44678

01:36 was a lonely time to be on the St Pancras taxi rank, but Frank had been passing the station and thought he’d wait at the empty spot in case someone on one of the late-night trains wanted a ride home instead of walking through the rain. His cab was warm and cosy, there was just enough of a streetlight glow to scan the newspaper he’d bought earlier.

Dipping the paper to turn the page Frank noticed something through the steamed-up window. Another cab, painted pure white, had appeared in front. Quite how it had got there Frank had no idea. Apart from the sound of light rain on the roof the street was silent, plus the other taxi would have had to pass him by to get in front. He was about to go and have a word with the other cabbie when the taxi started to move away. Frank noted the licence - 44678 - before it disappeared from sight.

Finally some passengers appeared and, sure enough, one opted to pay for a taxi home rather than trudge through the storm. To Frank’s frustration it was just a short ride and so, when that job was completed, he decided to head into central London in the hope of picking up better fares. Speeding down an empty Baker Street he glanced in his rearview mirror. The last thing he ever saw in this life was a reflection of cab 44678, before his own smashed fatally into a parked car.

‘Hafsat Owusu, from the New London Times. Can you tell me how this accident happened?’
‘No comment.’
‘C’mon, you must have some clues.’
‘I know we’re on Baker Street but I ain’t bloody Sherlock Holmes. Call the station tomorrow.’

Hafsat dejectedly put her Dictaphone away and peered around the policeman to where the fire brigade were cutting through Frank’s taxi. A screen was then hastily erected to block the gory view. Minutes later an occupied body bag was wheeled away on a stretcher into an awaiting ambulance.

After sending off the bare details of the story to her night editor, Hafsat walked around the site of the crash. No skid marks, no witnesses and, having looked up the dead driver’s licence, no reason for why an experienced cabbie would make such a fatal error. Accidents like this happened rarely enough for almost no-one to take any notice.

Being the New London Times’s night duty reporter, Hafsan saw hundreds of accidents every year. Having done the job for several years she’d started to become aware of the strange phenomena of late-night unforced accidents by veteran cab drivers, and now made sure to record even the smallest piece of evidence. In fact, Hafsan had grown so obsessed with these always-fatal accidents that she’d decided to trawl through her publication’s archives.

There had been accidents such as this almost every year since the Times had been founded in 1893, when a hansom cab had overturned at speed some time between 2 and 3am on a quiet Westminster street. The Metropolitan Police could not detect exactly why the crash had happened, nor why the driver was in such a rush.

Unable to get any closer to understanding tonight’s mystery, Hafsan stopped closely following police reports of road traffic accidents for the next few months. The shortest time between these unsolved taxi crashes had been 8 months, and so, after half a year had passed, the local reporter resumed her monitoring of unusual late-night accidents. If only there were some other pattern she could figure out.

The taxis never had any passengers, just the driver. The accidents always happened late at night. In addition to these already-known facts, in the intervening months Hafsan had discovered two other key details, thanks to her persistent requests to the police for their unpublished records: the drivers had all been behind the wheel for at least 8 hours and so were likely at the end of their working days, and; they had all been driving away from train stations. These additional details were only available from accidents that had occurred in the 1950s onwards, older records were either not available or only mentioned basic information.

Cycling was one of the fastest ways of getting around London above ground. Every night Hafsan cycled to one of the city’s main railway stations and found a 24-hour café from which to do her work while watching for any arriving taxis. Tonight she was just outside Farringdon Station, sipping slowly at a strong, sugary coffee. At 03:43 a black cab pulled up to Farringdon taxi rank and a dishevelled businessman stumbled out. The driver didn’t switch on the light indicating that he was ready for more passengers. He was done for the night.

This is it, thought Hafsan. She hurriedly paid for her coffee and reached her bicycle just as the cab pulled away from the station. This had been ‘it’ for the seventh time this month. All the other taxis she’d been spying on had either got home safely or had disappeared from sight. None had been reported as being in a fatal, lonely accident.

Hafsan’s maximum speed on her bike was 15mph, that taxi was averaging 23mph. It, however, obeyed red lights. Hafsan did not and so was able to keep the black vehicle in view. At one point she anticipated the route the driver was going to take and so pulled ahead and waited on a quiet street. She began preparing to cycle off again as soon as the taxi passed her, but then noticed something else at the end of the street.

A London taxi cab, painted white. It was rapidly approaching its black twin from behind. The pursued driver sped up, but had reacted too late to avoid a collision. An unforecast rain storm poured out of the sky just as the white cab slammed into the other vehicle. Except it didn’t slam. There was no bang nor rending of metal.

Ghost taxi 44678 merged with its corporeal counterpart, the driver of which yelped in panic and fear. He had lost control of his vehicle, which now was being steered at great speed into the edge of a bridge. In terrified fascination Hafsan pedalled as fast as she could towards the accident, arriving just in time to see the supernatural taxi continue on. The rear of the cab was filled with water and dozens of screaming faces, one of which was the newly-deceased driver, whose gaping mouth and wide eyes told of the pure horror he was now doomed to experience for eternity.

Hafsan caught a glimpse of the ghost taxi’s driver, its sallow, emaciated face soaking wet from the water pouring from its orifices.

Of course, no-one believed her. The police questioned her for hours, trying to determine if she was responsible for the crash. Unable to put together a link, a detective eventually released her, but not after taking down every last one of her incredible — and thoroughly unbelievable — story.

44678. After a week of obsessing about this number Hafsan typed the numbers into her phone, which on a text message spelled out “ghost”. A self-aware ghost, then, but why was it haunting taxi drivers? Now that the reporter had witnessed this terrible spirit’s modus operandi she input more details into her searches.

Jacob Watkins had lived in London’s Bloomsbury area, after moving from Hull where he’d been born a pauper in 1841. Although he had been brought into this world with nothing but a cheap necklace depicting strange symbols from his mother’s Eastern European homeland, he had also been gifted with an exceptional brain. As a teenager he’d managed to figure out how to lift himself out of poverty and made enough money to relocate to the capital, where he bought a smart cart and horse.

Quickly learning the hansom carriage trade, within two years Jacob had a fleet of four horse and carts, and employed as many drivers. His business had grown so quickly that he had come to the attention of some jealous rivals, who dropped their prices and, under cover of night, sabotaged the carts. Jacob responded by reducing his prices further and making his drivers work 16 hour days. Before long he had gained a reputation of acting unreasonably and even violently towards his employees. Potential passengers began to shun any carriages painted with the Watkins name. His rivals hated him, but not quite as much as he hated them. Business ebbed away to almost nothing.

Now with just one raggedy carriage and underfed horse, Jakob was back on the brink of poverty. After a long evening and night of being ignored at Waterloo Railway Station, the detested driver headed forlornly home across the newly-rebuilt Westminster Bridge. Not content with forcing ruin upon their rival, a gang of hansom carriage drivers met Jacob halfway along the bridge. Before he could turn and flee they cut through the lines connecting horse to carriage, used those same lines to tie Jacob to his seat, then pushed the carriage and its hated owner into the cold, unforgiving Thames.

Jacob’s body had washed up at Tower Bridge later that morning. The report that Hafsan had uncovered stated that the victim was found with water pouring from his mouth, his hand still clutching a sterling silver necklace devoid of any markings. Records show that he was one of the few paupers to be buried at Brompton Cemetery, which is where Hafsan found herself one sunny Spring afternoon.

‘They buried ’em deep an’ stacked on top of one another,’ the gravedigger was moaning, despite having access to 21st century equipment that made the process of getting to Jacob Watkins’s coffin relatively simple.

In London’s clay the cheap wood casket had been well preserved. Various officials stood around the grave watching the coffin rise from the depths. Hafsan couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Not only had it taken time to discover the whereabouts of Watkins’s remains, she had also spent the best part of two years convincing the large number of civil servants and distant relatives of the need to exhume this body. The latter were won over by the mention of a necklace and links to Eastern European heritage, the council officials believed Hafsan’s story that the Victorian was part of a cult that now was driving taxi drivers to their deaths. She didn’t go into detail, the mention of the word “terrorism” was enough to see action eventually taken.

A small marquee had been erected beside the grave site and into this the coffin was now placed. The gravedigger dismounted his machine and carefully prised open the coffin lid while a coroner stood closely by. Jason Watkins’s remains had withered away to a skeleton veiled by dry skin and disintegrating clothes. Empty eye sockets watched lifelessly as Hafsan leaned over to see the necklace. The coroner lifted the simple piece of jewellery and inspected it for cultish signs.

‘There’s nothing on it,’ he said.
‘Just like it says in the newspaper report of his death,’ Hafsan replied. ‘Is there anything else on his body?’

The coroner looked more closely about the remains. Suddenly he lurched back, stumbling over the coffin lid in his hasty retreat. Before Hafsan could ask what he’d seen the coroner ran from the marquee, terror stretching his face, and followed by concerned attendees. Now alone in the marquee, Hafsan’s curiosity overcame her fear. She leaned over the coffin to see what had so terrified the coroner.

Water poured out of the cadaverous eye sockets, nostrils and mouth of Jason Watkins’s remains, filling and spilling from the coffin. Pinned to the spot in dread, Hafsan watched as a wasted arm slowly bent at the elbow so that its bony fingers could clutch at the necklace.