No Refusals Allowed — I’ll definitely be home by midnight, a hundred percent, — he said, buckling his belt and glancing at his wife. — Nine, ten at the latest… Just a couple of hours, that’s all. His wife quietly straightened the napkins on the table and moved a bowl of salad. Their son sat glued to his phone, one earbud in, the other ear just enough to catch what was happening around him. — You said that last year, — she reminded him. — And the year before. — This year the fares are through the roof, — he tried to joke. — I’d be mad not to go out. We’ve got the mortgage to pay. — And who’s in charge of the holiday for us? — she asked softly. Their son looked up. — Dad, seriously. This year, at least, I’m not at nan’s or off at camp, I’m at home. Can we not do the “back soon” stories? He winced. At forty-five, he already knew the look of disappointment in his family’s eyes — and knew the week of guilt-walking the flat that always followed. — I’m not out all night, — he said more gently. — Surged pricing until around nine or ten, then it’ll drop. I’ll be back by eleven, promise. We’ll watch the Prime Minister, pop some bubbly, do the whole thing proper. — You’re not like other people, — his wife replied with a joyless smirk. — You’re more like an app. He wanted to argue, but said nothing. He went to the corridor, shrugged on his coat. In the mirror: a tired face, stubble, shadows under the eyes. A driver with a 4.93 rating and a constant sense that everyone has some kind of problem with him. — Take your hat, — called his wife. — And don’t pick up any drunks. Last time I had to hear all about someone being sick in the back. — I’ve got a filter set, — he grumbled. His son came to the door, leaning on the frame. — Dad, let’s do it like this. If you’re not going to make it by twelve, just let us know in advance — no more “just a sec”, yeah? He nodded. His son offered a fist bump. He bumped back. — I’ll make it, — he said stubbornly. Outside, a few rogue fireworks were already going off. People bustled with carrier bags, fairy lights twinkled in windows. He unlocked his old Skoda, got in, started the engine. Lights blinked on the dash, his phone on the holder lit up with the minicab app interface. In the corner, a notification: “31 December. Surge pricing active. Multiplier up to 2.8.” He sighed, went online. The first booking came in instantly. — Let’s go, — he said to himself. The first job: a 2.5 surge, three-minute pickup. He pulled out, slid into the traffic, caught the green. Client messaged: “Please hurry. It’s urgent.” No smileys. At the estate, they were waiting. A man in an unbuttoned jacket jogged about in the snow, scanning the block. Nearby, a woman leaned on the handrail, holding her stomach, obviously pregnant even with her coat on. He braked sharply, jumped out. — Was it you who called? — Yes-yes, — the man hurried over, flinging open the back. — To the maternity unit, just like in the app. Can you go quick? She’s having contractions. The woman got in carefully, wincing. — Don’t panic, — she muttered to her husband. — It’s still not… ahh… He got behind the wheel, checked the satnav. The maternity ward was the other side of the borough — twenty minutes in normal times. Now, the satnav said thirty-five. — Buckle up, — he said. — I’ll do my best. The man sat up front, eyes glued to his wife in the mirror. — Third child, — he said as if explaining. — We thought it’d be like the others. Came on really quick this time. — It’s fine, — he replied, though anxiety coiled in his chest. — We’ll shoot up the main road and get there quick. On the main road there was, of course, no shooting up anywhere: cars crept like tortoises, both directions. Salutes and fireworks crackled somewhere up ahead, winking in windshields. He squeezed between a minibus and a big black Range Rover, caught a gap, dived into a bus lane. Flashed by a traffic camera. — That’s a fine, — he muttered. — I’ll cover it, — the man promised instantly. — Just get us there. The woman hissed again, gripping the handle. — How long? — she asked. He checked. Twenty minutes. — Fifteen to twenty, tops. I’ll push it. And he did, threading every gap, cursing inside at those stopped dead, chasing every elusive green. One question whirred in his head: “If anything happens in here, who’s at fault? Me? The husband? The app?” At a traffic light, his wife messaged: “Everything’s ready here. When are you coming?” No answer — too much was happening: contractions in the back, a husband hyperventilating like it was him on the verge of labour. — Come on, you both know the trick — breathe in, out. Like they taught you at the antenatal. — Have you given birth too? — the woman gritted her teeth. — Taken my wife to the hospital three times, — he said. — Nearly a midwife by now. The husband snorted. — Did you ever make it? — Twice I did, once not. All ended well though. He remembered that night: wife in back, panic, shouting. Back then he wasn’t cabbing yet — he was on shift at the factory, using a work car. Time ran out, their boy was born in the A&E. Years later his wife still reminded him how he yelled at a traffic jam like cars would listen. They screeched up to the hospital in seventeen minutes, straight under the barrier; guard came out looking annoyed but, seeing the woman, waved them through. — You’re here, — he said. The husband dived to help her out. The woman tried to stand, doubled over. — Good luck, — he said. — Hope it’s quick. — Thanks, — she breathed. — Happy New Year. A little extra cash was pressed into his hand above the app payment. He wanted to refuse, but his fingers closed anyway. — For the fine, — the man explained. — And… thank you for not refusing. He watched as they staggered toward admissions, then his phone pinged: “Great trip! Client left you a tip.” Then another: “High demand in your area. Stay online to keep earning.” Time: twenty to nine. Three hours to midnight. Technically, still on schedule. He messaged his wife: “Carrying on till ten max. First ride was to the maternity — couldn’t say no.” Added a smiley, erased it, sent the message plain. Reply came in a minute: “I get it. Just please remember about us.” He sighed and hit “Available”. Second job: almost straightaway. A teenager, pick-up from a shopping centre by the tube. Surge 2.8, client five minutes away. — At least it’s not a mum-to-be, — he muttered. Outside the shopping centre, people loaded down with shopping bags, some popping bubbly in the street. A skinny boy in a light jacket, no hat, sat on a bench, phone in hand, little sports backpack at his feet, constantly glancing round. — Did you call for a cab? — he asked, rolling down the window. — Yeah, — boy came over. — Can you wait a second? I’m trying to call my mum, she’s not picking up. He glanced at the timer, the crowd, the boy. — Get in, — he said. — Try her on the way. Boy got in back, buckled up, clutched his phone. Destination: neighbouring borough, a random estate. Nothing special except the notes: “Child travelling alone. Please call mum on pickup.” He grimaced. He didn’t like jobs like this — what if something goes wrong, who’s responsible then? — How old are you? — he asked, pulling away. — Fourteen. Nearly fifteen. — Why alone? — Mum’s at work. She said she’d come get me, but her boss wouldn’t let her go. So I set off on my own and she called the cab. It’s just… well, a bit of a special night. The phone rang again. The boy checked the screen. — That’s her, — he said, answered. — Hello. Yeah, I’m in the car. Yeah, he’s fine. Driver’s here, you talk to him. The boy passed over the phone. — Hello? — he said. — Hello, — a quick female voice, noisy background, someone shouting. — Is this the driver? Have you got him, is everything okay? — He’s in, we’re on the way. Should be about twenty minutes if traffic plays nice. — Please take him to the door, don’t just drop him off. I left him the keys with a neighbour, he knows the drill. It’s just… — her voice cracked. — I’m on shift, I can’t make it. I promised… — I’ll get him there, don’t worry, — he said. — I’m a dad too. He caught himself saying it again — as if it meant something. — Thank you, thank you so much. And… happy new year. Phone returned to the boy. — Mum working then? — he double checked. — Sainsbury’s. She’s there till ten tonight. Then she’ll come if the bus shows up. — What’s the special occasion? The boy fidgeted. — I managed the whole term without getting any detentions. And… well, she promised we’d be at home just us this year. The boss said she had to work or she’d be kicked off the rota. He nodded. Too familiar — except his “boss” was now an “app” and a “surge rate”. Silence in the car. Outside, Christmas trees glowed in the estates, lighted windows, the occasional firework. At a crossing, another message from his wife: “We’re making salad, Sasha says if you don’t make it he’ll ban you from your app himself.” He grinned, typed back: “Tell him my rating’s higher than his grades.” Then deleted “than his grades” and wrote: “Trying my best. Still on track.” — You got family at home? — the boy asked. — Wife and son. He’s about your age. — And you’re on shift? — Well yeah. Holiday, isn’t it? Everyone’s out and about, money pretty much drives itself. — My mum says that too, — said the boy quietly. — But then she sleeps the whole next day and I’m alone with the cat. He couldn’t reply. For a second he wanted to ignore the drop-off address and take the kid straight to his mum’s work — but that, even for him, would be too much. They reached the estate smoothly. The block was an average one, lots of entryways. Boy pointed out where. — Here, — he said. — Can you wait ‘til I get inside? Just in case. — Of course. The boy got out, adjusted his bag, keyed in a code on the entryphone. A woman in a dressing gown came out, phone in hand. The boy said something, she nodded and waved to the driver. He waved back, pressed “End Trip”. Straight away, the app flashed: “Great trip. Stay online to earn more.” Ten to ten. Just over two hours left. Phone buzzed. His wife. — So? — she asked as he answered. — Still breathing? — Breathing. Coming to you, — he said. — Just one more quick ride on the way, that’s it. Already in the area. — Do you really believe that? — she asked calmly. He stayed quiet. — I’m not angry, — she continued. — I just want clarity. We’ve done everything, Sasha’s fighting with the fairy lights. He acts like he doesn’t care, but I see him. — I’ll make it, — he repeated. — Honest. — Okay. But, if you know you’re not going to, just tell us. Don’t disappear. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it, and hung up. Inside, he seized up. He knew how it was: “just a short ride”, “just five more minutes”, then suddenly it’s 11:45 and you’re somewhere on the A40 with a drunken stag do singing “God Save the Queen”. He checked jobs. The “No Refusals Allowed” button glowed red. These were priority jobs: hospitals, kids, social services. The pay wasn’t always higher, but if special mode was on, you couldn’t turn them down. He’d switched it on last year, wanting to do some good. It landed him in all sorts of situations, leaving him wrung out for days. New job. “No Refusals Allowed.” Seven-minute pick-up. Address: the local NHS clinic. Comment: “Elderly gentleman. Pick up from chemist, take home. Urgent.” — Bloody hell, — he breathed. If he exited now, the job would go to someone else — but maybe further away, maybe someone who’d ignore it. Some elderly gent standing in the cold, on New Year’s, all the chemists shut. He remembered his own dad, one year ago, sitting with a fever, waiting for him to get off work and deliver his tablets. He was late that time too. Dad used to joke he survived just to spite him. — Let’s go then, — he told himself. — One grandad isn’t the whole A40. He accepted. Chemist turned out to be by the clinic where he’d idled half his childhood in queue. Outside: a short old man in a worn overcoat, a shoulder bag, clutching a pharmacy bag, checking his watch. — You called for the cab? — he asked, pulling up. — Yes, — the old gent nodded, carefully squeezing into the front. — Hope you don’t mind, my leg’s not what it was. — Of course. Belt on, please. Home was the next borough, not far. Satnav said twenty-five minutes. The time: 10:20. — We’ll make it, — he muttered. — Sorry? — the old man asked. — Road looks clear, we’ll get there in no time. — Doesn’t have to be quick, — the old man sighed. — Just need to get back. He gave a lopsided smile. — You’ll get there, for sure. Off they went. Silence for a bit. Then: — I’d hoped for no drama today. And then my blood pressure shot up, heart going mad. Daughter was panicking, wanted an ambulance. I said: what ambulance, they’re swamped! Got myself to the chemist, but couldn’t make it back. So she got you. — Daughter lives with you? — he asked, for conversation’s sake. — Yes. Lost her husband, kids are all over the place, so just us now. She’s at home worrying. She’s got, what do you call it… anxiety. Always convinced I’ll keel over. He nodded. Too familiar. His wife never stopped worrying over him — crash, drunk punter, you name it. — Why are you out driving tonight, then? — the old man asked. — Your family not mad? — They are, — he admitted. — But the mortgage doesn’t pay itself. — Everyone has one these days, — the old man sighed. — When I was your age, I thought retirement would be feet up, digging potatoes in the garden. Well… not quite. He trailed off. Phone buzzed again — this time, his son. — Dad, — his son said as soon as he answered. — Where are you? — Taking an old chap home from the chemist. You next. — How long is “next”? — son’s voice was flat but tense. — Half an hour there, half back. I’ll get there. — Are you sure? He checked the satnav. A jam ahead, blazing red. — Well… I’ll do my best. — Just be honest, — said the boy. — Are you going to be in the car when Big Ben strikes? — I don’t want to be, — he sighed. — But… — Got it, — the boy cut him off. — I’ll tell mum you’re busy. We’re opening the no-alcohol bubbly. I’ll pour one for you too. — Sasha… Only the dial tone. A painful tightness twisted in him. He half-wanted to turn round, drop the old gent at the nearest tube, hightail it home. But he saw the man clutching his medication as if it were a lifebelt. — You alright? — the old man noticed his tension. — Yes, — he lied. — Just my lot waiting at home. — That’s a good thing, — the old man said quietly. — My wife died on New Year’s Day. Everything ready: salads, fizz, the usual. She went into the kitchen and… He trailed off. — Sorry, didn’t mean to bring you down. But — if someone’s waiting for you, you’re lucky. Even if you’re late. He had no answer. The jam hardly moved; up ahead, someone had started a firework show right in the road, every car held up. He watched people recording with phones, felt every minute tick by. He flicked on the secondary satnav, checked the backstreets. Riskier: snowbanks, double-parked cars — but quicker if he made it through. — Try the estates, — advised the old man. — Left here, I know the way. — They’ll be blocked. — We’ll make it. Used to be a bus driver, remember? Know all the shortcuts. He went for it. The man was right; a few tight squeezes, one snow bump nearly did for them, but they made it. Saved ten minutes off the route. — There you go, — said the old man, satisfied. — Can’t beat the old ways. — Cheers, — he said gratefully. They reached the old man’s block at 10:55. The gent fumbled with his wallet. — Don’t, — he protested. — Keep your cash for the tablets. — Not for the pills, — the old man insisted. — For not leaving me here. Take it. He took it, got out, helped the gent up the steps. On the first floor, a woman in her forties in a Christmas jumper threw open the door. — Dad! I thought you’d collapsed somewhere. — Didn’t. Got a good driver. She turned to him. — Thank you so much. And… happy new year. He nodded and hurried back to his car. It was just after eleven. Home by car: twenty minutes straight. If the lights were green, he might just make it. If not… He got in, switched on. The app: “You are in a surge zone. Do not leave your shift!” “End Shift” was greyed out. “Available” was green. “No Refusals Allowed” still flashed red. He reached for the exit — and then a new job appeared. Again, “No Refusals Allowed”. Three minutes’ pickup, address two blocks away. Comment: “Child lost. Take to police station.” He froze. In his mind: son’s voice — “Just be honest.” Wife’s: “We’re all ready here.” The old gent’s: “If you’re waited for, that’s luck.” If he hit “accept”, there was no chance of midnight at home. Even just a ten-minute drop at the cop shop would be forty minutes, what with the paperwork, lost child, frantic parents. Could be longer if they drew it out. If he refused, someone else might get the job — but it could be a further cabby, might be left in the cold or it could all be fine. Or not. He felt sweat on his palms. At forty-five, he’d thought he was good at decisions. But there he was: a grown man in a car, staring at a screen, unable to press either button. Three seconds. Two. One. Auto-accept — the system took the job for him. — Oh, for God’s sake, — he swore. He could still cancel — but he’d lose status, perks, get penalised by the system. But more than that, something within him wouldn’t let him leave it. He’d seen enough for one night: the expectant mother, the lone boy, the old gent. — Right then, — he said. — Let’s save someone else. The child was a little girl of about eight, hugging a soft toy rabbit on a bench by the block. Standing beside her, a lady in a bobble hat, on the phone. — You here for her? — the woman noticed him. — Yes. What’s happened? — She was out with the dog at a party, then got lost. Found her here by the next block. Her parents are at the police station now — needed you to get her there faster than waiting for the patrol car. That OK? He wanted to say “no”. Family at home, twelve fast approaching, he’d done more than his share. But the little girl looked up, huge tear-bright eyes. — Will you come with me? — he asked. She nodded fiercely, clutching the rabbit tighter. — I’ll come, — the woman said. — I found her. Parents are waiting at the station. He nodded — relief; at least she wouldn’t be alone. They set off; the child in the back, woman with her. He checked the clock: 11:10. The police station was ten minutes away, if the roads weren’t total carnage. But everyone in North London seemed to be out at once, setting off fireworks and getting in their cars. — What’s your name? — he asked, hitting the road. — Vicky, — she whispered. — Vicky, don’t worry — we’re taking you to mum and dad. They’re waiting for you. — I wasn’t scared, — she said stubbornly. — I just didn’t know where to go. The woman in the back sighed. — Our courtyard’s all dug up, she got confused. I saw her wandering circles, looking lost. Good thing she had the address on paper in her pocket. He nodded. His mother had done the same — slip of paper with the address any time he went out to play. His wife rang. He answered without taking his eyes off the road. — Are you coming home? — she asked, skipping hello. — Taking a lost kid to the police. She got separated. Silence. — Of course, — she said finally. — Who else if not you? — I can’t leave her, — he said, quietly. — The parents… — I understand, — she cut him off. — I really do. It’s just… He heard a bang, then his son laughing in the background. — They’re starting the fireworks, — she said. — We’ll… we’ll begin without you. Off you go, superhero. — I’ll try for midnight, — he said, not believing it himself. — Don’t promise, — she replied, softly. — Please. Don’t promise what you can’t do. He wanted to say something — but the line died. He felt something break inside — not loudly, just another spring stretched to snapping point. — Hope you don’t mind I’m holding you up? — the woman in back asked. — Yes and no, — he said honestly. — But it’s not you. She didn’t press. Police station in fifteen minutes flat. Vicky was silent the whole way, only sniffling now and then. Parents already out front — mum snatched her up from the back seat, dad following, bags in hand. — Thank you, — he said, glancing over. — If it hadn’t been you… — Not me, — the woman said, nodding at the driver. The parents both looked at him — mum’s eyes brimming with tears. — Thank you. Happy New Year. — And to you, — he said. Time: 11:28. Direct route: fifteen minutes. That’s if every light is green, nothing blocks the way, no surprise jams. Satnav: twenty-two minutes. — Of course, — he muttered. App nudged: “Peak surge area. Stay on to earn triple.” He hit “End Shift”. The system blinked: “Are you sure? You’re in a surge zone.” He hit “Yes”. — Too late for perfection, — he muttered. — But let’s go. Home felt like a dream. Car horns, people everywhere, random fireworks shooting out from driveways. Every crossing a mass of drunks, someone waving him to stop, someone else hollering nonsense. He watched the clock. 11:35. 11:40. 11:45. Got stuck behind a bus that stopped for a dozen pedestrians. Another red light. Another standstill. Radio presenters boomed out well-wishes, encouraging listeners to celebrate with their loved ones. — Yeah, yeah, — he muttered. — Try living it, mate. At 11:50, he finally made his street. In the estate, fireworks rocketed up, kids shrieking. He parked, ditched the car, legged it up to the block. Could barely breathe by the time he hit the third floor. Flat door already ajar. Inside, the Prime Minister’s address was on TV. He came in. Fairy lights glowing, salads, sausage rolls, kettle steaming. His wife sat hunched over the table, his son by the window with a glass of lemonade. Both turned to him. — See? — he tried a smile. — Told you I’d make it. His son glanced at the clock: three minutes to midnight. — Almost, — he said. His wife stood, took a glass, poured out the fizz. — Here, — she said. — Two minutes to pretend we’re a normal family. He took it — hands still shaking from the drive. On TV, the Prime Minister talked about the challenges making the nation stronger, the importance of family, helping each other. — Good timing, — his wife muttered. — Are you angry? — he asked. — I’m tired, — she replied. — Not quite the same. His son approached, clinked glasses. — Come on, dad, — he said. — At least you weren’t in the car for the countdown this time. He smirked. — Progress. They drank — the cheap prosecco warm, but it didn’t matter. After the first toast, the telly became background noise. They ate mostly in silence. Occasionally, his wife asked about holiday plans, their son replied monosyllabically. He felt the unspoken hanging between them all. At one point, his son stood. — Come on, — he said to his father. — Where to? — Show me your “adventures”. All those tales you come back with. He blinked. — What adventures? — You’ve got a dash cam, haven’t you? Let’s see what you’ve been up to saving the world. His wife laughed wryly, saying nothing. They went to his tiny home office-cum-junk room. He plugged in the dash-cam memory, his son curled up beside him. — It’s nothing much, — he warned. — Just another day. — Yeah — just another day: a woman in labour, a grandad, a lost kid. Typical taxi shift. He winced. They flicked through the footage: the pregnant woman, fussing husband. His son snorted. — That’s a bit of language, dad. — Wasn’t at them, just the traffic. — The traffic doesn’t care. Then the boy with the rucksack stared out the window. His son fell silent, watching. — That him? — his son asked. — Who? — The one who travelled alone. — Yeah. — Looked just like me in year seven — only my bag had superheroes on it. He smiled. — You had to get home by yourself that once, — he reminded. — Remember, I got stuck on shift, couldn’t collect you? His son grimaced. — Mum called me like thirty times. Thought her phone would burst. — I remember, — he said. — Never forgot. They scrolled to the video of the old man with the pharmacy bag. His son studied the way the old man sat, adjusted his seatbelt. — Looks like granddad, — his son said quietly. — I thought that too. — When you helped him in, your face looked…like you were… — Like granddad myself, — he tried to joke. — Like you were scared it’d go wrong, — his son said, serious. No answer. — So, — his son said. — Do you regret picking any of them up? He paused. Harder question than it sounded. — I regret not being in two places at once, — he said at last. — I regret you and mum sitting here without me. But if I’d said “no” to any of those… I’d tear myself up worse. — What if something happened to me while you were out saving everyone else? — his son asked. He flinched. — It didn’t though. — But it could have. Silence again. — I just haven’t found how to choose so everyone is happy, — he said. — I’m always afraid that if I say “no” to a stranger, I’m a bad person. If I say “no” to you guys, I’m a bad dad. — Bad? — his son echoed. — Sort of. His son sighed. — Dad, — he said. — You’re not a superhero. Relax. He blinked, surprised. — That a compliment or an insult? — Just a fact, — his son replied. — You don’t have to save everyone. But — I’m glad you didn’t leave that girl or the old man or the boy. Just… next time, be honest with us if you won’t make it. Then at least we won’t be sat like idiots, staring at the door. He nodded. Hurt, but fair. — I’m afraid to say I’ll be late, — he admitted. — Like, if I say it, that proves I’m a bad dad. Easier to fool myself, and drag you with me. — And then not make it, — his son said. — And then not make it, — he agreed. His son fidgeted. — Let’s do it like this, — he said. — Next time you know you’re not going to make it — just text or call. Say, “I can’t be there by twelve.” I’ll be cross, mum’ll be cross, but we’ll know. Deal? He looked at his son: calm, no drama. — Deal, — he said. — I’ll try. — That’s something, — his son said. From the front room, his wife called: — What are you two watching, a movie? Pudding’s cooling! His son stood. — Let’s go, Superman, — he said. — There are fireworks outside. He shut the laptop, lingered for a second. Faces from tonight flickered up: the pregnant woman, the lone boy, the grandad, Vicky with her bunny. And two more: his wife and his son waiting as the clock struck twelve. He realised there would never be perfect balance. Someone would always be left waiting. He’d always feel like he’d fallen short. But maybe, at least, he could stop lying to himself about making it everywhere. He went back out. His wife was pouring tea; the pudding on the table. She looked at him, tired but not quite so sharp now. — Well, Mr. Taxi, — she said. — At least you made it on camera this year for the chimes. — Next year, I’ll try to be here even earlier, — he replied. — Don’t promise, — she warned. — I’ll do my best, — he corrected. His son snorted. — Progress, — he said. Another boom outside. They all went to the window, watching fireworks flare over the estate rooftops. He stood beside them, felt their shoulders, listened to their breathing. On the kitchen table his phone pulsed with another app notification, but he didn’t look. Tonight, at least, his shift was over. If just for one night.