactly the life he'd been looking forward to. Hell, who exactly got to live the life they'd planned to? Did anyone?

His phone rang, interrupting the start of an interesting philosophical debate he was about to start with himself. He’d planned on winning that debate, too. Damn it.

He looked down at his cheap digital watch, worn on his right hand just because he was different like that.

8:30pm. Only telemarketers call you at this hour. Jason simultaneously hoped it actually was a telemarketer calling him, so he could blow off some steam by giving him hell, but he also wished the phone would just stop ringing. In the end, he decided he'd answer it, just in case he'd inherited a vast fortune from some long-forgotten rich uncle. Fat chance of that, he thought.

He slumped over to the phone, dragging his feet as he went. "Hello?"

"Mister Armstrong?"

"Yup, that's me."

"Mister Jason Armstrong?"

"Yes, yes, I'm him. Or he's me. Whatever. What are you selling?"

"The truth," a voice answered.

Right. This sounded like some kind of cult or conspiracy nut trying to sell a subscription to their "truth" magazine. He prepared himself for a barrage of bullshit.

"Sorry, buddy, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling there. Thanks for calling and Buddha be with you, or whatever it is you're into.” Jason went to hang up the phone.

"We know who they are, Jason. Remember that."

That caught him off guard. Jason was familiar with all the usual hype-filled pitches these guys made like “No money down”, “…profit in just 30 days”, and “…change your life forever”, but this was a pitch he’d never heard before. He decided to listen. This might actually be fun, and he could seriously do with a laugh today.

"Umm, okay. You know who who are?" Jason laughed quietly to himself that he now sounded like an owl.

"We know who they are. We've always known." *Click*

A dead line.

Telemarketers don't hang up on you. Weird.

He hit redial but got a dead line. Double weird. He put the phone back down on the countertop where he always left it. Probably a good idea to get that line disconnected. He never used it anyway, except to argue with telemarketers, of course.

Jason didn't waste too much time on that thought. He was already tired and that call was just more drama in a day that was long overdue to be finished. The only thing that got to him about the whole thing was the total lack of emotion in the voice he’d just heard. It was almost robotic, but definitely human. It would have bothered him more, except for the fact that he was basically asleep on his feet.

He put the beer away in two gulps, hit the lights, and dragged himself toward his bedroom. He knew he was exhausted because the floor was starting to feel soft, despite the fact that it was 2 feet of concrete.

He threw himself into bed thinking, We know who they are. Jeez, buddy, I barely know who I am!

He was asleep 30 seconds later.

Chapter 2

He pulled the car to a swift halt outside the small apartment block. It was a wet, miserable night out there, which meant his fare was either going to take forever to get out here, or was going to be waiting on the curb. He quickly scanned the surrounding area, but couldn't see anyone who looked like they'd been waiting anxiously for a taxi while getting soaked to the skin by the current downpour. It was a pretty typical New England winter's night: dark, cold, and not very forgiving.

He sat idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, as if that simple act could speed time up, making the whole act of waiting around like a goon that little bit easier. The rain on the roof of the car was making that gentle drumming sound that drives some people nuts, but Jason found it calmed his mind down. Actually, rain had had that effect on him his entire life. As a kid, all he needed to hear was rain on the windows and he was so soundly asleep, it looked like he'd been tagged with a tranquilizer dart. That was one of the happier memories of him being a kid, but the rest he could take or leave, for the most part. “Life just ain't fair,” he muttered under his breath. That was something he’d learned at a very early age.

Even the next day, that robotic voice on the phone was still stuck in his head. "We know who they are. We've always known." That was one of the more random things to happen in this mundane life of his, but he knew at this stage that it wasn’t a prank because, otherwise, Fred and the other tools he worked with would have owned up by now. The idea of keeping the prank a secret would eventually get the better of one of them and they'd just blurt it out. That hadn’t happened, and that bothered him at some level. He’d never been a fan of cryptic phone calls, or cryptic anything else, for that matter

His mind was still wandering all over the issue of that weird voice when the back door of his cab opened and closed with almost military efficiency. His entire body became instantly alert while he was mentally screaming, "Jesus Christ!" He’d been mentally tuned out for far too long.

He'd never liked people sneaking up on him, and this included his passengers. Trying to sound as calm as he possibly could, he glanced into the rearview mirror and muttered, "You okay back there, buddy?", hoping in his gut that whoever actually was back there was his fare and not some random nutcase about to pull out a knife or a gun. He held his gaze on the rearview mirror a while longer, but whoever was back there had their face hidden behind the brim of an old hat – one of those old Fedoras you'd expect to see someone's grandfather wearing at a funeral. Now there's a creepy thought.

His passenger muttered, "I'm fine, thank you. Brinkley Clinic, please."

"Okay, buddy, it’s your dime. Let’s get moving."

Jason turned over the engine of his cab, gave it some gas, and pulled away into the night. A good taxi driver knows when their fare wants to shoot the breeze about anything and nothing, and they also know when their fare just doesn't want to talk. This guy didn't seem to be much of a talker, that much was certain. He was a passenger and he wanted a ride. That was fine with Jason; he just wanted to get paid, and an old guy like this was likely to leave a tip. At least he hoped he would. Every few bucks counted.

As you might expect from good old New England rain, it was coming down in sheets so heavy that driving became a bigger pain in the ass than normal. Jason was pretty sure the weather was bad enough that it made sense for him to drive that bit more slowly for safety, so he did. There was something about really bad weather that made normally sane people drive like absolute lunatics, and tonight was going to be one of those nights. Bad weather and a full moon always equals a dangerous night to be driving, in his experience.

There was that, plus the fact that whoever the guy in the back was, he obviously wasn't feeling too hot. There was a wheezing noise escaping from his mouth, which made him sound just a little bit hollow and not a whole lot healthy. It was like something had eaten most of his insides, and the rest was just held together by hot air and hope.

"How long will it take us to get to the clinic?" Mr. Fedora asked.

"We're looking at about 60 minutes in this rain, buddy. The traffic couldn't be moving more slowly if it tried, plus Brinkley is clear across town out near Woodlawn Cemetery. It’s going to take time for us to get there," Jason replied. This was pretty typical "weather" talk with a passenger, so nothing new or exciting there. The old guy was probably just trying to fill the silence with something, rather than just sit there mute.

The words "Tempus fugit" came floating from the back seat of the car. Not yelled. Not spoken. Almost whispered.

"What's that you said, buddy?" Jason asked as he glanced into the rearview mirror.

The fedora tilted backward and a gaunt face, fringed by a tidy white goatee, looked up at him. Jason felt his heart go ice cold as Mr. Fedora repeated, "Tempus Fugit, driver. It means 'time flies'. It's Latin, but then again, who speaks Latin these days, eh?"

Staring back at the face in the mirror, Jason mentally decided that Mr. Fedora probably didn't cut it with this guy as nicknames go. Mr. Nightmare seemed a whole lot closer to home. He might have thought this guy looked sick before, but being able to see him a bit more clearly, he was damned well sure of it.

"Well, I suppose they say time flies when you're having fun, don’t they? By the way, you can stop calling me driver – the name's Jason."

Getting on a first name basis with a passenger was always a good way to earn an extra few bucks from them. It also stopped crazy people from getting extra crazy with him. He believed in talking them down before they ever reached their ledge. It was just easier that way.

"Very good, Jason. My name's William, or Bill, if you like. I suppose time does fly, doesn't it?"

Jason looked back in the rearview mirror, did his best to fake a friendly smile, and drove forward through a small gap in the traffic. As much as he wanted the fare, something inside him was saying he also wanted this guy out of his car as soon as he could. It might have been his imagination but the air in the cab felt a little bit colder since Mr. William No-second-name got into it.

Some people never have to tell you about their past, because you can feel it walk right into the room with them. Mr. William here was definitely one of those kinds of people.

Chapter 3

They'd traveled another mile or so down the road when the silence was broken again. Mr. Fedora suddenly decided he wanted a conversation it seemed.

"Jason, do you believe in God?"

A single drop of sweat ran down along Jason's neck and onto his spine. It was that annoying trickle of sweat that runs the entire length of your spine until it reaches your butt cheeks and then just sits there going cold. The temperature inside the taxi might have seemed cool earlier on, but that question coming from the human skeleton in the back seat made the inside of the cab turn positively fucking polar.

There were a couple of things Jason hated. The first was someone knocking on the bathroom door the split second after he'd sat on the throne in the hope of taking care of "business" without being interrupted. The second was people who shook your hand as if it were made of a mixture of AIDS and dynamite, and the third was some kind of Jesus freak sitting in the back of his cab wanting to convert him back to the light side of the Force, or whatever. This had already been a weird week and Jason was set on preventing any further weirdness from meandering into his life if that was at all possible.

Besides, he had his own beliefs on what made the Universe tick and why, but it's not something he spoke about very much with anyone, especially not random strangers. Those thoughts were for the quiet hours during the night when his mind refused to let him sleep. The nights where you quietly solve the problems of the world, then wake up having forgotten all the clever solutions you came up with.

"Ummm, I'm not sure what you mean, William...wasn't it?"

"Yes. William, or just Bill. Whatever way you like it. It was a simple question though – do you believe in God?"

Jason did his best to smother the sigh stuck in his chest, and calmly replied to the shadows, "Yes, basically, I do. But that doesn't include the idea of some guy sitting on a cloud, deciding who's good or bad. Or who lives and dies. Why do you ask?"

The old man's head seemed to nod slightly in agreement with Jason, or maybe just to acknowledge that he'd heard his answer.

"Do you think we have to pay for our 'sins', if that's what you want to call them, when we shake off this mortal coil, Jason? Or does it make any difference in the end what you believe in?" the old man asked.

Jason took a few seconds to mull this over in his head, very aware that the wrong answer could send his getting-creepier-every-second passenger in the back over the edge of a very tall emotional cliff. Religious zealots tended to be like that, unpredictable. Actually, anyone who was too zealous about anything at all was unpredictable. But that's short-sighted people for you, eh?

"I think the Universe balances the books, buddy. Or that's how I look at it. Ying and yang. Positive and negative. It's all about finding balance. In the end, the Universe has to balance its books to keep things going, or otherwise the system breaks down." That sounded neutral enough not to annoy anyone. It was also what Jason believed, so he didn't have to think about it too much before answering. He knew it wouldn’t sound fake to anyone listening to him.

The next sound coming from the back of the cab was the thing Jason had least expected to hear – laughter. Not just a chuckle but a deep, rumbling belly laugh. Mr. Fedora was cracking up back there, and Jason found himself smiling the way you do when you walk into a room where other people are already laughing and you start chuckling, too, but have no idea why. But that hollow wheeze was still there, hissing through the laughter every so often, and that was creepy enough to wipe the smile off Jason's face almost instantly.

"Oh, Jason, you're an honest man, and that's the most honest answer anyone has given me to that question, I think. Most people will do their best to sound pious and righteous to impress their audience. They want to give an answer that will please whoever is listening. I do believe you're right, however, and that the Universe does always balance the books. For good or bad. In fact, it's settling my account as we speak."

Jason glanced back into his rearview mirror again and saw a face that looked more human this time. Less like a ghoul. More like a body that was having the life slowly sucked out of it, and was near its last gasp. It's human nature to feel at least some sense of pity in these situations, which is exactly what Jason felt right now, plus just a touch of guilt. He'd been so busy judging this guy, he'd never given himself even a handful of seconds to get to know him a little better.

"Willia...I mean...Bill...you can tell me to shut up if you want to, I've never been inside Brinkley Clinic before, but isn't that a cancer…" Jason was cut short.

"Yes, it's a cancer hospice. It's my final resting place, or at least it will be in a few days’ time. I don't have very many miles left on my clock, Jason. This body is just about used up."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Jason never knew what to say in these situations. In fact, he had an absolute gift for putting his foot in his mouth when it came to asking personal questions. He'd ask someone how their new job was going, only to hear they'd been fired that same day. He'd ask how someone was settling into their new apartment, only to be told it had burned to the ground the night before. The worst of these was asking a buddy of his about how he was getting on with his new girlfriend and getting the reply, "She's dead. I woke up, and she was dead beside me." After that, he became more of a listener and less of a talker. It was just a lot easier, and less embarrassing, that way.

"I'm sorry, too, believe me, but this has been coming for a long time and I deserve what's coming my way. We all pay a price for what we’ve done in the end. It doesn’t really matter who or what you believe in. There’s always a final toll to be paid."

Now your average taxi driver hears a lot of private conversations in the course of a given week, and sees a lot of crazy shit, too, but this was the first time he'd heard someone saying they basically deserved to die. That was a first. It was also unsettling because a dying man has nothing to lose, so they don't give a flying fuck about doing or saying whatever pops into their tiny, insane heads. Like pulling a gun out of their pocket, blowing your brains out, and then offing themselves once they're done. That's not a nice thought to have going on inside your head, especially when you can't make eye contact with the guy in the first place. At least then you might be able to guess his next move…if there was one.

"Umm...did you just say that you deserve to die?" Jason asked.

"There are some sins we can just walk away from, " the old man replied. "Some things that just wash away with time. We forget them because we choose to, and so does the Universe, simply because they don't disturb the order of things. But there are some sins that we need to pay the price for. Otherwise, the books don't get balanced and the Universe gets out of balance, just like you said."

He had a few seconds to think over what the old man had just said. A few seconds before replying. The caution he felt was struggling with a mixture of empathy and morbid curiosity. He knew that asking more questions meant going further down the rabbit’s hole with this guy, but he didn’t think he could stop himself wanting to know more. Could you blame him?

"What could you have done that was so bad that you deserve to die, Bill? Did you like kill a whole bunch of people or something?" Jason asked, hoping he was totally and utterly wrong.

"Worse. Far worse. I made sure one man died, believing that it might save the lives of millions of people. I was wrong."

There was a long, chilly pause in the air after the old man stopped talking. This was the first time in his life that Jason realized he might actually be more comfortable talking to a convicted serial killer than this strange old dude who had just appeared in his life tonight.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to figure out what to say next. Tonight was going to be an interesting night, whether he liked it or not.

Their car drove slowly on through the rain.