I am in a black cab. There’s no one driving, yet it all seems to be under control. I take the steering wheel. It doesn’t feel comfortable. I manage to steer okay for a while, with just a few random swerves. At one point the cab goes onto a garage forecourt, while I continue along the road. I end up at another garage , with ammunition sticking out of my jumper. Just outside two guys are in my battered cab trying to drive away. I put my foot down and the cab stops. I have applied the brakes remotely. One guy gets out to argue with me. I let the other one think he has started it and wait until he begins to accelerate then slam the brakes on. He smashes his head and gets out.
I drive the cab again. It is not so responsive, and quite slow. We swerve through bollards in snow, narrowly avoiding a collision. Other vehicles around begin to behave oddly, as if possessed. My cab speeds up, way to close to a supercar in front and a bus behind. I leave the cab and I am floating through corridors. I pass through a door and into a room where a woman is sleeping in the bath. I look out of the window, trying to see the ultimate fate of my vehicle.
Elsewhere. The word “MAJOR” is graffiti on the side of the museum in massive letters. A team of people is painting over it.