The Last Passenger on the Bus

The Last Bus Passenger

It was a little torch, no bigger than my index finger, strung on a woven bit of cord. I didnt notice it at first. First, I noticed the man.

March night, Route Eleven, terminus at Mill Lane and back again. An empty bus, streetlamps flickering past the windows, the scent of diesel, rubber, and just the faintest hint of coffee from a flask. Id been on this route for four years, and for four years, Id liked night more than day.

In the nights, the bus was nearly always empty. Rowdy drinkers fresh off clubbing on High Streetalways in a crowd, shouting, dropping bottles, hopping off two stops later. Nurses off the late shiftquiet, closing their eyes and sleeping until their destination. Security guards. Taxi drivers whose cabs had packed up. They all came and went, faces I wouldnt remember.

But this oneI remembered him.

A man in his sixties, sturdy, not tall, always in a dark hooded coat. His right leg placed ever so slightly wider than the left, as if he’d grown used to uneven ground. Always the same seatthe third row on the right, by the window. Paid cash, no change required. Rode to the terminus. And back. Never got off.

I first noticed him properly at the start of March. The March sky pressed low, the city outside the windows grey even at midnight. And there he sat in that grey city, like a yellow mote, fiddling with something in his hands.

Then I started counting. Five nights on the trot. Two nights absent. Five again. As if by a timetable. As if riding the night bus was his job.

He didnt sleep, didnt read, never looked at a phone. Didnt fumble with headphones or fuss with a newspaper. Sat staring out at the dark, turning something small over in his palms. I saw in the drivers mirrora dull, yellow light, flickering, fading, flickering, fading. Like a firefly had wandered into the bus and couldnt find its way out.

I was forty-four. Not yet forty-five, but old enough that folk didn’t bother asking my agethey just looked and made assumptions. Big hands, calloused from the steering wheel, nails clipped short and neat. My back bent slightly to the righta habit from leaning to press the bus door button. Occupational hazard. I even caught myself at home sometimes, right shoulder lower than the left.

Twelve years alone. My son, William, was twenty-two; he lived with his girlfriend on the far side of town. Phoned on Sundaysif he remembered. I never called first. Not because I didnt want tobecause if I did, hed answer with, Mum, whats happened? Worry in his voice, not gladness. To him, a call from Mum meant something was wrong. It meant, we didnt know how to just talk anymore.

My ex-husband left when Will was ten. Moved in with Pam from Accounts, dragged two coats out the hallway and took the kettlewhy, I cant guess. We split the flat: he took the two-bed, I got the box on Churchill Avenue, third floor. I decidedfine then. Id get by. But it turned out there was nothing to endure; life was no worse without him. Just quieter. And the quiet stretched to twelve years.

Since then, the word love felt about as real as unicorn. Pretty, but nonsense. Friends talked about their husbandsI listened, nodded. I turned off romantic films halfway. Not out of hurt, but disbelief. Like Father Christmasyou believe as a child, then one day you see Dad in a dressing gown, with cotton wool stuck to his jaw. That’s what love was to me.

The night shift suited me. At night, no need to grin at passengers. No pushing through grandmas with trolleys or schoolchildren with rucksacks blocking the aisle. No eavesdropping on phone rows or putting up with someone eating greasy kebab on the back seat. At night, just the road and the hush. That hush fit methe way a tailored jacket should. Not tight, not baggy.

But this passenger disturbed the hush. Not with soundbut presence. Like a pebble in your shoe; not much, but you never forget it’s there.

For two weeks I simply watched. Got used to him as part of the route. Park Crescenthed step on. Mill Lanestill there. Back to Park Crescenthed get off. Nodded at me, like he knew me. Id nod back.

Every single nightthe yellow light. Faint, in his hands.

Liz, dyou think he might be homeless? asked Margaret in the office before my shift.

Margaret had been dispatching eight years. Big, with ginger hair piled up in a bun held by a pencil. She knew everything about the driverswho was splitting up, who drank, who didnt but probably would soon. I trusted her opinion.

Homeless dont pay fare, I said. And he pays. Always cash. Never wants change.

Mad, maybe?

Quiet, though. Just sits, stares out. Doesnt mutter, doesnt rock. Seems perfectly normal. Just… rides.

Margaret poured me some tea from her flasklime and mint, as usual.

Maybe his wife booted him out? she guessed. You know how it happens. Big row, get out! and he walks, rides the bus all night to cool off.

Every night? For a month? Thats not a row, thats a full-on separation.

Margaret snorted.

You know, Liz, she said. Loves when someones waiting with the kettle boiling. The rests just fairy stories. Or night buses.

I smirked. No one waited for me with a kettle. Just my cat, Samsonginger, chubby, condescending. And even he only waited for his grub.

But the question stuck. Where was this man travelling, terminus and back, five nights a week, for a month? Who does that? And why?

Maybe he couldnt sleep. Maybe his mind was going. Maybe it was leftover habit from another life, working nights, unable to stop.

It all felt reasonable, yet none of it true. Id seen his eyes in the mirrorclear, calm, focused. The eyes of a man who knew exactly where he was headed.

So I decided Id ask.

***

Didnt manage it straightaway. Three days, I worked up the courage. RidiculousI ferried this man across the sleeping city every night, yet worried to ask a simple question. But thats how we are in English towns: right nearby, but not together. Dont pry, dont ask, dont interfere. Boundaries. Four years, I kept those boundaries wellId no interest in other peoples lives.

But this passenger snagged my attention, and I hated myself for it.

He got on as usualPark Crescent stop, twenty to one. Dropped coins in the tray. Walked to his seat, third row right, by the window. Sat down, fished something on a bit of cord from under his coat, cupped it in his hand.

We rode in silence. Lamp posts floated by, the closed-up windows of empty shops, bare stops. The city outside looked left behind, like props after a play. Just us, the actors who hadnt left the stage.

I waited until the clockwork pause at Mill Lane. Three minutes we stood off. I dimmed the lights, left only the emergency bulbs. Golden semi-darkness. Got up, left my cab.

He sat unmoving, the thing on the cord in his hands.

Excuse me, I said. Could I ask you something?

He looked up. His voice was deep and rough, like there was a bit of toast stuck in his throat.

Go ahead.

You ride every night. Ive noticed. A month, easily. All the way to the end and back. Where are you going?

He paused, eyes studying my facefor fear, annoyance? No, just weighing up if I deserved an answer.

Then said, To my wife.

I frowned. Checked the clockit was twenty past one.

Your wife? Now?

Marys on nights. At Wilkins & Sonsshes a quality control inspector. I ride with her. Not with hernext to her. The bus passes the factoryI flash her my torch in the window.

He lifted his hand. Resting in his palm was the small torch, on a bit of cord. Yellow light. The plastic was faded, rubbed smooth from years clutched in the dark.

This thing, he said quietly.

I sat down opposite. My legs were achingsix hours at the wheel.

So let me get this rightyou take the bus every night, go to the end, wave your torch in her window, and come back?

Thats it.

Every night?

Five a week. Thats her shift. Two days off together, I stay in. Five work nightsIm here.

I couldnt find any words. Out the window sat the Wilkins factorya squat brick building, must have been built in the sixties, the plaster flaking, rusty pipes. But, on the third floor, yellow windows shone. Night shift.

Why? I asked.

He stared at me as if Id asked why people breathe.

Wouldnt you?

No. I wouldnt. My ex never even got up from the kitchen to open the door when I staggered home with bags. Once I carried home bags from Tescotwo in my hands, one in my teeth, couldnt fish out the keys. Rang the bell. He opened up, took one look, What took you so long? Didnt offer, didnt move, just left me to it.

And yet here was this man, crossing the city every night, just to flash a torch at his wifes window.

My names George, he said. George Parker. But everyone calls me Parker.

Elizabeth, I said. Liz.

He nodded, looked out at the factory.

Mary and I, twenty-five years married. Registered in 2001she was thirty-three, I was thirty-six. Late in life. Never quite happened for either of us, til then. I was a fitter, over at the tools works. Shes still at Wilkins on quality control, same department. Thats where we met. Retired four years back, early on account of the chemicals. She moved to night shifts three years agoa forty percent bonus. Saving for an allotment. Little plot in Telford. Shed, fence, a couple apple trees. Marys desperate for strawberries.

He said it all simply, with no hint of self-pity or pride. Just as if explaining the weather or the train times.

The first month she did nights, I couldnt sleep. Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking, How is she? Its dark, its cold, she has to walk two hundred yards from the stop. What if she slips? What if someone bothers her? Cant callher mobiles in the staff locker, not allowed on the floor.

Then I realisedthe bus goes by. Route Eleven. Past the factory. If I ride, she sees Im close. Not with her, but close enough.

Did she notice?

Not at first. I did it a week, flashing my torch at the window. She didnt clickits just the bus, reflections. Then I told her, Mary, thats me, every night, from the bus. Watch for Route Eleven next time it goes past. She noticed. Rang me in the morning: George, was that you with the torch? I said, yeah, thats me. She started crying. Told me, Keep flashing.

My throat went tight, as if there really was that bit of toast caught. Silly comparison, but I could think of nothing else.

So, you just go back afterwards?

Well, where else would I go at one in the morning? Whole areas dead at this hour. Fences, tarmac, streetlampshalf of them out. I ride home, go to bed. Get up at sixshe comes back.

From work?

Thats it. I make her breakfastporridge, she likes it with raisins. And a cup of tea, with mint, from the windowsill. Dried in winter, fresh in summer.

Margarets kettle came to mind. She’d said, Love means someones waiting with the kettle. But this was morea torch, a night bus, porridge at six, twenty-five years, and mint on the windowsill. And an allotment, saved for together.

Three minutes at Mill Lane flew by. I went back to the drivers seat, started the engine. George Parker sat, torch on his knee.

As I drove the empty streets home, I thoughttwelve years living alone, and never once flashed a torch to anyone. And no one ever flashed one at me. My ex took the kettle, and I was left with the cat and the night bus. Or rather, with Samsonwho only met me for his tinned food.

No bitterness camejust wonder. Fancy that. Not in the telly, not in a bookon the Number Eleven, from Park Crescent to Mill Lane. A real man with a battered torch rides through the sleepy city, just so his wife can see a bit of light when she looks out.

At Park Crescent, he got off. Gave me his nod, routine as ever.

Watched him walk to his doora steady, uneven step in a dark coat. A regular old pensioner. And not so regular.

***

The next night I made a point to slow down by the factory. Not at the bus stopa bit further along, right where the road cut under the third-floor windows. It was off-schedule, but who checks at two in the morning?

George Parker took out the torch. Pressed the button. Three brief flashes. Three long. Three brief. Crisp, exact, like counting time. His fingers confident, the hands of a man who fixed fiddly parts for decades.

I watched in the rearview. Then out the front window. At the end, third floor, far lefta flicker of light. Dull, not bright. Three short, three long, three short.

She answered him.

I stopped breathing for a moment, watching those two points of lightone in the bus, one in the factory, a hundred yards and a world of darkness between. Brick, glass, the dank March air. And across it, two little yellow beams reaching each other.

Just a torch. Just a window. Just two people, sending signals across the night. And I knewI was witnessing something real. Not the stuff that makes you switch channels. Real. Honest. The kind that nips your nose and makes you look away, embarrassed to be watching.

At the terminus, I left my cab.

That your code? I asked.

George Parker leaned by the bus door, torch in his pocket.

Ours, he said. Not Morse. Im no radioman. Just made it up. Three shortas a heartbeat. Three longas if Im hugging. Another three shortas if Im letting go. Mary laughed when I showed her. Told me I was a romantic. But Im not; I just miss her, even with a wall between us. She learnt it in a night. Every shift, we trade our code.

How long?

A year now. Each night, come ice or rain. Remember Januarywhen it was five below? Bus was late. I waited forty minutes at the stop, feet went numb. But I waited. Flashed the torch. Mary told me in the morningI saw you. You were seven minutes late. I kept count.’

A year. Five days a week. More than two hundred and fifty trips. For a few seconds of light in a window.

Once, Id have called it daft. Obsessive. Or just someone with too much time. Now, I said nothing. Any words would have paled next to that little torch.

Back behind the wheel. Threaded my way through the streets. In the mirror, George looked contentpeaceful, even. Doing the same thing, night after nightand always enough.

Over the next days, I paid more attention. Wonderedwas it a delusion? Perhaps she wasn’t really looking. Maybe inertia, not love. Habit, empty of meaning.

But on the fourth night: as the bus rolled by the factory, on the third floor, someone pressed their face against the glass. A woman. Auburn hair, plaited. A torch. A yellow light, like his.

She was waiting. Truly waiting. Every night shed step to the window and watch for the light.

A week later, the bus broke downcompressor or brake system, beyond me. Called maintenance. Margaret sent a spare Minibus. Smaller, rattlier, freezing except for the blower by the drivers seat.

George turned up as ever. Paused at the strange bus, but climbed aboard, took the first seatcouldnt get back further, stacked high with parts.

The ride was rough. Engine howled, frame shuddered, the heater only stung my knees. But George gripped his torch the same, eyes ahead, bucket-seat or Bentley made no odds to him.

At the terminus, I stretched my legs. He came too. We stood at the door, bitter April air clouding our breath. Up above, yellow factory lights glimmered.

He flashed, she flashed. Same as ever.

George, I said, Twenty-five years is a lifetime. Marys not tired?

He wasnt offended. He smiled faintly, rubbing his hands, fingers red from cold.

Shes worn out. So am I. Were not young. Shes pushing sixty, Im past. My knees, my back, my teethdont ask! But thats just how it goes. Its not that she isnt tired; its that she cant do without it.

Cant do withoutso, cant quit?

No. Getting used to someone is different. I smoked for years, and managed to quit. It was torture, three months. Got used to Marynever want to quit. See the difference? Some habits break you; others keep you steady. Marys what steadies me.

And you, her?

I hope, he said. She never says, George, youre my rock. She just says, George, get the bread, or Close the window, would you? But I can hear it. When Im near, she breathes steadier. When Im goneshe clenches up a bit. Like she shields herself.

I listened. Above us, a street lamp hummeda rare straggler still working in the old industrial estate. The rest had blown long ago.

Loves not your heart leaping, he said. Its your heart knowing where to go. Without your head. Legs just carry you. Every night, I sit on this bus and never wonder why. Its just what I do. Like breathing. Try not breathingyou cant. Well, I cant not ride.

What if you fall ill? Or the bus gets shut down?

Ill ring a taxigot money put by, two hundred quid in an envelope above the wardrobe. If the buss offIll walk. Four miles, hour’s stroll. Did it once, in November. Bus failed, so I set out. Mary asked in the morning, Why were you limping? But I wasnt limpingI was just knackered.

He chuckled, low and rough. I thought: heres a man who really does know what he lives fornot in the grand sense, but the small one. Torch, bus, porridge with raisins. Bread and windows. I envied that certainty. Not his wife, not his lovebut his clarity.

All my life I thought love was a huge thinga grand gesture, sacrifice, words on a romantic sunset. But here: a battered torch on a bit of cord, a quiet chap in a night bus. That was more than anything Id seen in forty-four years.

Back into the minibus. Started the groaning heater. George tucked the torch under his coat, hand pressed to his chestI caught it in the mirror.

We drove in silence. At Park Crescent, he got off, nodded. Watched him pad home, right foot always slightly wider, measured, hands in pockets. Ordinary pensioner. And yetextraordinary.

At home, I undressed, fed Samson, lay down. Pulled out my phone. Scrolled to Will. Watched the screen. Five to fournot yet time. Kept the number on the display, glowing in the dark, fell asleep with the phone in my palm.

***

The next day, at two, I called. Will sounded surprised.

Mum? Whats up?

Nothings up. Just fancied a chat.

Pause. He was weighing itMum doesnt call first, not in six months.

You sure youre alright?

Yeah, sweet as. Hows things with you and Emma?

All fine. Working. Emma too. You sure, Mum?

Will, I said. I havent said it for ages. You matter to me. Justthought you should know.

Silence. Long. I pictured him standing in his kitchenalways took calls in the kitchennot sure what to do with his spare hand.

You too, Mum.

Short. Slightly gruff. Like all the men in my familyDad was like that, and Granddad. Couldnt talk about feelings, mouths sealed up. But it was enough for me. I smiled, hung up.

Then dressed and popped round the corner to the hardware shopHome Needs. Smelled of glue, soap powder, plastic pails. Found the shelf with torches. Twentygreat whacking things like truncheons, right down to dinky ones with keyrings.

I picked the smallest. Warm yellow beam. No cordId sort one out at home. The cashier, a plump woman in a blue apron, asked, Need batteries?

Yes, please.

At home, I pressed the button. A yellow circle hit the ceiling. Samson leapt off the table, thumped onto the floor, shot under the bed. I shone the torch on the wall. Little circle, warm and bright. Like those Id seen out the bus window.

I tried it. Three short. Three long. Three short. Didnt manage first gofingers muddled, the button stiff. Second try, too long on the longs. Third, made four shorts. But the fourth attemptperfect. Heart beats. Arms wrap. Let go.

I dont know who Ill signal to. Or why. Maybe my son. Maybe myself. Maybe just to the dark, like George Parker did, before Mary realised it was him. Flashed away, hoping nothing, just because he couldnt not.

The torch slipped into my coat pocket. I felt easier somehowas if Id learned the code at last. Not anothersmy own.

At my shift that evening, Margaret poured tealime and mint, same as always.

Well thenyour regular?

Still rides, I said.

You find out why?

I did.

And?

Margaret, I said, you were wrong. Loves not the waiting with a kettle. Loves when you cross half the city with a torch. Every night. For a year. In the freezing cold. Without a single complaint.

She eyed me as if Id lost the plot. Opened her mouth, shut it. Then:

Liz, have you fallen for your passenger?

No, I said. I havent. Ive just seen.

She didnt get it. I didnt explain. Some things you cant put in words. You see them at two in the morning, from a night bus window, when the city’s asleep, and two people are flashing torches across a hundred yards of darkness.

Night fell again. Route Eleven. The bus had been fixedmy old companion, smelling of diesel, rubber, and just a hint of coffee. I started the engine. The rev counter quivered, the motor hummed to life.

At Park Crescent, twenty to one, George Parker boarded. Coins in the tray. Third row right, by the window. Torch in his hand. Same as every night.

I drove the empty roads. Traffic lights blinking amberovernight mode. No cars, no passers-by. The city dozed. We travelled on.

At Mill Lane I stopped, just beyond the usual placeclose enough for the factorys third floor to loom above.

George Parker found his torch. Flashed: three short, three long, three short.

I waited. Watched the window. One… two… three…

A flickerdull light, third floor. Three short, three long, three short.

Mary answered.

He tucked the torch away, relaxed back. I caught his smile in the mirror. Something shifted in my own chestnot sadness, not envy. Just the warmth of being near to something true.

I slipped my hand in my coat pocket. My torch was theresmall, hot from my body heat. I squeezed it tight.

Pulled it out. Looked at the dark windowMary already back at her work. Looked at the empty street aheadthe lamps, the rain-soaked tarmac, the April sky empty of stars.

Pressed the button.

Three short. Three long. Three short.

The yellow beam met the windscreen and scattered over the wet road. Nobody signalled back. But that didnt matter. Id flashedand felt warmer, as if someone somewhere really had noticed. Perhaps they had.

In the rearview mirror, George Parker glanced at me. And nodded. Nothing more. Just nodded.

I slipped the torch away, rolled on. Took him back hometo breakfast, to the mint on the windowsill, to Mary, whod come in at six and say, George, I saw you. You started two seconds early tonight.

Last March, I didnt believe in love. By April, I had a torch in my pocket.

And every night at Mill Lane, I signalled into the dark. Three shortheartbeat. Three longhug. Three shortlet go.

Diesel, rubber, and just a tiny bitof hope.