THE BLACK CAB
By Thomas Shess
She worked the night shift in the London office of an international news bureau, the kind of graveyard post where wire stories tiptoe in from every time zone. Her job was to edit the fillers — the small, odd dispatches that never made headlines but kept the pages from looking hollow. The big stories rarely passed through her hands.
Every evening before heading upstairs to the bureau, she stopped at the small delicatessen next door — a paper cup of strong coffee, a sandwich, sometimes a sweet. A nod to routine. A signal to herself that she was entering the long quiet stretch when most of the city slept and the news world kept breathing without her.
By four in the morning, the building was so still she could hear the elevator cables sigh. That was when she left her desk and wandered to the window overlooking the street eight floors below. For the past week, the same thing waited for her: fog or thin rain, the glow from Charing Cross Station — and something new: a black cab parked across the street in the exact same place.
The first night she ignored it. The second night she noticed. By the fourth, she started expecting it.
London was full of black cabs. Coincidence, she told herself. But each night, at roughly the same hour, there it sat, silent and patient, headlights off, facing the same direction.
One night she became so absorbed in an unusually compelling story from Singapore that she forgot to check the window before shutting down her terminal. She slung her bag over her shoulder, reached the exit, and paused.
She hadn’t looked.
“Don’t start inventing patterns,” she murmured. “That’s how people go mad.” She ignored the urge, smiled at the night guard, and stepped outside into a rare clear London sky. A small scattering of stars shone against the city’s orange glow. Instinct made her glance across the street.
The cab was gone.
Good, she thought. Enough spooky nonsense.
At 4:15 a.m. sharp her bus arrived — always on time — filled with cleaners, bakers, and overnight workers beginning or ending their day. Five miles later, she stepped off near her flat, keys in one hand, her purse held tightly in her other. ** The next evening, just before her usual 7 p.m. walk to catch the bus back toward work, she opened the door to her flat and froze. Across the street — not toward the stop but in the opposite direction — a black cab was parked. Same posture. Same silhouette.
Probably nothing, she told herself. But something unsettled her. She avoided it and took her usual bus.
Her shift that day unfolded quietly until her phone chimed with a message from New York — her supervisor.
Good news.
She was being offered a daytime reporting slot. Nine to five. Field stories, real stories. The sort of assignment she had assumed was out of reach on the night desk.
Call tomorrow during Manhattan business hours, the message read.
She lingered at the lobby desk sharing the news with the night guard. His warm reaction made her feel strangely buoyant — recognized, seen. She talked longer than she meant to, long enough to miss her usual bus.
Rain began as she stepped outside. She could wait. She could take the Tube at Charing Cross.
Or — she thought — treat herself to a driverless cab.
She looked across the street.
The black cab was there again. Same position. Still. Waiting.
A chill crept across her shoulders.
Silly, she told herself. It was a machine. No driver. No intention. Climb in the back, speak the destination, swipe the card. Simple. Safe.
But her instinct whispered no.
Instead she walked toward the Tube station, letting the light rain touch her face.
Halfway down the block, a hand clamped around her arm.
Before she could cry out, a heavy figure dragged her toward a narrow alley.
“Don’t fight,” he growled. “You’ll get hurt.”
Fear surged through her. She dropped her weight to the ground, twisting, trying to break free.
A horn blasted — loud enough to rattle the bricks.
The man flinched.
Another blast. Longer.
Headlights cut through the alley, high-beams glaring, unwavering, filling the darkness with harsh white light.
The man cursed, released her, and sprinted into the night.
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet.
At the alley mouth a vehicle idled, lights pointed toward her like a guardian’s stare. The horn went quiet.
She stepped closer and looked through the windshield.
No driver.
The black cab waited, lights steady, engine low purring as though making sure she was all right.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
The cab blinked its running lights once.
Then it pulled gently away into the rain.
The End.
Editor's Note: If this story spoke to you, readers of PillartoPost may enjoy the author’s new collection Tough Love: Modern Noir Romances — twelve stories of desire, danger, and the unexpected tenderness that glows in the darker corners of cities. Available in print and ebook online book stores like BookBaby.com [https://store.bookbaby.com/]; Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Available in March, 2026, To receive notice of availability contact author Thomas.Shess@gmail.com
We will send a free e-book to the 100th person requesting notification of "Tough Love."
Trivia answer from yesterday's PillartoPost.org Super Bowl post: Washington Redskins defensive tackle Bill Brundige blocked the iconic 4th quarter field goal attempt.
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