The Night Bus
The double doors of the night bus folded together with a metallic sigh, and a gust of warm, pub-soaked air tumbled out onto the chilly London night. Five tipsy revellers barged inside, clattering their muddy trainers on everything in sightsteps, rails, and, unfortunately, passengers shins.
The lonely souls gathered inside the only bus running through the night didnt dare challenge this rowdy band of lads, who were busy trying to outshout each other in a passionate, not-so-subtle discussion about their questionable romantic escapades. Each was desperate to top the last, broadcasting who, where, or even how, their questionable conquests might have happened, accompanied by raucous cackling and celebratory swigs. Theyd started their own impromptu bar at the back, enthusiastically knocking together the bottoms of their beers every time laughter erupted.
The engine rattled confidently, the doors hissed shut, the concertina folded snuggly, and the bus glided away from the Thames-side station. There werent many aboardmaybe ten, conductor included. She reluctantly rose from her seat, clutching her ticket roll with the necessity of the truly weary.
Tickets, ladslets have your fares, she called, her glasses antique enough to have qualified as heirlooms.
Got a pass, grunted one.
Me too!
Ditto here!
The last responderan obvious teenager with a wispy moustache and limbs uncontrolled as a newborn foaltried to look assertive amongst his older, drunker mates, raising his voice to prove himself.
Right then, lets see your passes, replied the conductor, bone dry and unimpressed.
How about you show us yours first? retorted the broadest lad, suds flying from his lips.
Im the conductor, she repeated, with the unflappable patience the Transport for London must instil as a job requirement.
And Im an electrician. Dont mean I get free leccy, does it? slurred the one whose bottle had given up its bottom entirely, dribbling lager down his jacket and perfuming the air with stale hops.
Pay up or off, gentlemen, the conductor insisted.
With this, as if on cue, the bus juddered to a halt and the rest of the passengers disembarked with Olympic speed.
We told youwe all have bus passes! squawked the youngest, thrusting out his meagre chest.
Right, Barry, depot time! the conductor barked up to the driver.
Depot time it is, Sandra! Barry replied, and the bus began a stately turn.
The lads mimicked her in mocking tones, dabbing at imagined tears, but the bus rolled off and executed a U-turn. After ten seconds of hilarity, a rare flicker of sobriety dawned on the most alert member of their group.
Hang on How did a bus swing round in the middle of the road? Buses have to stick to wires, dont they? he asked, honestly puzzled. The others shrugged, as interested in logistics as in the bus timetable.
The bus sped up, engine humming like a wasp on Red Bull, overtaking actual carssomething that should have been impossible, even at this hour. The overhead lights dimmed; some winked out entirely. Only the street lamps and the odd neon kebab sign flickered inside to illuminate the scene. The conductor sat motionless, eyes forward. The bus made no stops.
Oi! Wherere you taking us? one of the braver five finally called to the still-silent driver.
No answer.
Let us off! Well walk! The lads voices cracked with sudden, uninvited clarity.
The conductor didnt move.
The city faded away, streetlights gave way to country lane darkness. With desperate hope, the boys all whipped out their phonesbut no bars, not even a hint of WiFi.
As the bus veered into the open fields, one tried his luck, looming over the conductor with the bravado reserved for office Christmas parties.
Oi! Do you know where I work? If I dont show up tomorrow, youll lose your pension!
At that, the headlights died.
Please, let me offIve got my A-levels revision to do, whimpered the youngest, adopting the voice of a choirboy whod lost his lunch money.
The bus barrelled onward, howling into the deserted night. All humour evaporated; the lads shivered, collectively recalling the basics of hostage situations. They battered the windows with beer bottles, scratched at the accordioned doors with bitten-down fingernailsnothing budged.
Eventually, desperation made some charitable.
Here, keep the change, just let us off! Honest to God, please! pleaded the most generous, waving a handful of crumpled tenners.
The conductor retained the stillness of a garden gnome.
Cries for forgiveness, shrieking appeals to her conscience, even tearsand still the bus accelerated, until it came to a stop at the edge of a great, misty lake.
Are we in Scotland? whispered someone.
Theyre going to drown us and dump the bus, sobbed the downy-lipped youth.
Dave, you know how buses work? Maybe we can overpower them? piped up the most hopeful. Dave slumped and shook his head.
At last, the front doors swung open. The conductor stepped outside, her silhouette momentarily framed by the drivers cabin, grasping a long, mysterious object.
Thats it. Were for it. Shot, then dumped, the electrician muttered through puffy-eyed sniffles.
Then the lights flicked back on and the conductor reappeared, stomping back inside. In her hands: mop and bucket.
Once youve cleaned the walls, Ill hand you cloths for the seats and the floor. Once its spotless, you can go home. Any objections? she smiled, baring perfect dentures.
Five heads shook in unison.
The night stretched on. Two fetched water, one traded out cloths, the last pair ferried mucky water to an inexplicable, bottomless barrel. Apparently, the bus came here regularly.
By sunrise, the bus sparkled, windows gleaming. Chastened and sober, the lads worked in perfect, silent sync. When all was finished, the conductor clipped their tickets and the bus trundled towards the city. One by one, the nights troublemakers stumbled off at their stops, and the bus rolled onready to greet a shiny new day and a new breed of passengers.
