You lied to me! William stood in the middle of the living room, his face flushed with anger. Lied?
Midnight Express
The doors of the night bus folded like concertinas, sending waves of warm air billowing into the cool London night. Five rowdy lads tumbled aboard, scuffing their muddy trainers on every surface they could find: steps, poles, and the unlucky ankles of fellow passengers.
No one among the disparate group of lone night travellers—united by this single late-night route—dared challenge the boisterous, tipsy group, their eyes wild as they loudly debated the many places and occasions for their supposed amorous exploits. Everyone tried to out-shout the others, boasting about whom, where, and what for, their raucous laughter punctuated by toasts and the clinking of bottles. They turned the back of the bus into an off-license drinks counter, bashing bottle bottoms together after each burst of laughter.
The engine grumbled, the doors hissed, the concertina snapped straight, and the old Routemaster pulled away from the station-like stop. Aside from the newcomers, there were about ten souls in the dim carriage, including the conductor—a weary woman whose spectacles looked old enough to have seen the Blitz.
“Tickets, lads,” she intoned, voice braced for trouble, clutching her roll of tickets.
“Got a travelcard,” belched one.
“Me too!”
“Same here!”
The last, barely eighteen—peach fuzz, awkward movements, uncertain eyes—put on the loudest show, confident in the safety of numbers.
“Let’s see them, then,” said the woman, unimpressed.
“Show us yours first!” jeered the broadest, spitting beer foam as he spoke.
“I’m the conductor,” she replied flatly.
“And I’m an electrician! So should I get free leccy then?” retorted the lad with the bottomless beer bottle, sticky beer running down his jacket, its stale waft filling the bus.
“Either pay up or get off,” she countered.
As if cued, the bus stopped; the rest of the passengers silently filed out at the next stop.
“We told you, we’ve got travelcards,” insisted the youngest, chest puffed.
“Take us back to the depot, Val,” the conductor called to the unseen driver.
“Yeah, Val, take us to the depot,” the lads mocked, feigning tears.
The doors clattered shut and the bus reversed course. The boys laughed for ten seconds, but as the Routemaster picked up speed, one finally noticed, half-sober, “How did the bus turn in the road if it’s electric and runs on wires?” The others shrugged—it didn’t matter.
The bus went faster, overtaking cars, its bulbs fading to black. Only the flickering streetlights and neon signs cut through the gloom inside. The conductor sat still, gaze fixed ahead, and the stops vanished.
“Oi! Where are you taking us?” one called out.
Silence.
“Driver! Stop! Let us off!” Their voices faltered, panic overtaking bravado.
The conductor didn’t move.
They left the city, slipping onto a rural lane; the only light ahead flickered in the driver’s cabin. Their phones showed no signal, no internet.
Desperate, one lad stood over the conductor, spitting threats.
“You know where I work? If I’m not at my desk tomorrow, your pension’s gone!”
The headlights died.
“Please, let us out—I need to revise for A-Levels!” the awkward youth squeaked.
The bus tore through the night, engine howling. The bravado was gone; memories stirred of hostage survival guides, desperate hands tried smashing windows with beer bottles or prying open doors, but nothing worked.
Finally, someone offered cash.
“Here, keep the change! Just take us back! Please!”
But the conductor sat frozen, unmoved by pleas, guilt trips or tears. The bus hurtled on, until it reached a huge, dark lake.
“Where are we?” the lads whispered.
“They’re going to drown us,” sobbed the youngest.
“Serge, you know how to drive a bus? Think we can rush them?” someone mumbled hopefully, but Serge just shook his head.
At last, the front door opened, and the conductor stepped onto the verge. In the moonlight, she rummaged in the driver’s cabin—returning with a long object.
“That’s it—this is it—they’ll shoot us… dump us in the lake…” Even the electrician was speechless, eyes puffy with tears.
Suddenly, the lights flared. The conductor strode in, thunked down a mop and a bucket at their trembling feet, and smiled:
“When you’re done washing the walls, I’ll give you cloths for the seats and floors. Then you’ll go home. Any objections?”
The five shook their heads in unison.
Night stretched on. Two fetched water, one swapped out cloths, two emptied buckets into some mysterious barrel—this bus had clearly made this run before.
They finished at dawn; the Routemaster gleamed, glass sparkling. The lads, sober and subdued, worked quietly, in step. When it was finished, the conductor clipped their tickets and the bus rolled back to the city. The midnight rebels were dropped at stops along the way, and the old double-decker set off again—to greet the new day and new passengers. Night Bus The doors of the night bus folded like a concertina, letting a cloud of warmth escape into
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