The bus that couldn't slow down | Samuel Smith

FICTION

2/5/20254 min read

A big man with a small head steps towards the kerb and puts his hand out. A universal hand gesture, or so you’d think.

However, the driver chooses to ignore him and drive on, his face a pinch of shock as we pass, mere metres apart. There’s no way he didn’t see him, the guy was practically wearing the shelter, and the bus isn’t even half full.

I glance out of the back window and see his portly frame slowly shrinking. He’s still looking our way, hands on hips and head cocked in disbelief as though already mentally compiling the complaint.

It happens again a few days later. Same route, same driver. An elderly woman is hurrying to the stop as fast as her frail legs can carry her. She turns, triumphant, and waves to the driver frantically. This time I see him look at her, give an almost imperceptible shake of his head, then roar past.

I turn to see her wrinkled face warp from a smile to a sneer as she mouths an obscenity and deploys a specific hand gesture.

Now when I board the bus and see that driver, I start jotting down a little description of the people from the split-second snapshot as we race past.

Young man, bright blue tracksuit, messy blonde hair.

Middle-aged lady wearing a floral dress and a red bandana, carrying about 7 or 8 shopping bags.

Young girl, huge headphones, dark green college hoodie.

2 old men, well dressed in shirts and ties. One of them raises a bouquet of flowers like an Olympic torch as the bus flies past.

3 kids, maybe 11, 12. Dressed head to toe in black and taking it in turns to run into the road ahead of the bus as it approaches. To be honest, I don’t blame him for not stopping, they look like little shits.

Nothing stands out. One morning as I scribble down notes about an obese middle-aged couple with an equally rotund dog, someone plops down in the seat next to me. I ignore them until they speak.

“I used to do the same thing, many moons ago.”

My pen pauses. I glance to my left and into the eyes of an elderly lady with a face like a 3-month-old apple, all brown and puckered. She’s wearing a tatty shawl the colour of a used handkerchief which looks as though it’s keeping her head from rolling off her bony shoulders.

“Although it took me a lot more notepads to work it out.”

She taps her nose with a spindly finger. “At first, I thought there was no rhyme or reason for it.”

She turns and looks forlornly out of the window. Nothing to see except the rain-fogged scenery scrolling past.

“I was a young woman when I started this”, she says, and I realise she’s looking at her own reflection. I glance at the bus driver, who looks to be in his late forties. She darts forward like a snake, and digs her yellow nails into my forearm.

“He never ages!”, she hisses, crinkled features inches from mine. A few heads turn in our direction. My heart starts to pound in my ears.

“So why doesn’t he stop for those people?”, I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

“He saw something in their futures that he didn’t like.” She takes my hand in hers. It’s Ieathery and slight, like a turtle’s head.

“I started seeing photos of the people I’d noted down in local newspapers. They were always victims of car crashes, stabbings, explosions, every single one of them. I showed them to people, but they never believed me. They all thought I’d somehow made it up. But now you’re doing the same thing. You can carry on what I started.”

She pulls her tartan shopping trolley close, flips open the fabric lid, and brings out a stack of 6 decaying notepads.

I instinctively put my hands up and inch away from her.

“I, er, I can’t help you, I’m sorry”, I stutter, grabbing the pole and pulling myself up. “I’ve got to go anyway, this is me.”

I press the button and hurry to the front of the bus, glancing over my shoulder at the old lady. She’s still holding out the notepads to me, her eyes like a dog’s that’s about to be put down.

I turn away from her and the mysterious driver, and squeeze out of the door the second the bus comes to a stop.

The next day I wait at my stop, collar turned against the unseasonal wind punishing my face. Squinting into the gale, my eyes starting to water, I see the bus rumbling towards me down the hill.

I raise my hand in a salute, but to my growing horror, I realise it isn’t going to stop. I draw back, my heart smashing against my ribs as if it’s about to flag the bus down itself.

I can see the familiar driver, sitting like a Buddhist monk with barely even a flicker of an expression on his face.

The bus flies past me, and I catch a glimpse of the old woman sitting in one of the window seats, her wrinkled mouth carved into a grimace. On her lap sits a notepad, and as the bus roars away from me, she seems to hunch forward, as though making one more addition to her collection.

Samuel Smith is a former Creative Writing and Scriptwriting student. His stories will make you laugh and think, and he enjoys experimenting with convention to create offbeat scenarios and characters.