Public transport

The exhaust gave out an asthmatic wheeze as the bus pulled into the
stop. 8.35, on time today as every day, the same people at the stop
today as everyday, and, as everyday, the old man at the front of the
queue, clambering with difficulty up the shallow step without losing
any of his imperious air, shuffling past the driver without a 'good
morning' or any gesture towards payment, settling in the front seat,
leaning back and closing his eyes. Only then would the rest of the
passengers step aboard, enduring withering looks from the driver if
they lacked the correct change, walking past the old man with heads
bowed and finding their own seats.
Then the bus would pull out from the stop at the small village and
with its load of twenty-three passengers, no more, rarely less,
progress towards the town, never pausing at the other roadside bus
stops, ignoring the fury of those waiting, stopping only at the depot
in the centre of the town, and every night at 5.45, the same
twenty-three, no more, rarely less would board again and return to the
small village. One bus each day, every day, there and back, no choices-
you caught it or you stayed in the village.

The old man, leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, mouth fixed in the
ugly, toothless grin of a gargoyle that haunts childrens' dreams, happy
in the knowledge that the people were walking past with heads bowed,
delighted with the fear he evoked in everybody. He had turned up in the
village one day, many years ago, but had never looked any younger than
he did now. Soon after his arrival, the long-petitioned for bus service
was introduced, people connected the two events. He saw to it that
fares were cheaper than elsewhere, he prevented the bus from stopping
at other stops which meant that everyone from the village got to work
on time. Back in the days when he smile inspired confidence rather than
fear he was a well-liked presence, though no one knew where he lived or
why he went to town every day.
Over time, he began to take control of the bus, people did not mind,
they saw it as his right, his privilege, after all he had got the
service running hadn't he? And anyway, it wasn't their responsibility,
not their problem. He hired the four students at the college to see to
the efficient running of things. They saw to the peace and quiet on the
bus, saw to it that no-one complained when the old man lit his stinking
cigarettes in flagrant disregard of the rules. They dealt with
troublemakers, they were his servants, his loyal bodyguards. And people
did not complain, it was his right wasn't it? wasn't it? Why interfere
with an old man's eccentricities? And they were scared of the muscular
students of the college.
So people started to desert the bus. They cycled the many miles or
bought cars. These people found that accidents started to happen. Their
windows were broken, their cars had to go to the garage an awful lot.
They returned to the bus, the accidents stopped, their stories spread.
No-one deserted the bus any more. And the old man was happy, happy that
his subjects were back on board, his sheep back in the fold. His only
joy found the exertion of power over others, and his power was
absolute, not because people any longer saw it as his right, but
because of their fear. And he thrived on their fear, their bowed heads,
their hushed voices.

* * * *

But today someone was standing up. The quiet red haired man near the
back who averted his eyes whenever the old man looked at him. The red
haired man was going to speak. His hands were trembling, he looked
worried, but he was going to speak.
'Listen!' he said. 'Listen! We don't have to stand for this. I'm not
going to let an old man tell me what to do. I'm not going to let him
scare me. I'm not afraid of his thugs. Let's all join together and turn
against him. We can have him kicked off, we can...' but the college
students had grabbed him and his mouth was covered by a large
hand.
'Is this what you all think?' said the old man, turning to the other
passengers. 'Come on, speak up. Do you want rid of me? After all I've
done for you, the order and stability I've brought. There are no
troublemakers, no graffiti, do you want to end all that? Hmm?'
Silence reigned as his fierce blue eyes scanned the bus. 'TELL ME!' he
shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. 'TELL ME!'
Eventually, a middle aged man stood up, clearing his throat, but he did
not dare address the old man direct, but spoke to the red haired
man.
'It's too late,' he said quietly. 'We're all too afraid, and its not so
bad really. He's right, there is order, there are no troublemakers, no
uncertainty. We know tomorrow will be much like today. I'm
sorry.'
'You're a troublemaker,' the old man told the red haired man. 'And
no-one shares your opinion. You're just trying to stir things up. You
must be made an example of. I'm too strong for you. I will have my
power.'

The red haired man was tied up and put in the storage space underneath
the bus. He's still there, and though someone catches a whiff of the
scent of death from time to time, he is never mentioned for fear of
angering the old man. And life goes on much the same and the people are
still afraid, and cowed, and they still keep their heads down when they
pass the old man.