Night Bus
The doors of the night bus folded together with a clatter, letting a burst of warmth and murky breath spill into the chilly London air. Five rowdy lads stumbled aboard, their muddy shoes marking the steps, the poles, and the unguarded shins of fellow passengers as they careered to the back.
None of the lone travellers, herded together by the citys only night bus, dared to challenge the raucous, drink-fuelled gaggle. The boys bellowed above one another, flames in their eyes, trading crude jokes about their romantic prowess accompanied by guffaws and cheers. Bottles clinked loudly at every punchline, and the back of the bus became a makeshift bar, each howl punctuated with a toast and another slug of lager.
The vehicle gave a mechanical whir and hissed as the doors swung shut. Straightening with a shudder, the bus eased away from its stop near Piccadilly Circus. Aside from the newcomers, there were barely ten souls aboard including the conductor. She stood up, bracing herself and clutching a spindle of tickets.
All right, lads, youll need to pay your fares, she announced in a voice that sounded as worn as her thick-rimmed glasses which looked older than any of the boys.
Travelcard! belched one.
Got mine too!
Yeah, me as well!
The youngest barely shaving, fidgety, but desperate to keep up with his mates was trying hard to shout the loudest.
Lets see them then, said the woman, her tone as dry as autumn leaves, clearly unimpressed by their bravado.
Show us yours first then! sneered the broadest one, spitting froth as he brandished his bottle.
Im the conductor, she replied, as if announcing the weather.
And Im an electrician! Doesnt mean I get free leccy does it? slurred the beer-soaked lout, lager already seeping down the sleeve of his jacket, leaving a sour trail.
Pay up or off the bus, the woman repeated firmly.
At that, as if on cue, the bus jerked to a halt, and the rest of the passengers filed out into the night.
She already said we had travelcards! cawed the young one, puffing out his scrawny chest.
Drive on, Malcolm! the woman called to the driver.
Drive on, Malcolm! the boys mocked, fake tears and all, rubbing at invisible eyes.
The doors sealed shut and the bus pulled away, veering round in a tight turn. The laughter lasted barely ten seconds before the soberest among them finally frowned.
Hang on how did a bus manage that turn, doesnt it have to follow the road? he asked, genuinely curious.
The rest shrugged it off, missing the point.
The bus hurtled on, engine humming. Oddly, it even raced ahead of the cars. The lights in the cabin flickered until most died, leaving only the city street lamps and blinking billboards to cast nervous shadows across the boys faces. The conductor sat quietly, eyes locked forward. There were no more stops.
Oi! Where exactly are you taking us? one finally called, his voice cracking.
No answer.
Mate! Stop the bus, we want off! another howled, their bravado giving way to a nervous edge.
No response. The outside world faded: Londons lights flickered away, swallowed by the inky countryside. Their phones came out, but none could find a signal; nothing loaded.
The bus left the motorway and bumped onto a country lane. One of the bravest lads charged down the aisle, voice raised in a threat:
Dyou know who I work for? If Im not in the office come morning, youll lose your pension, you will!
The headlights snapped off mid-sentence.
Please, let us off, Ive got exams to study for my mumll kill me! squeaked the youngest, panic sharp in his voice.
The bus thundered on, shattering the rural silence. The boys were now stone-cold sober, nerves fraying as they clawed at windows with lager bottles, dented fingers trying the locked doors. Nothing worked.
At last, crumpled notes appeared, pressed forward.
Keep the change! Just take us back please!
The conductor didnt move, didnt utter a word. Pleas, shouts for mercy, half-sobs still, the bus kept on until it finally ground to a halt by an enormous, dark lake.
Where are we? the boys whispered in dread.
Were done for, wept the youngest, fighting tears.
Chris, you ever drive a bus? Maybe if we rush em? asked one. But Chris only shook his head, defeated.
The front doors hissed open. The conductor stepped outside, moonlight framing her silhouette as she ducked into the cab. They spotted her carrying a long something as she got back on: perhaps a spanner, perhaps worse.
Thats it. Were done for. Shot and chucked in the lake, muttered the electrician, rubbing red-rimmed eyes. The rest were too shaken to offer comfort.
Suddenly, the cabin lights blazed. The conductor returned, stamping her feet, arms full but instead of a weapon, she carried mops and a bucket. Setting them beside the shivering lads, she beamed.
Once youre done scrubbing these walls, Ill hand you rags for the seats and floor. When its spotless, Ill run you home. Any complaints?
Five heads shook together. Not a word.
It was a long night. The boys split the chores: two fetched water, one swapped rags, two schlepped dirty buckets to some vast tank out in the darkness. By sunrise, the bus gleamed, not a smudge in sight. Wordlessly, side by side, the wild bunch had tidied like a team of pros. Task finished, the conductor clipped tickets and the bus whirred back to the city.
One by one, the chastened night owls slipped off at their stops, and the bus rolled on to meet the dawn and a fresh crowd of Londoners.
