The Bus

She gets on the bus, hands in pockets, head held low. She pays the driver the usual one pound sixty, the same driver she sees every day. The bus begins to move as she climbs the spiral stairs. Her balance sways a little as she broaches the top step, then she is there, at the top of the double decker. It’s nearly full with the rout of peak time workers, all in their smart clothes and sleepy faces, ready for another day at work.

She makes her way to a spare seat at the very front, where she can sit and watch as the bus topples round corners. The front window of the double decker curves out slightly, protruding further than the body of the vehicle. She sits where it feels as though the road is right below her. Her own private seat when she can view the white lines of the tarmac.

She opens her book to page 23. She bought it yesterday and so only had the journey home to get stuck in. It’s called: ‘The Forgotten Story: When Mummy Turned Mad’, one of those childhood experience stories, confessed by a reformed adult. She puts her bag on the seat beside her so no one can sit there, and starts to read.

It’s not that I was trying to disobey her; I just didn’t want her to get the better of me again. She screamed at me, telling me to ‘STOP BEING STUPID AND PICK IT UP!’ I refused. That was when it first happened.

The bus swings forwards and back as it stops at another queue of passengers. She watches out the window as the curve of the queue gets shorter and shorter. The bus starts to move again. There are footsteps on the stairs. She can tell by the way they’re panting heavily that it’s an old person. She has a quick glance around to check that other seats are free, then continues to read.

It’s surprising how silent people are when a group of strangers gather. There’s the occasional rustle as someone digs in a bag or finds their seat, interludes of phone rings or vibrations or clicks text messages being written, but that’s it. Most don’t even dare to broach someone’s eye line. Someone coughs at the back. She imagines people’s reaction as they subtly move away from the coughing range, afraid of catching some terrible disease.

The front of the bus is like a greenhouse, sit close enough to the glass and you catch the direct rays of the sun, heating up your arms, legs, face. She could feel the light warming her face, and shielded her eyes with her hand. The novel was good, it kept her gripped, pinned to her seat in curiosity. She had a love for biographical novels, especially ones that involved disturbed childhoods and dark confessions. You found them in the ‘Traumatic childhood experience’ section in books shops. It’s what she’d always felt like her life was missing, excitement.

The blows stung my face, she grabbed me by the hair and dragged me down into the basement. We had one of those big American basements, the ones with hidden corners, large enough to be a study. It was a dream of my dads to build a wood work room where he could continue to make his wooden boats. That’s another dream that didn’t happen.

The bus takes a sharp corner. She glances up to check she hasn’t missed her stop then continues reading. They’re still in the rural areas. Rows of semi detached houses line their route to the city. She takes a deep breath. Someone coughs at the back. She puts her feet up on the seat next to her, wiggling her back into the wall of the bus.

‘Do you have the time mate?’ someone calls from behind her. She lets someone else answer whilst she continues to read. She has her white trainers on, they help her walk that last mile to work. It’s a new system she’s trying, to help get into shape. Get the bus as normal from the outskirts to the inner city, then get off a few stops before and walks the rest to work. The trainers were her mum’s idea, can’t be walking a couple of miles in high heels. It’s just not practical.

She keeps her work shoes in her bag ready to put on the minute she walks through the door to her office. She’s a sales executive, in some up and coming business. She takes a sleepy stretch and continues reading.

I remember trying to keep my feet on the floor as she pulled me down the stairs. I thought if I could just stay upright, then she could never win. It was as though I was upside down, her gripping the top of my head and twisting it so I could see the ceiling. As we reached the bottom of the stairs I scrambled to put my feet flat. The basement was dark, she didn’t bother turning the light on. She dragged me over to the corner and threw me onto the dog’s bed. ‘Stay there’ she said, and started rooting around in the basement. It smelt of dog slobber and sweat.

The bus swings forward then back. The stopping sign lights as it comes to a halt. The smell of oranges drifts up the bus. She looks around to see someone a few seat away peeling the fruit. Small clear squirts of the juice spark out as the person digs their fingers into its skin. She imagines it sitting on her tongue, the sharp liquid making its way down her watering throat. She skipped breakfast. Best way to lose weight.

Someone’s phone rings at the back of the bus. A young boy dips his head and pulls a mobile out of his coat pocket. ‘Yeah?’ he says on answering the phone. ‘What? You want what? I don’t have it. I told ya I don’t have it. Yeah….yeah….’. Everyone on the bus is frozen in fake day dreams as they listen to the conversation. ‘Can’t you get Mike to do it? He’s better then me. No, no, fine. I’ll be there’. The young boy hangs up without saying bye. There is silence on the bus for a moment as people wait for someone to move. A smart looking woman at the back coughs.

She turns her head slightly down the bus, so she can look around without seeming suspicious. There’s an old lady behind her with a bag on her lap. They catch eyes for a moment then look down to their own thoughts. A middle aged man in a suit sits on the left side of the isle, snoring with his mouth open. His hair is smart apart from one little flick, as though he rushed his morning routine. The seats are full apart from the few around her. She deliberately claims the front seat first thing in the morning, before it gets really busy. She likes to hide from the rest. Most of the passengers wear suits, or smart casual clothes. Some hide behind newspapers, glancing up only now and then to check where the bus is passing.

She turns back to her book. Page thirty five. The plot thickens.

I sit in the dark, shivering because down here has no heating, listening to her steps along the cold concrete floor, watching her shadow move in and out of corners. She is mumbling something to herself, panicked quick words, like she is talking to someone. The picture of Mother Mary hangs in the centre of the room, attached by wires to the ceiling. I always thought it was an impractical place to put it but mum said that by hanging in the centre she was always in the centre of our lives. This was the most glamorous of the pictures, the rest of the house was layered in them; glorified paintings of what I called characters from the bible, what she called ‘hallowed models of how to sculpt our lives. She kept the most special one down here, all to herself.

She yawns, wiping sleep from her eyes. She pops the book down on a seat to stretch, lifting each shoulder in turn, tipping her head to that side. It’s 8.30. Her stop is coming up. She leans back against the bus wall and looks around. A new guy has sat behind her, clicking on his phone. She thinks his quite cute, then feels embarrassed at her thought and looks away. Her stomach growls.

As she looks out the window she sees a park, a beautiful pink blossom tree blowing in the wind. She dreams of jumping off the bus to spend the day in the park, sitting by the tree, swimming in the fountain. One day she will, one day she’ll ignore reality and lose herself in day dreams. The bus pulls forwards and back again. She returns to her book.

I listen to her murmuring and realise that she in praying. Through the dark I can see her standing in front of the picture, holding something long in her hand. I cannot make out what it is but I imagine it to be a chain, or a rope, something that makes me feel uneasy. I dip my head and pray to God, competing with mum, hoping that my thoughts will reach him first, and he will save me instead. But as I start I hear her skulk across the basement, and move towards me.

The bus is filling up now, and there’s only one seat left. She keeps her feet on it as long as possible, forcing people to find somewhere else to sit. This is her territory. Whilst reading she takes subtle glances at the guy behind, hoping that he will notice her. She’s almost tempted to put her heels back on, just to flounce past him on the way out. But knowing her she will fall down the stairs in them; a funny story to tell her friends later.

She holds her thumb in the book and digs into her bag to check her phone, see if anyone interesting has text her. No one has. She thought that her mum would at least have text her and wished her luck on her long walk to work. Nothing. Perhaps it was because of their petty argument this morning, but her mum was used to her strops, surely?

Shifting her weight to one side, she watches as the bus swings round a roundabout. She puts one foot on the floor to steady herself. From her private viewing it looks as though the bus is going to drive straight into the roundabout, sort of an adrenaline rush for her, she loves the thought of danger. Nothing ever happened in her drab life; no men, no fun, no drama. Books were the only way for her to find it.

She hits me again but that doesn’t bother me, I’m used to the punches. It’s what comes next that shocked me, that sparked my doubt in God, or my hunch that he and her were against me. In the dark the thing around her wrist looked like a snake, she appeared to stroke it as she un-wraps it from her hand. I’m solid with fear as I watch her actions, cornered into the dog bed. I have no way to escape. Each of her movements were slow, and precise, as though she had a clear head. She’s talking to me but I cannot tell what she’s saying I’m too caught up in what she’s doing. It’s something about being a good girl, living my life under God’s will, something about sinners. The usual lecture. I never normally listen because I don’t see how I’ve sinned, especially when she wants me to do something stupid. She finishes unravelling the snake and stretches it to its full length between her hands.

“ ‘scuse me, this seat taken?” a man in a suit hovers above her. She looks at her feet which are covering the seat, sighs, and sits upright.
“ No, go on” she says, and continues reading.

But she cannot find the right page, her hand must have slipped as she changed positions. She flicks through, reading sections of the book.

…gripping the top of my head and twisting it so I could see the ceiling.

Too far.

I sit in the dark, shivering because down here has no heating, listening to her steps along the cold concrete floor.

Not that one….

It’s what comes next that shocked me, that sparked my doubt in God, or my hunch that he and her were against me. In the dark the…

Nearly. The bus swings round the corner, causing her to fall into the man next to her. Too embarrassed to apologise she sits up right and pretends nothing happened. Someone breaks into a coughing fit at the back. A phone rings, and rings, and rings, with no one to answer it because they have headphones in. The man next to her flicks through a newspaper, the inexorable crackle as he spread reads the headlines. She reads over his shoulder, bored at the lost words in the novel. Child raped, missing daughter, trains delayed, terrorist attacks. She keeps her head forwards and her eyes towards the page, deceiving the suited man.

The ‘stopping’ sign springs on as the bus screeches to a halt. The driver must have planned to miss the stop, then noticed the queue of people with their arms out. Feet hurdle upstairs in hope of some seats, but are forced to stand in the isle. She finds it harder to read now. She flicks back through the paragraph.

I never normally listen because I don’t see how I’ve sinned, especially when she’s asked me to do something stupid. She finishes unravelling the snake and stretches it to its full length between her hands. I wish there was some way to shut down my body, protect it from the pain. My mind can cope, I’ve faced it all before, I can daydream, and justify, and deny myself to reality, but my body, that has to face everything.
She holds the chain above her head, closing her eyes as her arms reach their peak. I want dad to come home, I want her to get bored, I want my body to shut down, my body to shut down….

As she brings the chain down a monstrous scream escapes her lips. She must be putting her full force into it because it really hurts this time. It feels as though my skin is splitting every time the metal touches me. She spreads her legs to get a better stance. A low grunt resounds in her throat with each throw. I am silent. I think that, if I don’t cry she hasn’t won. I can pretend that she hasn’t hurt me, and everything will be fine. I wrap my hands around my head, just for protection, not because I’m giving in to her. She starts to hit the back of my head, I try to keep my hands there but it hurts too much. She pulls the chain back again and…

She loses her page; the bus is full of the noise of too many people. The man to her side continues to flick the paper. He’s onto the sports section now. He coughs. A little girl is running up and down the isle, giggling at each end. Her mum calls her from the back, but is not as small and agile to move between the people. The little girl runs to the front, looks out the window, and then catches her eye. She lets out a giggle.

There’s a loud bang on the bus. Someone screams from somewhere, so jolting that she can not make out what gender it is. The air is full of dust, white clouds that overwhelm any sense of direction. She doesn’t know where she is, her book is gone, she cannot see anyone around her. She touches her face, her hand is shaking. She’s not even sure if she’s on the bus. There’s a ringing in her ears, and she can’t find her book. Someone’s screaming, she thinks people are running, she thinks she can hear some movement but she can’t be sure. She’s not sure if she’s still moving. She reaches down by her feet, turns her head to the right and notices the man is gone. There’s shards of glass everywhere, tiny spikes that stick into her hand. She tries to breathe. Why is she so scared? There’s a ringing,
a ringing in her ears,
a ringing in her ears.

She reaches around her feet, hands scrambling over anything, is that the floor? There’s someone screaming from somewhere, there’s dust, smoke, something covering the air, layers the seats and all her surroundings in a white cloud. She stands. Her legs are shaking, it’s hard to hold herself up. She places a hand on what she thinks is the back of the seat. She staggers, her feet dragging along underneath her legs. The laces of one of her shoes is undone. She pulls herself along, bit by bit, until she reaches the top of the stairs. The white dust is reaching her lungs, she coughs. Holds onto each bar on the edge of the stairs, pulls herself down, step by step. Glass crunches beneath her feet. She thinks of the girls in the book, how she was beaten, how she had clarity of thought when in pain. Is she in pain? She can’t make out the sensation, but it’s new, it’s defiantly new.

Word count: 3010