FOG
Dark, dank, early morning. The bus depot is silent and deserted. Thick fog shrouds the buildings and blurs the dividing line between road and pavement. It lurks in the doorways, in the bushes, round the single lamp post, and makes shadow monsters in the corners. A lone routemaster, 36B, stands waiting , like a forgotten toy, it’s fog misted windows glinting eerily in the half light.
Muffled footsteps. Sean walks slowly toward the bus-park, his head throbbing with the memory of last night’s argument. He glances around, the place is empty. Typical: the one day on which he wants to be anywhere but here, has to be the one day when everything is transfixed by the damn fog. A two mile walk is not normally how he would start his day, but he could not have stayed there, not even for half an hour more. He had to get away. His suitcase drips fog onto his shoes as his feet begin to ache in sympathy with his head. He looks toward the buildings, hoping for a seat somewhere, but all he sees are black rubbish sacks, torn and spewing their contents onto the path. Best not to dwell on what unseen teeth may have made the tears.
Sean turns, looks at the bus, and decides. Hurrying now, he throws his suitcase into the luggage hatch and makes his way to the drivers door. It is unlocked. Climbing in he checks for keys - under the mat? On the dashboard? A gleam of silver in the gear-shift well - Yes!
The engine starts, but the gears shift unbidden, the wheels roll forward. Sean panics; where is he going? Where can he go?
Slowly the bus moves out of the park, Sean tries to control it, tries to turn right - but unseen powers are controlling the steering. The bus turns left into the main street and gains momentum. He can see nothing through the windscreen, the fog is too dense. The lights don’t work. The pedals don’t work… Nothing responds to his touch. The bus is gathering speed and out of control … and then it is gone!
He is standing again in the bus park, suitcase in hand, dripping fog onto his shoes. Frightened, he tries to run but cannot move. A police siren stirs the fog, a blue flashing light distorts his vision.
“Sean Casey, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife, Yvonne Casey. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.”
They took his suitcase and opened it. Her face smiled up at him from it’s bloodied depths. He had had to keep that smile - the rest didn’t matter. A bus trundles by through the fog : 36B.
© 2021
