THE STRANGER ON THE BUS

 

                                          Episode 8      

                                 Words of a Dead Girl

 

   I'd always wondered why the drivers of buses were such cheery creeps. Now I'd found myself behind the wheel of one, I knew.

   These babies handled like cargo crates on marshmallow wheels and moved as if they'd rather not. But once they got going, these buses were cruising brick walls. As for brakes, when I found the right pedal , I'd let you know.

   A parked Merc went spinning as the Shaw Express put more than a scratch in its duco. This had been one party that needed to be crashed, and as glass flew like jagged confetti, Nick Shaw didn't look for an invite.

   The speedo hit 45 as I took the first row of buses and hugged the white line to the gate. The engine was screaming. There were revs on my revs. And there wasn't a joker in sight.

   I eyeballed the mirror: not a wheel on my tail.

   That was weird. Intelligent scum don't let a million on wheels go that easy. Unless it wasn't worth the trouble or-

   A fist hit my cheek like a brick from a slingshot. I turned and a foot holed my stomach. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor heaving for air.

   One hand found a pole, I spat out the blood and stood up. When the daze cleared a face filled the screen. It was someone I knew.

   "You ain't no Bruce Lee, Charlie."

   The speed hit 60. I went for the brake.

   "I ain't blowin' kisses either, mate," and the fists struck again.

   A speed bump smashed past. The number-box flew open. I near bit off my tongue. It said 725. I'd just hustled the wrong stinking bus!

   I was halfway to Dreamland as the bus swerved and sped for a row of parked Wynyard Expresses. Ling floored me again. Unfortunately I couldn't stay around. I went down for the count, grabbed a handle and rolled out the open door. Next thing I knew, I was kissing the tarmac.

   A rush of wheels. A muffled scream. An explosion of twisted blue metal. The 725 scored a strike on the Wynyard Expresses, and Ling had just bowled his last match.

   I stood up and thanked God for Emergency Door Levers.

   A quick body count gave me three busted fingers, one Mixmastered stomach and a face that felt like the wrong end of a doorstop.

   It was 6:59 a.m. Sydney's hundred school buses were moving out. And now the 730 was packed up and ready to go.

   I spun like a power drill. 144; 738; 550. Bus numbers shot through my brain like machine-gun fire. A pick-up ran past. Then a slightly bent Merc.

   Some jerk leapt out and opened the gate.

   Noise. Smoke. Lights. It was all like some Bourbon hangover gone wrong.

   Then I heard it. A grinding like train wheels on asphalt. A sound that I knew like my own voice. I turned round and there, steaming full-bore ahead, was the 730 Bus.

   There was nowhere to run.

   I hit the dirt and prayed for ten inches' clearance. Then 300 horse-power flew over my head.

   The bus ran the fence and turned into the road.

   I reached for my cigarettes. I just wanted one.

   I brought the white stick to my lips, while the 730's old fuel leak swirled over the Pacific Highway.

   I dragged. I lit up.

   And the words of a dead girl came back.

   The burning butt dropped to the stain at my feet.

   "This one's for Karen."

   And the petrol trail did the rest.

   The flames took five seconds to reach the fuel's source. By the time I looked back, the 730 Bus to Seaforth was a hundred-foot tower of fire, debris and white dust...

 

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   Funny how dangerous smoking can be.

   That was one habit I was going to have to kick.

   Some day. Not today.

   I stepped onto the sidewalk, took a deep breath of smog and set off for North Sydney. There'd be no 730 this Friday. And it was one dirty long walk to school.

   The Underworld would be back. That was one guarantee you didn't need a piece of paper for. This suburbia may not be the ghettoes, but it sure the heck ain't Paradise either. It just needs one piece of dirt to screw everything up. And the world is full of dirt.

   No, I wasn't holding my breath for gratitude.

   If there's one thing I've learned, it's that Nick Shaw is just the name on a two-bit Bus Pass in an overgrown two-bit town that wouldn't know the difference.

   That's the thing about suburbia.

   You can spend your whole life in it, and still be a stranger.

   The stranger on the block.

   The stranger on the street.

   The Stranger on the Bus.

 

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                             Written by David W. Williams

First published in the Shore Weekly Record from October to December, 1984