Night Bus Express: When Five Rowdy Revelers Board London’s Last Trolley and Are Taught an Unforgetta…

The Night Owl

The accordion doors of the night bus clattered open, and a pocket of warmth fogged out into the cool London air. Five rowdy lads tumbled aboard, making a racket of stamping their muddy trainers on every available surfacesteps, poles, and, occasionally, the unfortunate feet of the other passengers.

No one dared to admonish the boisterous cluster of tipsy youth, who were loudly debating the most suitable use for their reproductive organs, each one striving to outdo the others with tales of amorous conquestsreal or imagined. Every proclamation was met with wicked laughter and punctuated by a toast, as an impromptu pub session popped up in the back of the bus, bottles clinking after every guffaw.

With a shuddering whine, the doors wheezed shut, the joints straightened, and the double-decker eased away from the curb, departing the night port of the high street. Apart from the fresh arrivals, the bus was nearly emptya handful of solitary souls and the conductor, who rose with an air of deep resignation, clutching a roll of tickets like a sceptre of doom.

Come on, lads, fares, please, she droned, peering over reading glasses that had seen more decades than any of them had spent breathing.

Travelcard! one burped.

Me too!

Got one right here!

The last voice cracked with the uncertain keenness of someone who was definitely not yet eighteen; downy fuzz sat under his nose, his limbs jerked awkwardly, and his eyes darted about. Safe within the mob, though, he made sure to shout the loudest.

Lets see them, love, the conductor replied flatly, clearly unimpressed by their chorus.

Show us yours first! drawled the brawniest one, showering the air with lager-laced spittle.

I am the conductor, she sighed, still unmoved.

And Im a sparky! Doesnt mean I get free electricity at home, does it? replied the one whose can of lager had lost its bottom, the contents now soaking into his jacket and introducing a heady undertone of sour hops to the bus.

Right, gentlemen, pay up or hop off.

On cue, the bus shuddered to a halt. Everyone else that wasnt in the merry band took the hint and quickly filed off.

We told you, weve got Travelcards! croaked the spry teenager, puffing up his weedy chest.

Back to the depot, Brian! bellowed the conductor to the driver.

Yeah, Brian, off to the depot then! the boys mimicked in singsong, miming melodramatic tears.

The doors thudded shut, the bus swung a glowing U-turn, and they trundled off, the lads cackling for a good ten seconds until, as the bus picked up surprising speed, the most lucid of them frowned.

Hang on, how did the bus just turn round in the middle of the road? Arent we meant to stick to the route? he asked, unconcealed curiosity in his tone. The others shrugged, too far gone to care.

Now the bus was accelerating, rattling along alarmingly fast and, perplexingly, overtaking black cabs. The lights in the aisle flickered, some sputtering out altogether. Only the flashes of city streetlamps and garish shop signs provided sporadic illumination. The conductor, meanwhile, sat still as the Sphinx, eyes fixed on the windscreen. The bus did not stop again.

Oi! Mate, where are you taking us? one of the crew finally shouted, nervously.

No answer.

Oi, pull over, will you? Well get off! bravado melting away, their voices wobbled, sobered by something chillier than the night air.

Still, not even a twitch from the conductor.

The city faded, replaced by the dark expanse of the A-road. The only light came from the drivers cabin, where LEDs blinked like tiny warning beacons. Their phones emerged for moral support, but the screens displayed only a mournful No Service and futile demands to update apps.

As the bus veered off onto a country lane, one of the lads leapt towards the conductor, switching tactics.

Dyou know who I am? If Im not in at work tomorrow, your pensions history! he threatened grandly.

At that, the headlights abruptly died.

Please, let us off! I’ve got my A levels to revise for! the youngest pleaded in a wobbly falsetto.

The bus ploughed on, snarling into the darkness. Fully sobered now, the lads huddled together, fumbling for police procedure memories about hostage situations. They tried smashing the windows with empty lager bottles and tore their fingernails trying to pry open the concertinaed doors, but hope vanished faster than their dignity.

Next came the money.

Lookkeep the change, just please take us back to London, I beg you! notes and coins all but thrown at her feet.

The conductor didn’t budge. The bus was filled with blubbered apologies, appeals to her better nature, and a few genuine tears, but the night bus ignored them all, thundering ever onwards until at last they reached an enormous lake.

Where are we? someone whispered.

Theyre going to drown us, whimpered the teenager, thick with fear.

Jamie, can you drive a bus? Maybe we can make a run for it, another muttered in desperate hope, but Jamie could only shake his head bleakly.

At last, the front door swung open. The conductor stepped outside into the moonlight; her silhouette flickered as she ducked into the driver’s cab. The lads watched as she reappeared, clutching something ominously long.

Thats it were goners theyll shoot us and dump us, the sparky whimpered, eyes puffy, his mates too drained to offer reassurance.

Suddenly, the cabin lights blazed on. With thunderous steps, the conductor returned, wielding not a weapon but a battered mop and bucket.

Right then, she smiled sweetly, Once those walls are sparkling, Ill hand over the cloths and you can have a go at the seats and the floor. Then its home time. Any objections?

Five heads shook in synchronised horror.

It was a long night. The lads split the chores: two fetched water, one swapped wet cloths for dry, the others carted foul buckets to a vast mysterious barrel that somehow materialised outside. Clearly, this wasnt the buss first visit to the lake.

They finished as dawn broke. The bus gleamed, windows sparkling as if new. Thoroughly sobered and silent, the boys completed their penance in perfect harmony. The conductor, now satisfied, clipped their tickets and set the route back to London. The night rebels were deposited at their stops, and the bus rolled on to greet a brand new day, ready for its next crop of unsuspecting passengers.