Knightley and Son (9781619631540) by Rohan Gavin Page A

people do. It’s the perfect disguise.” Knightley opened the door, flipped down the visor, and caught the car keys as they dropped into his palm. He popped the hood and walked around the cab to inspect the engine. “Of course, I made a few modifications . . .” He blew a huge cobweb off the engine block, reconnected the battery, returned to the dashboard, and keyed the ignition. The Fairway rumbled to life with a sound unlike any Darkus had heard from a black cab before. It sounded more like one of the high-performance cars that Clive reviewed on his TV program.
    Knightley revved the engine, sending clouds of dust billowing out the garage door. “Rover V8,” he said with a smile. “First time, every time.” The orange Taxi light flickered to life. Knightley opened the rear passenger door for Darkus. “Where to, sir?”
    Darkus grinned and got into the backseat. “Just drive.”
    “Home it is,” replied Knightley, putting the cab in reverse and accelerating out of the alley in a halo of dust.

Chapter 7
    The Department of the Unexplained
    Darkus watched London grind to life as his dad navigated the city, blending seamlessly with the other black cabs carrying suits to work. Darkus sat back and took a moment to absorb recent events. He watched the fare increase on the meter over the dashboard and couldn’t help thinking that every increment was taking him farther away from the new world he’d discovered and closer back to the old world of Clive and his mom. It was a sinking feeling that he couldn’t reason with.
    He was roused from his meditation by the blare of a car horn behind them. They were at a set of traffic lights, but although the light was green, the cab hadn’t moved.
    “Dad, it’s green,” said Darkus through the glass divider.
    His father didn’t answer.
    “Dad . . . ?”
    Knightley’s voice crackled through the cabin’s intercom speaker: “Not now, Darkus. I’m thinking.” His ears seemed to lift, and his eyes gazed off into the middle distance.
    The driver behind them leaned on the horn again, holding it down until the pitch wavered and complained. Darkus sank deeper into his seat with embarrassment.
    Then he realized what his father was looking at. A line of red London buses extended ahead of them, each displaying its route number on the back in large digits: 14 , 49 , 70 , 74 .
    Knightley appeared to be mouthing the numbers to himself, oblivious to the cacophony of horns that was reaching a crescendo behind him. It was as if the numbers meant something, but Knightley couldn’t decipher what.
    “Er, Dad? Maybe we should pull over?”
    The traffic light changed back to red, and there was a temporary lull in the horns. Knightley kept looking dead ahead.
    “The Combination, Doc . . . ,” Knightley said through the intercom. “We’re getting closer.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I don’t know . . . ,” Knightley replied honestly, his eyes glazed over with moisture, as if the stress was too much for him.
    Darkus examined his father’s haunted face in the rearview mirror. “Talk to me. What are you seeing, Dad?”
    “Numbers,” said Knightley.
    “What do they mean?” urged Darkus.
    “I have no idea!” he shouted impatiently.
    Suddenly the light turned green, and before the cars could sound their horns, Knightley threw the cab into gear and lurched away.
    Darkus was thrown back in his seat, watching his father anxiously.
    “Don’t worry, Doc. I’m okay.”
    “Has this got something to do with your . . . episode?”
    “Are you trying to say I’m crazy?”
    “No, I’m trying to understand,” said Darkus. “What’s the last thing you remember before you lost consciousness?”
    “Numbers, Doc. A set of numbers.”
    “What kind of numbers?”
    “I wish I knew,” admitted Knightley. “Maybe it’s not meant to add up. Maybe it’s something I’m not meant to remember . . . ,” he said, spooked.
    “We’ll work it out, Dad,” Darkus assured him.