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 the chilly darkness. Five inebriated lads barged inside, loudly stamping their mud-caked boots on anything in reach: steps, metal poles, even passengers shins.

No one among the handful of solitary souls, gathered by the necessity of Londons only night bus, bothered to chide the boisterous group, whose wild eyes were lit with alcohol-fueled bravado. They hollered crude jokes at each other, each trying to outshout his mates about their amorous conquests, cursed and cheered, and punctuated every giddy laugh with another swig from clinking bottles. Their impromptu party sprawled across the back seats, bottles clashing after each bellowing roar.

With a judder, the engine whined, the doors huffed shut, the concertina evened out, and the bus cast off from its stop with a gentle veer onto the damp London street. Counting the new arrivals, there were scarcely more than a dozen passengers, including the conductor. She rose, clutching a neat wad of tickets, and marched toward the noisy pack.

Tickets, ladslets have your fares, please, she called, weary behind glasses older than any of the rowdy young men.

Oyster card! belched one.

Mine as well!

Same here!

The last, barely eighteen, with peach fuzz and an awkward shuffle, clearly felt stronger in the group, bellowing for all he was worth.

Lets see your travel cards then, the conductor replied, neither moved nor amused.

You show yours first! jibed the burliest, spitting foam with a grin.

Im the conductor, came the womans unflustered reply.

And Im an electrician! Doesn’t mean I get free lights, does it? slurred the guy whose bottle had already lost its bottom, beer dribbling down his coat with a vinegary stench.

Either you pay, or you get off the bus, the conductor pressed on, firm.

At her words, the bus paused, all other passengers swiftly alighting into the night.

We told you: weve got travel cards! croaked the youngest, chest puffed, voice cracking.

Susan, take us back to the depot! the conductor called over her shoulder to the driver.

Yeah, Susan, take us to the depot! crowed the boys, poorly faking tears, mocking her.

The doors swung closed, the bus banked around, and laughter filled the air for ten secondsthen, as the bus gathered speed, something clicked for the soberest.

How did the bus turn round in the road with all these wires overhead? he asked, genuinely curious. The rest shrugged, ignoring what seemed a minor detail.

The bus sped up, engine howling, overtaking cars. Bulbs flickered, several going dark, leaving only the city lamps and neon adverts briefly illuminating the scene inside. The conductor perched quietly at the front, staring dead ahead. The bus made no more stops.

Oi! Driver! Where are you taking us? one of the five finally shouted.

No response.

Hey! Stop, we want out! yelped another, their voices less cocky, sobriety seeping in.

The conductor didnt even turn.

Grey London gave way to pitch-dark motorway, only rare flashes from the dashboard lighting up the gloom. Mobile phones soon appeared, signal-less and endless spinning wheels as desperate fingers refreshed webpages.

When the bus veered into a field, one of the jokers strode to the conductor, voice trembling.

Oi, do you know who I work for? If Im not at the office tomorrow, youll lose your pension!

At that, the front headlights died.

Please, let us out, Ive got exams to revise for! squeaked the youngest, voice breaking with panic.

The bus howled through the countryside, and the five boys, stone-cold sober and shaking, wracked their brains for how to act during a hostage crisis. Bottles proved useless against the glass, nails snapped trying to pry the folding doors open.

Finally, someone produced a tenner.

Here, keep the change! Just get us back to townIm begging you!

The conductor stayed motionless. Pleas, apologies, even tears filled the cabin, but the bus raced on until it finally stopped before a massive, moon-lit lake.

Where…where are we? the lads whispered.

Theyre going to drown us, whimpered the youngest, blinking away tears.

Dave, can you drive a bus? Maybe we just knock them out and someone tried, only for Dave to shake his head hopelessly.

The front door hissed open. The conductor stepped out. Shadows flickered inside the drivers cab as she rummaged for something. In her hands, as the lads stared, appeared a long, ominous shape.

Thats it Were for it. Shot, then dumped, groaned the electrician, eyes puffyno words left for comfort now.

Light blazed in the cabin once more as the conductor stomped inside, mop and bucket in hand. She clanked them before the sheepish crowd and smiled:

Once youve scrubbed the walls, Ill fetch cloths so you can do the seats and floors. Then youll be on your way home. Any objections?

Five heads shook in perfect unison.

The night dragged on. The group split up: two fetched water, one swapped cloths, another two lugged filthy buckets to the strange, never-emptying barrel that seemed to await them. Evidently, this bus visited the spot more often than anyone guessed.

As dawn broke, not a smudge marked the buswindows sparkled, seats shone. Sober now, the lads worked wordlessly together. When everything gleamed, the conductor punched their tickets and the bus rolled back toward London. The nights rebels spilled off at their stops, and the bus set out along the route once more: meeting the new day and a new shift of passengers.