Red Skye at Night Read Free Page B

regurgitated Carlsberg.
    I cast my eyes along the queue, grouping the bunches of passengers together, mentally allocating them to the taxis in front of my vehicle in the long line of cars. This is another little game of mine, trying to work out just which fare I’ll get. I usually get it right, more or less, to within a couple of people either way. On this occasion I settle on Mr. and Mrs. Shell Suit. I don’t mind. They look harmless enough. Certainly sober. The only challenge they’re likely to present is the affront to taste that is their matching attire.
    I wonder where they’ll want to go. Hopefully not too far, then I’ll have time to get back to the airport and pick up another fare or two. Several smaller trips pay better than one long one as a rule, especially if the tips are generous.
    I need the cash right now to meet the payments on my car loan and relieve the pressure on my strained credit card. Come to think of it, I’ll probably be working most of the night. I’m not fond of the night shift but I can charge an unsocial-hours top-up and I’ll probably be able to get some sleep in the morning once my neighbors clear off for their lectures. I live in Leeds’ bedsit land, surrounded by students. They’re noisy, but tend not to be there during the day. And the place is cheap.
    I continue to peruse the waiting passengers, and start trying to pick out a few who might have arrived from Dusseldorf. The group nearest to me chatting in German are a dead giveaway and too easy. The couple speaking French—at least I think it’s French—are more difficult to place, though why they would be coming into a provincial airport in the UK from a Mediterranean hotspot is beyond me. Dusseldorf seems more likely.
    The cars roll forward a few yards and it’s time to hop back aboard. I slide into the driver’s seat and start my engine. We’re on the move. I edge forward, watching as groups of passengers lean into the drivers’ cabs before slinging their piles of luggage and duty frees into the boot and scrambling into the rear seats. Occasionally a front seat is required, but in my experience, fares generally prefer to keep themselves to themselves in the back. It’s a good habit, if you ask me. It suits me just fine.
    I notice a man strolling alongside my car as the queue dematerializes and can tell at a glance that he looks way too attractive for my liking and way too formal to be even remotely connected to Majorca. Dusseldorf. Definitely.
    He’s tall, with dark hair, short at the sides, long on top and brushed back. His tailored jacket and smart trousers look expensive. He’s wearing proper shoes too—black leather, very shiny. He looks to be not much older than me—perhaps late twenties, early thirties at the most—and as sexy as they come. No way is he returning from holiday. He looks more suited to a meeting with his bank manager, or maybe he’s kitted out for a court appearance. He has a small black suitcase, on wheels, which he tows easily behind him as he passes my taxi. His phone is in his hand and he’s studying the screen intently.
    The queue stops and I crawl on, passing the now stationary man. I take the opportunity to peer up at him as I pass—no harm in looking, after all—at the exact moment he loses interest in his phone. He glances across, straight at me.
    Shit! I drop my gaze immediately, embarrassed to be caught ogling. Christ, what was I thinking? It’s not even as though I’m overly fond of men, except in a purely functional sense. I like them well enough on the television or in films, but here in real life I generally manage to avoid them for the most part. The occasional tumble across the mattress with a randy student after a night out in Leeds is okay, but not something to get terribly excited about—not in my experience. And I don’t much like clearing up afterwards. If children and drunks seem messy, how much more chaos could Mr. Sex On Legs cause? My upholstery was never designed