6 views
MONDAY 20 December
Monday 20 December 19:30UTC
Max Swanson sweated in the back of the Uber and read the electronic boarding card on his phone for the fifty-fourth time. Flight BA247 from London Heathrow to São Paulo, scheduled departure 21:10, gate to be announced, last bag drop 20:10, one hour before departure. Snow fell lightly, flakes melting and sliding down the windscreen before the intermittent wiper blades swept them away. They edged forward in the solid traffic.
The driver didn’t seem to have much sense of urgency.
“How long till we get to terminal 5?”
“GPS says within half an hour, guv. Can’t do nothin’ about it. Weather and traffic. Everybody travelling for Christmas. If you ask me, you’re doin’ the right thing gettin’ out tonight. It’s only gonna get worse.”
The driver caught sight of Max’s unsmiling glare in the rear view mirror and cut his homily short.
All his life, Max had been late for everything. He never could judge how long it would take him to get somewhere, or what time he should start preparations so he could set out on time. Always in a mad dash, blood pressure elevated, perspiring, acid stomach, mounting headache.
The traffic looked to be easing a little - perhaps they would make it - then the brake lights glowed ahead and they were at a standstill again. Still the snowflakes slid and melted. They were alongside a row of hotels that served the airport. Figures hurried from buses and taxis, through revolving doors into brightly-lit lobbies. He glimpsed the Holiday Inn’s restaurant bar - how he envied the people he could see in there, relaxing, sipping, eating and chatting, no rush, all the time in the world. How did they do it?
The car moved again. Max was suddenly face to face with a bearded, grizzled man, maybe around sixty, standing on the pavement, a black duffel hood framing straggled curls, like a cowl. As the man’s unblinking eyes bored into his, Max saw that he wore a sandwich board, with the capitalised legend, BE SURE YOUR SIN WILL FIND YOU OUT. -Numbers 32:23
Max sat back and snapped his gaze straight ahead. The experience had done nothing to slow his racing pulse. It was as though the man knew. But how could he? The Uber could have taken any of a dozen different routes to Heathrow. It was coincidence, that’s all it was. Just coincidence.
CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON
WAIT I KNOW FEW ARE READING AND REST OF ALL ARE JUST LIKE
THE STORY (14 LIKES WITH 3 READS ) DON'T DO THAT IF YOU DIDN'T READ PLEASE DONT LIKE IT
ANY SUGGESTIONS YOU ARE FREE TO TELL IN COMMENTS
Max Swanson sweated in the back of the Uber and read the electronic boarding card on his phone for the fifty-fourth time. Flight BA247 from London Heathrow to São Paulo, scheduled departure 21:10, gate to be announced, last bag drop 20:10, one hour before departure. Snow fell lightly, flakes melting and sliding down the windscreen before the intermittent wiper blades swept them away. They edged forward in the solid traffic.
The driver didn’t seem to have much sense of urgency.
“How long till we get to terminal 5?”
“GPS says within half an hour, guv. Can’t do nothin’ about it. Weather and traffic. Everybody travelling for Christmas. If you ask me, you’re doin’ the right thing gettin’ out tonight. It’s only gonna get worse.”
The driver caught sight of Max’s unsmiling glare in the rear view mirror and cut his homily short.
All his life, Max had been late for everything. He never could judge how long it would take him to get somewhere, or what time he should start preparations so he could set out on time. Always in a mad dash, blood pressure elevated, perspiring, acid stomach, mounting headache.
The traffic looked to be easing a little - perhaps they would make it - then the brake lights glowed ahead and they were at a standstill again. Still the snowflakes slid and melted. They were alongside a row of hotels that served the airport. Figures hurried from buses and taxis, through revolving doors into brightly-lit lobbies. He glimpsed the Holiday Inn’s restaurant bar - how he envied the people he could see in there, relaxing, sipping, eating and chatting, no rush, all the time in the world. How did they do it?
The car moved again. Max was suddenly face to face with a bearded, grizzled man, maybe around sixty, standing on the pavement, a black duffel hood framing straggled curls, like a cowl. As the man’s unblinking eyes bored into his, Max saw that he wore a sandwich board, with the capitalised legend, BE SURE YOUR SIN WILL FIND YOU OUT. -Numbers 32:23
Max sat back and snapped his gaze straight ahead. The experience had done nothing to slow his racing pulse. It was as though the man knew. But how could he? The Uber could have taken any of a dozen different routes to Heathrow. It was coincidence, that’s all it was. Just coincidence.
CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON
WAIT I KNOW FEW ARE READING AND REST OF ALL ARE JUST LIKE
THE STORY (14 LIKES WITH 3 READS ) DON'T DO THAT IF YOU DIDN'T READ PLEASE DONT LIKE IT
ANY SUGGESTIONS YOU ARE FREE TO TELL IN COMMENTS
