The Night Express
The doors of the double-decker bus folded in like an accordion, sending a warm puff of musty air to wrestle with the chill of the English night. Five revellers tumbled aboard, expertly trouncing their muddy boots over anything unlucky enough to be underfootsteps, poles, and the odd unsuspecting passenger’s shins.
Not one of the lone, silent souls assembled by fates only night bus made a peep at the high-spirited, ale-laden pack of lads, who seemed locked in a competitive shouting match about the romantic prospects of their, shall we say, personal credentials. Each tried to out-boast the next, theorising bombastically about their hypothetical grandeur, cackling with malicious glee and toasting every punchline with a clang of beer bottles. The boys turned the rear of the bus into their own makeshift pub, celebrating each laugh with the thunder of plastic clinking.
The engine gave a cranking protest, the doors hissed shut, the concertina straightened, and the bus lurched away from the curb, setting sail from yet another corner of Londons late-night labyrinth. Apart from the cheerful newcomers, there were hardly a dozen souls aboard, counting the conductora woman of such indeterminate age her glasses surely dated before the Beatles.
She rose with a sigh, her vise-like grip on a handful of tickets, and approached the rowdy mob.
Right, lads, fares please, she drawled, weary as a Sunday afternoon in February.
Oyster card, one lad burped, waving an imaginary pass.
Yeah, me too! chimed another.
Same here! squeaked the youngest, who couldnt have grown a full moustache if you drew it on and still moved with the hesitant energy of someone whod failed his first driving test. Still, with his mates around, confidence oozed, and his voice went up an octave to prove it.
Show me, then, the conductor said crisply, thoroughly unbothered by their performance.
Show us yours first! barked the broad-shouldered one, spraying lagerlike froth.
Im the conductor, she replied, stone-faced and as unmoved as Big Ben.
And Im an electrician! Dyou reckon I ride for free ’cause I keep the lights on? jeered Bottleneck, whose beer bottle had somehow shed its bottom and was now trickling a sour-smelling trail down his coat.
Pay or get off, gentlemen.
At that, as if shed pressed a hidden button, the bus halted. Every other passenger silently slipped out into the night.
I said, weve got travelcards, didnt you hear? croaked the moustacheless youth, puffing his chest up.
Drive on to the depot, Dave! the conductor called up the aisle.
Yeah, Dave, take us to the depot! the lads echoed, wiping imaginary tears.
The doors swung shut again, the bus moved off, and with a stately turn, it changed direction. Ten seconds later, the laughter dried up. The most sober among them finally blinked and asked, Hows a bus on a fixed route manage a U-turn like thatarent we attached to the overheads?
Nobody cared to answer. With a collective shrug, they filed it away under not my problem.
The bus picked up speed, gears whining, and strangely enough, overtook passing cars. The cabin lights dimmed, a few flickered out entirely, so now the only glow was from the citys amber street lamps winking through the windows. The conductor sat silently, gazing ahead. No further stops appeared.
Oi! Wheres this bus going then? one brave soul shouted, rapping the window.
No answer.
Mate, stop, let us off! a nervous crack ran through his voice.
If the conductor heard, she didnt flinch.
The city faded away. The bus charged down some country lane, darkness licking at both sides. Their phones glared back blankly, pleading for a signal or a sniff of Wi-Fi.
When they rode into a field, one of the brash lads jumped up, waving his arms.
Do you know who I am?! If I dont show up to work tomorrow, youll lose your pension!
At that, the headlights died, plunging them into gloom.
Please, let us out! Ive got A-levels to revise for! wailed the youngest, voice cracking on every note.
The bus roared on, hacking up the silence with its diesel growl. The bravado drained from the group as they shivered, piecing together a plan from half-remembered crime documentaries. They hammered the emergency hammers, smashed beer bottles, picked furiously at the door, but the bus held on tight.
And then, suddenlywallets appeared. Crumpled fivers and tenners were thrust forward.
Here! Keep the change, just take us back! Please!
The conductor didnt so much as twitch an eyebrow. Pleas and promises echoed through the bus, the kind of begging that usually only happens during Freshers Week. The bus trundled on until they rolled up beside a monstrous lake.
Where are we? they whispered.
Theyre going to chuck us in! whimpered the mustachioed youth, leaking real tears.
Jack, any idea how to hotwire a bus? Reckon we can take em? someone muttered, without hope.
Jack just shook his head forlornly.
Finally, the front door squeaked open, and the conductor stepped off. Her shadow flickered in the drivers window. The boys glimpsed her clutching something long and sinister.
Thats it. Were getting shot. Then drowned, sobbed the electrician, sniffling. The others had no words left, just nervous glances.
Abruptly, the lights blazed inside, the conductor strode back in, and the long object turned out to be a mop and bucket. She thumped them down beside the lads and grinned:
Once youve done the walls, Ill sort some cloths for the seats and floor. Then well get you back into town. Any objections?
A synchronised head-shake, not a syllable of protest.
It was the longest night in memory. They split into teams: two fetched water, one hauled mops, and two poured muddy buckets into a bottomless container that seemed to have always been there. Clearly, this wasnt the buss first midnight cleaning.
At sunrise, their ordeal ended. The bus sparkled as if newly built; even the windows shone. The lads, now thoroughly sober, managed the chore with the solemn efficiency of pallbearers. The conductor clipped their tickets, the bus hummed towards London, and the former rebels dropped silently at their stopsready for a new day, new passengers, and a fresh tale theyd probably keep to themselves.
