Silas Nash Book 1 Hush Hush Honeysuckle Chapter 3 (b)

Max turned the radio on, and it irritated him. The presenter talked about a rockstar dying yesterday and said they’d have some great music and time for quiet reflection. They all said, ‘Time for quiet reflection.’ It was wholly inaccurate when they were blasting music at you. It was hardly reflective and anything but quiet.

It was a day of revelation. He left his car in the nearest car park and rode a bus. He hadn’t been on public transport since he left school, and even then, it was a rarity.

As the doors opened, he joined the three people ahead of him and climbed to the driver behind a Perspex window with a gap at the bottom.

‘Where to, Bud?’

‘A day return, please.’

It was as though the driver had done him a massive favour by letting him on the bus, and Max ought to be grateful. He didn’t know if he should tip him. Max took his card out and looked for the payment device.

‘We don’t take cards. Cash only.’

Luckily he had a twenty-pound note in the back of his wallet.

‘I can’t change that. Have you got anything smaller?’

He hadn’t, and the driver took his money and said he’d have some change by Ulverston and would give it to him at the end of the route.

‘It’s okay. Keep the change.’

The man looked at him as though he was insane. ‘More than my job’s worth, mate. I’ll give it to you when I get some change.’

Life was more confusing than Max had ever realised. There were rules and ways of doing normal things that he didn’t understand and was no part of. He took a seat two rows down from the driver. It was pleasant. Even the wet anorak smell was new, and he enjoyed himself and wondered why he’d never tried something like this before. He had no idea if there was any other bus etiquette he should know about or a way to behave. He would have done the opposite anyway.

Max listened to several conversations at once and felt as if he knew these people within five minutes. He even found out where one of them lived.

He wanted to break wind and looked around. There was nothing to stop him. He could do whatever the hell he liked. He let rip and even lifted one buttock off the seat for maximum effect. He smiled and enjoyed the piquant aroma. The sound bounced around in the confines of the bus and rattled off the walls. People looked shocked. The lady closest to him covered her lower face with her hand, and two boys collapsed in gales of laughter. Max was proud it reached them.

Of course, people would say his behaviour was down to shock—but Max was having a tremendous time dying.

His days consisted of work. He went to the office, poured over designs, skipped lunch, argued with tradesmen and never left until after eight. Today was an adventure, and he wasn’t going to die with his face in a schematic. It was hot on the bus, and he took his jacket off, enjoying the bounce of the suspension and the wealth of conversations as the vehicle filled with passengers. It was a busy service—who knew?

Max got off the bus earlier than intended. It pleased him to be contrary. As a workaholic, and despite his prognosis, he had a two o’clock meeting with the planning committee, but to hell with them. He should ring the office and ask his secretary to make an excuse on his behalf but sod them. He’d heard that The Farmers Arms was very good for lunch.

He draped his jacket over his shoulder and helped a lady down the steps with her pram. The two boys who laughed at his flatulence got off behind him.

‘Hey, farty arse. Have you shit your pants?’

‘Not yet, but the day is still young. Have you?’

They held onto each other as they bent in gales of laughter. When they straightened, one nudged the other and then grabbed Max’s jacket. He waved it in front of him like a matador to a bull and set off running.

‘Hey, come back, you little bastards. Have you any idea what this suit cost? I could sell you into child trafficking for less.’ Max thought it was fun being inappropriate.

He ran after them and realised he hadn’t run for years. He was twenty-eight, and other than a tennis tournament at a barbeque the year before, he hadn’t done much physical exercise. This may well give him a heart attack, but what the hell.

The kids took a left after St Mary’s Church, and he followed them. He was stiff at first, but his legs loosened, and he felt the lactic acid in his limbs, giving him a burn that hurt but, damn, it felt good. He laughed. As he ran, he pumped his arms like a lunatic. He hadn’t belly laughed in a long time, and it hampered his speed, but he was flooded with joy.

As they pounded down the back road towards the old police station, the boys looked over their shoulders. Max wasn’t giving up. They threw his jacket into a garden where it caught on a laburnum bush, but Max didn’t stop chasing them. They were like three thirteen-year-olds playing tag. He realised he couldn’t care less about his jacket. It was just clothing. This was more fun than he’d had in a long time.

The boys hit the bottom road, came out at the Stan Laurel pub and ran up towards the roundabout. They were yelling.

‘You’re nuts, you are. Bonkers. Pervert. Kiddy Fiddler. You’re mad.’

The slight incline was enough for Max. He’d tired. He wanted to keep chasing—and the mind was willing, but the body wasn’t playing. He stopped and put his hands on his knees.

‘Cheeky sods.’

He retrieved his jacket, saw it had a rip in the lining, and rather than take it to a shop to be repaired. He stuffed it in a waste bin. The chase had been about having fun and had nothing to do with his expensive suit. He had lunch and enjoyed a walk around town. Ulverston was lovely, and he saw that not one shopfront was boarded up. Maybe he could do something about the state of Barrow. It was every second business there. He’d look into it. He thought about the regeneration on the bus ride back.

When he returned to his car in Barrow. It was scratched and missing a wing mirror. It was one more sign of the times and the way people had no pride in their town. With nowhere else to go except home, he wanted to drive but didn’t know where until one road led to the next, and an hour later, he arrived in Morecambe—another shithole but as good a place as any. He went for a drink in a run-down side street café. However, the coffee was good. The girl did some kind of art on the top, and he couldn’t tell if it was a feather, a branch or a dripping dick. Then decided he didn’t care. Gone were the days of complaining about trivial matters and demanding refunds. She was pretty and had a great smile, the kind that lit up a dreary seafront café. Her voice was as soft as the trickle of a stream, and as she chatted to the pensioners, he was jealous. He wanted her to talk to him.

He sat in a window seat, and instead of looking outside, he watched her. Every time she looked his way, he turned to the window and felt his face colouring. He wasn’t the shy type, and he had no idea what the hell had just happened to him. In the last five minutes, one pretty girl had turned him into a bumbling mess. He slopped his coffee onto the table, and she was there in an instant with a cloth to wipe it up.

‘My mother says that if you spill your coffee, you get to make a wish.’

‘Really? I’ve never heard that.’

‘No, I just made it up. But you look like a man that could do with the magic of a wish or two. Go on, try it anyway.’

And that was it. In three sentences, Max was smitten.

Her name badge said that she was called Paige, one of those fluffy popular names that rose in the early noughties. Max would prefer her to be called Elizabeth. It was a name that suited her demeanour. He saw that she was five foot five, maybe six. Her hair fell straight down her back and had that modern two-tone hairstyle of blonde on top and brown at the bottom. He liked the fact that she was a barista and didn’t just slap some Nescafe into a mug. She may have been a kid out of college taking any minimum wage job she could get, but to him, she oozed class. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and her left breast was ever so slightly smaller than the right.

She interested him. He liked her.