89: A Psychological Thriller

by Stuart Keane

  “I know that. Listen to –”

  “– no, you listen, Sean. I have a fucking deadline, your deadline, to meet. You want me to finish my book by next week. I have hours set aside in my days, in a specific pattern to enable me to do this. You just want me to drop everything, jump on a train or plane –”

  “– a coach actually.”

  “A bus? Seriously?” Greg chuckled, incredulously.

  Sean sighed. “We’re getting off topic. I know you have your routine and whatnot, I know you, I’m your bloody agent so I look out for you. I spoke to Shannon, she’s happy to extend your deadline so you can attend.”

  Greg didn’t respond. He lowered himself back onto the bed and lay back. He rubbed his face with his left hand and sighed. “What’s the extension?”

  Sean clicked his teeth. “The end of the month.”

  “End of the month?”

  “Yep.”

  Greg shook his head. “You know I don’t like people. You want me to attend a convention at short notice, on a fucking bus, and you’re only giving me until the end of the month. That’s only two weeks more.”

  “That’s right.”

  “People, Sean. Bus, people, convention. Short notice. Do you not see the issue here?”

  “Fine, we’ll give you a whole month, four weeks. I can’t do any more than that.”

  Greg narrowed his eyes. “A whole month?”

  “You got a problem with that too?”

  Greg didn’t like being in debt to anyone, not least his agent. He thought it over. If you do another three nights like last night, and your normal routine, you’ll finish it in two weeks. That gives you two weeks to take some time off … or start another novel. This could actually benefit you, for the sake of two days in Sheffield.

  Greg sighed, rolling over to find the duvet. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent. You won’t regret this, Greg.”

  Greg hung up the phone and tossed it onto the floor. The phone landed in the spilled coffee. He curled back on the bed, flipping the duvet over his head. “I’m sure I won’t.”

  THREE

  Greg packed a suitcase with no clothes and several copies of his two existing novels. He expected his publisher to provide some in Sheffield, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He didn’t want to be stuck with Mark’s books or, heaven forbid, none at all.

  He packed essential toiletries, his trusty Kindle, and his battered iPod. He also dropped a pair of socks and some spare underwear into a plastic bag and slid it in the front compartment, just in case. Greg checked his apartment – boiler off, laptop powered down, hard drive in the safe, hall light left on to deter potential thieves – slipped his wallet into his pocket, hefted the case in his right hand, and left the apartment.

  He walked to the local bus station, which was actually a railway station that moonlighted as such, and booked a last-minute ticket to Sheffield via National Express. The trip cost him thirty-three pounds and sixteen pence, and would take roughly nine hours, give or take. A leisurely night journey. Slow and predictable, but relaxing. Eighty-nine miles on a slow coach to the north.

  Greg didn’t enjoy public transport, but there was nothing more relaxing than an empty late coach driving to nowhere in the middle of the night. Semi-comfortable seats and silence, undisturbed for nine hours. Just him, his music and his thoughts. He’d checked with the customer service agent; they’d sold only four tickets for the trip. Plenty of alone time, undisturbed and unperturbed.

  Excellent.

  Greg checked the time on his ticket. It showed the coach leaving at ten o’clock that evening, and arriving in Sheffield at seven the next morning. It gave him an hour. A hotel would be waiting for him at the other end, compliments of his publisher, but he expected a day’s work maximum before utilising the return part of his ticket. Straight to the convention, work, back to the bus stop. He wouldn’t be staying; he’d sleep on the coach on the way back. All in all, twenty-four hours out of his schedule before returning to normal.

  Excellent.

  A day wouldn’t make much of a dent in the schedule. He realised the extra time for the sake of this one day could be very lucrative, production wise. Greg smiled.

  Before the journey, he needed some food.

  He waited for a gap in traffic and crossed the slick street, heading towards Roxie’s Diner on the corner. The name of the restaurant stood proud and bright on the roof, designed like a scribbled signature in red neon lights. The red glimmered off the stainless steel exterior, casting a crimson hue onto the rain-soaked concrete below. Off to the left, beneath a slim petrol station canopy built to add to the acute angled décor of the building, sat a classic black 1966 Pontiac GTO, a touch that Greg considered exceptional considering its location.

  He expected such a vehicle was standard in the USA, but not in England. It was a fantastic attention to detail; it gave Roxie’s Diner a truly authentic, not to mention unique, atmosphere. The fact the vintage vehicle stood proud between four faux petrol pumps completed the design. It reeked of Americana.

  Stepping past the nearest pump, Greg walked to the front door and entered, a bell tinkling as he pulled the steel slab outwards. The smell of fresh patties and clean chip oil welcomed him. The bubbling sound of a hotplate cooking the menu’s finest delicacies greeted his ears, soothing him somewhat. Greg shook his coat, looked around and walked to a booth in the corner. His usual spot, at least twice a week. He placed the coat gently on one seat and sat in the other, placing his suitcase by the side of his leather chair. A two-person booth for one. The diner had three other customers, and one waiter was milling around, plodding at a casual pace. Plenty of empty seats. Greg didn’t need to worry.

  The establishment contained all the characteristics of a classic American diner, all stainless steel and red leather seats. The floor glistened like new, the chequered black and white squares immaculate. Various items of memorabilia decorated the walls in a smorgasbord of vintage American culture, an homage to days gone by. He saw a battered Route 66 sign placed beside a Pepsi Cola display shaped like a large bottle cap. Various signs showing multiple locations across the fifty states – places like Philadelphia and Boston and Des Moines – and gave the place a homely feel, one completed by the mellow 60’s soundtrack playing through the speakers. A customer could choose their favourites by pumping coins into the miniature jukeboxes on each table. A black pool table sat in the corner, surrounded by a stainless steel bar that matched the interior. No one was using it.

  Greg sighed and sat comfortably. He switched his spotless cutlery around, fork to the right, as was his usual custom. He didn’t remove his menu from its holder. He then placed his cupped hands on the table.

  Seconds later, a waitress emerged from the kitchen and walked over. As she approached, Greg admired her trim figure, evident beneath her tight black shirt and jeans. A matching cap covered her hair, although several blonde tufts hung loose around her ears. Her name badge, a red square with a white border and text, read Mindy. She smiled broadly with both her mouth and her ocean-like eyes. Greg found himself captivated. Mindy was a new hire; he’d never seen her before.

  She lifted an order pad into the air. “Hello! Can I get you a drink?”

  Greg nodded. Didn’t need a menu, he knew what he wanted. “Sure. I’ll have a large Pepsi, a Smokey Burger and wet fries, please.”

  “Always good when someone’s prepared.” She smiled, all perfect teeth and charm. Her dainty hand scribbled on her pad. “Anything else?”

  “No, but can I have my burger with extra onions, please?”

  “Sure thing.” Mindy winked, added a note, grinned and turned around, walking away elegantly and quickly, as most consistent waitresses do. Greg admired her walk until she vanished around the corner.

  The Pepsi arrived two minutes after the order, and the food followed eleven minutes later. The burger was succulent and juicy, the patty just right with the crunch from the lettuce and the onions. The tomato ketchup an
d mustard made it a meal fit for a king. The fries were decent, full of flavour.

  Greg smiled, enjoying the food, revelling in his own company. He never understood the ‘social taboo’ about eating alone, and couldn’t comprehend why people were terrified, or embarrassed, to do so. He finished his meal, content and happy. Checking his watch, he’d made excellent time. One of the benefits of eating alone – no hold ups. He finished his Pepsi, glanced at another waiter to ask for the bill, and made a note to drop in on the return journey.

  After paying and leaving a tip for Mindy, Greg walked out into the rain and arrived at the collection point across the road, with ten minutes to spare. He huddled under an awning, placing the suitcase at his feet, watching the rain glitter in the streetlights. It danced and wavered in the air, swept away effortlessly on the cold breeze. Cars drove by, their tyres splashing in shallow puddles. Greg inhaled deeply, crossing his arms against the nippy wind, enjoying the chill all around him.

  Within moments, a large white coach pulled into a rectangular parking bay marked with yellow lines. The exterior shone with rain, slick in the glare of the nearby streetlights. A large greyhound was painted stretching across the front, sprinting to the right. Greg narrowed his eyes, looking for the standard National Express logo, blue and red on the bottom left corner below the vast, dark windscreen. It wasn’t there. He flicked his eyes to the right and realised the greyhounds were emblazoned along the side of the coach too, this time sprinting right to left.

  Weird, he thought.

  Greg waited cautiously, half in awareness of bus-boarding protocol, and half suspicious. He didn’t want to board the wrong vehicle. The coach eased to a grinding halt. A deafening hissing sound shattered the silence as the airbrakes released their built-up pressure. The door opened. An elderly woman climbed out, cautious as she stepped down to the concrete.

  Greg stepped forward and assisted her. “Thank you, dear,” she uttered, gratefully. Greg just nodded, politely. Several other passengers climbed down, some in a hurry, some taking their time. Greg stepped back and waited.

  Finally, the driver climbed out of the bus. He looked around and settled his eyes on Greg. “Just you, fella?”

  Greg held up his ticket. “This is the ten o’clock to Sheffield?”

  “Sure is,” the driver said, a wad of gum in his cheek. He turned around to check the tyres.

  “National Express?” Greg questioned.

  “Yes,” the driver answered.

  Greg looked cautiously at the metallic dogs stencilled on the vehicle.

  The driver finally turned around and caught his eye. A wry smile etched onto his face. “No worries, fella, this is a substitute bus. We haven’t done it up yet. We acquired a few hundred from an alternative source. You’re safe, don’t worry.”

  Greg smiled. He ambled forward and handed his case to the driver, who opened the storage compartment next to the wheel and slid the suitcase in. Greg climbed onto the vehicle, taking the steep narrow steps carefully, scanned the layout, and selected a middle window seat. He tried to spot any reserved tickets poking from the top of the headrests, then realised they don’t reserve particular seats on buses.

  He slid into the chosen chair and relaxed. The plush material whispered beneath his wiry frame. After a second, he pulled his Kindle from his inside pocket and laid it in his lap. Leaned his head back and settled in for the ride.

  Nine hours to go.

  Eighty-nine miles.

  No problem.

  FOUR

  The unofficial National Express coach was a comfortable ride. Greg took a moment to settle into his window seat, observing the murky emptiness around him, the navy blue headrests infinitely patient and silent. He gazed at the back of the driver’s head, peering over the top of his seat like a shy teenager watching his dream girl from afar. The driver was a dark silhouette behind a narrow glass partition. Greg could see him pulling at the wide steering wheel as the coach started its journey. Several coloured lights blinked silently on the vast dashboard.

  The quivering whirr of the wheels and machinery beneath him trundled at a hushed discord, jostling as they turned corners and navigated the quiet streets. Greg shuffled his rump, twisting sideways to lean into the chair. He lifted the movable armrest between the seats to spread his legs out. Once settled, he positioned his Kindle on his lap and began to read.

  Nine hours to go.

  Well, eight hours and fifty-eight minutes. Joy!

  He began to lose focus on his book after thirteen minutes, which was no surprise. His brain was steadily ticking away, in full-on author mode, eager to write. The convention trip was sudden, cutting into his pre-organised writing schedule, and his brain hadn’t adapted to the change yet.

  His brain was active at the best of times, one of the many reasons for his frequent sleepless nights. A wise man once said an author’s brain is like having 1,289 different internet tabs open at a time, constantly flicking between them, reading them, researching them. Greg had to agree with that summary, it was the perfect analogy. As a result, sleep became rare and your mind only allowed you to succumb in the early hours, once the brain had exhausted itself.

  Greg put his Kindle down on the seat beside him and leaned his head on the window. The cool glass soothed his temple; the rain lashed and drizzled along the exterior of the pane silently, creating a soaked visage of beauty. Routinely placed streetlights flickered by, throbbing afterglows of dull yellow behind the glass. He closed his tired eyes.

  He awoke fifteen minutes later. The airbrakes hissed and released again, lowering the bus. Greg felt himself sinking slowly. It disturbed the writer and made him flinch awake. The sudden intrusion of cool air and subdued voices alerted him to the arrival of another passenger, one of the other three the customer service agent had mentioned. He didn’t look up, didn’t strive to see whom it was. He simply curled back into his seat and watched the rainfall patiently.

  The new passenger scooted up the aisle, her head moving side to side gently, searching for a suitable seat. The frizzy blonde hair on top of her head bounced and waved. Her dripping rain mac rustled as she moved. Greg kept his gaze away, not initiating any contact. His brain was repeating one sentence.

  Do not sit here. Do not sit here. Do not sit here.

  Do. Not. Sit. Here!

  For a second, he thought she would plonk down beside him. The woman lingered for several long seconds, her eyes roaming like searchlights, deciding on no particular seat. Indecisive. Maybe the temptation of possible conversation with a like-minded stranger was churning in her mind, a device many expected to pass the long hours on a tedious journey. The social norm for people with something to say, a story or two to tell.

  But, despite being a writer, and despite having several stories, Greg had nothing to say.

  He thought about unwrapping the headphones from his iPod. Decided against it and kept them in his pocket. A sudden movement might force her to make the wrong decision; she might see it as an attempt at contact, see the initial decision not to use the headphones as a hint to broach discussion. He just sat there in awkward silence, idle, his eyes lingering on the seat before him, ready to gaze back out of the window.

  She looked at him, offered a crooked smile and moved on, pulling a set of headphones from her coat pocket. Greg sighed inwardly. He heard her locate a seat a few rows back; shuffle into it, material swishing on material, heard the springs squeak quietly as she lowered her weight onto the cushion. A loud groan escaped her relieved lips. The universal language of a regular commuter with a long journey ahead of them.

  Only two more to go.

  Greg curled up in his seat again, closing his eyes.

  He got a laboured thirty minutes of stunted sleep before shuddering awake for a second time, still in the midst of a dreamlike stupor, his mind foggy and lethargic. A sickly tang of fatigue made him retch, his tongue dry as sandpaper.

  Greg was aware of the air pressure releasing, the brakes hissing, the coach lowering. The cabin
was prickly with the cool, fresh air. He ran the mundane events through his mind, but in slow motion, as if it occurred a few minutes previously and his sleep-addled brain was simply catching up to current time. Greg struggled to sit up and shook his head. The coach rumbled on patiently, silently, the darkness shrouding the interior with shadow. He rubbed his face and groaned. “Might be an idea to take the hotel,” he said to himself. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “A hotel is always nice for a trip away.”

  The voice came from Greg’s left, from the seat beside him. He flinched, sitting up, rubbing his face with both palms, and turned to the chair.

  A young woman sat beside him, smiling. Greg did an obvious double take. His eyes widened and he shook his head. He glanced out of the window and down the bus, before returning his gaze to the new arrival.

  “Hi,” she said, nonchalantly.

  Greg feigned a smile, half in disbelief and shock. “Hello.”

  The woman looked away, her eyes scanning the murky emptiness around her casually, an emptiness that no longer applied to Greg. He took the opportunity to survey the proceedings. Looking down, he saw her shapely thighs, tucked together against the seat, sheathed in dark grey tights. A denim skirt stopped halfway down the thighs, her gloved hands were holding the material down. He glimpsed the sight of fluffy brown boots in the foot well, their downy rims ending halfway up her shins. She wore a black leather jacket with a black and white striped scarf coiled around her neck, knotted and tucked into the jacket; it made the woman look top heavy, yet shapely in the shoulders. Her arms were slim, her neck and chin hidden beneath the scarf. A matching hat sat on her head, covering shoulder-length black hair that hung in loose strands.

  Then he looked to her chair. The armrest was back in place, cutting him off. He no longer had both seats to himself. He sat up and positioned himself normally, testing his seated position. His knees pushed hard against the back of the seat, solid bone on tough plastic, forcing him to shove them sideways to get comfortable. He felt his back muscles twinging.