by Stuart Keane
Eight hours to go and he knew the journey was fucked already.
Shit, he thought. He checked his watch.
10:33. More than eight hours remaining.
Shit, he thought again.
Why did she sit here?
The woman was still looking around casually, probably acclimating herself with the interior of the coach. Her full cheeks were rosy red, probably from her brush with the evening chill. Her skin was beautifully pale, peppered with cute freckles outwards from a button nose, her large eyes a dusky colour, hidden in the dancing shadows of the dark non-National Express coach. In a different scenario, he would have found her attractive, cute. Not stunning, but not ugly either.
Why did she sit here?
Greg stretched his neck, pushed off his chair and glanced over his headrest. The entire coach was empty, bar the first passenger who had boarded. He could hear the tinny echo of her headphones. Dozens of empty seats sat quietly like sentries, mocking him.
Greg felt a hint of anger rise up inside him. A feeling of wrongdoing, daylight robbery.
Should I move?
No, she should. You were here first.
So tell her!
Greg decided to.
“Excuse me,” he said, barely whispering. She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. Greg cursed inwardly, cleared his throat, counted to three just in case, and tried again. “Excuse me,” he repeated, this time with a firmer tone.
The woman turned to him. “Yes?”
The eyes were mesmerising. Deep brown orbs that shone and danced in the darkness. Or was it a trick of the light? Greg couldn’t determine as the myriad streetlights, rain-soaked glass, and infinite darkness played a majestic trick on him at the most inopportune moment. In that moment, the strange woman was achingly beautiful, and strange and wonderful, a remarkable sight. He felt his cheeks burning hot, angry with himself for judging the woman, for being so selfish.
She took your seat!
I don’t own it. I didn’t pay for it.
There are loads of seats on this coach.
Doesn’t matter.
Only fifteen minutes ago, that blonde bird got the most evil look because she even stood near this seat.
Yeah, but this is different.
You’re trying to excuse your pathetic weakness because of a pretty woman?
Greg nodded to himself, ending the inner monologue. Beautiful women scared him but if it took spending eight hours next to one to save a tongue-lashing for being so arrogant or selfish, so be it. He reverted to his teenage self and buckled, his bravado shot. He turned to the woman and noticed she was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. Her mouth was slightly open, the tip of her tongue resting on her teeth. The smile had vanished from her face.
Greg shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. He turned back to the window.
Nice one. You bottled it.
I couldn’t ask her to move.
You could move.
Yeah, but it means getting up…
“You picked the best seats.”
Greg thought he’d imagined her voice. Taking a moment to turn, petrified, he did so slowly. Only when he saw her eyes, those wonderful brown eyes, staring at him did he realise she’d spoken.
She’s speaking to me? Wow.
He swallowed, his wide eyes looking at her, disbelief controlling him like a puppet. “Sorry?”
She smiled. “You picked the best seats,” she said enthusiastically, as if she was a coach seat connoisseur. “You’re wondering why I sat next to you when all the seats are empty, aren’t you?”
He nodded. Said nothing, astounded by her deduction.
The woman continued. “The best seats are slightly off centre, closer to the front, perfect distance to the exit, whilst not too far beyond the toilets. You get perfect airflow, not too hot or cold. Sitting at the back automatically puts you downwind from the smell of any … visit, shall we say? It also gives you the worst view from the windows and a longer walk. Kids sit there, families congregate there, and no one travelling alone wants any of that. You don’t want to be above the wheel arches either. Thus, these seats are best.” She licked her lip. “So sorry for taking this seat, but it was the best one going.”
Greg looked at her, astonished. He composed himself, trying not to sound condescending. “You sure put a lot of thought into picking a seat,” he uttered, cursing himself the second the words came out of his mouth.
The woman chuckled. “Yeah, well, you have to travel in ultimate comfort. Otherwise, why do it?”
Greg found himself nodding. “True.”
The woman smiled, holding out a gloved hand. “Jessica.”
He grinned, shuffling sideways in his seat. “Greg.”
She giggled. “Hi, Greg, but I know who you are.”
“Huh?” Greg responded. He felt a shiver trickle up his spine. His gut lurched and he moved back an inch in his chair. Didn’t take his eyes off the beautiful woman before him.
The smile disappeared from her face. “I know who you are, Greg Irving.”
FIVE
Greg swallowed. His trembling hand curled tightly around the mobile phone in his pocket. He felt the muscles seize in his neck and shoulders, his sphincter tighten. He grunted, a little surprised that the particular muscle actually did tighten in a tense situation. He made a mental note and swallowed. “How do you know my name?”
Jessica frowned. “Seriously? You don’t think I know who the great Greg Irving is?”
The look of vacancy remained on Greg’s face. He said nothing.
Jessica play-punched him, thumping his left arm. “You’re the writer, right? Greg Irving, master of the urban thriller?”
The ducks fell into a row like anchors on a concrete slab. Bam. Bam. Bam. Greg felt a surge of heat, then stupidity, then excitement. Relief washed over him and made him giddy. “Yes, yes I am. Sorry, I don’t get recognised that much.” He laughed nervously.
“Seriously? Don’t you have your picture in all your books?”
Greg nodded. “I do, but hardly anyone reads nowadays. And if they do, it’s on Kindle. All digital.” He held his own up and pointed to it, as if to prove a point.
Jessica sighed. “Shocking, isn’t it? One of the true creative arts shunned by a large majority of society. People who love their mobile phones and tablets and social media way too much to spend time with a decent book. Would it hurt to visit a museum or a library once in a while, absorb some culture? Reading is one of the best things a person can do.”
He smiled. “Couldn’t agree more.”
Jessica smiled. “I can’t imagine anything better than reading a book; four hundred pages that immerse you in a complex imaginary world for multiple hours, a world that takes you away from the mundane routine of existence. Nothing else exists like it. Not films or video games. Nothing. It’s a true wonderment to the human mind, and the creative arts.”
Greg laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“I bet you love it; creating worlds and characters and scenarios. People literally pay you to make stuff up. I’m so jealous.”
He shook his head, laughing. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes, it’s a creative process. One way of looking at it is making stuff up. It’s probably not as basic as that, but true, in theory.”
Jessica leaned forward a little, chin balanced on her gloved fist, her elbow bent on the armrest. She watched the author in amusement. “Do you love it?”
Greg nodded. The answer was simple. “Of course.”
“I mean really love it. Does it give you goose bumps? Is it your passion, your calling?”
He nodded again. “Yes,” he said, truthfully. “It’s all I ever wanted to do.”
Jessica giggled. “What’s that like?”
“How do you mean?”
“Finding your one true calling. Following your dream?” Jessica’s eyes bounced and wavered in their sockets, the whites cheerful with energy. A rectangular shadow sl
id across her pale cheeks as a bright streetlight rolled by the window. “Must feel pretty good, huh?”
Greg chuckled. “It really does. Not many words can comprehend the actual reward I get from doing my job. The feeling that I inspire others, entertain them. It’s wonderful.”
Jessica said nothing. Simply smiled. She turned in her chair gently and sat facing forward. Greg thought the conversation was over, and followed suit. He flipped the leather lid on his Kindle and turned it on. Breathed out.
Maybe now I can get on with the journey.
“You seem like an intelligent guy. Well, you must be. Writing can’t be that easy.”
Greg closed the lid and turned back to her. He rubbed his cheek, hiding the irritated knot in his jaw. “No, it’s not. You’d be surprised. People think the job is simply sitting behind a keyboard and typing, that’s there nothing to it. They don’t realise how mentally stressful the job is, how hard it is coming up with words every day. It’s quite hard and tiring.”
Jessica clasped her hands together. “I bet.”
Greg nodded. Said nothing. He flicked his gaze back to the window. The streetlights were still passing silently, flaring the raindrops on the windows into a bright yellow. He turned in his seat, finding the next comfortable spot.
“So how do you do it?” Jessica asked.
He turned back to her. She was sitting sideways in her seat again, thighs tucked beneath her. Her skirt was riding a little high, showing dark underwear beneath the tights. He gulped. “How do I do what?”
Jessica play-punched him again. “The writing, silly.”
Greg shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean?”
She sighed. “Okay, well, in other words, do you have a planned day? Do you wing it?”
Greg chuckled. “Bit of everything, there’s not much to say.”
“Well, I’m interested, and we have hours to go before either of us reach our destination, so why not share your secrets with me? I promise I won’t tell.” Jessica reached up and removed her hat, placing it in her lap. A mop of shiny black hair collapsed over her forehead. She swiped it behind her ears. Greg watched her in amazement. She tugged on her skirt, but to no avail.
“You really want to know?” he asked.
“Sure. I bet it’s wonderful, so glamorous.”
Greg laughed, exhaling at the same time. “I wouldn’t say that.”
When was the last time someone took an interest in your work? Humour her.
“So, Jessica. You a fan?”
She nodded, said nothing. Licked her lips slowly. Her eyes fixed on him, watching him, admiring him. Greg blushed. He placed his Kindle in his lap again, covering the bulge forming there.
“Well, I write every day. I always have a word count in mind and try to hit it. I work on one book at a time, which is the golden rule really. Too many plates in the air and all that. There’s not really much to tell.”
Jessica sat up and rubbed her lip. “That’s good. Now, how about the shit you don’t put in every stinking bio?”
“Huh?” Greg said, taken aback.
“I read that in your book. I’ve seen it on your Facebook page. You just reeled off part of your default bio. Not very imaginative of you, is it?” Jessica’s eyes flared a little. “I expected more originality from a writer.”
“Well, what else do you want me to say?”
“How about something that you’ve never told anyone before? Something different.”
Greg laughed. “If you work in my profession, everyone’s heard it all before. Repetition runs rife. Trust me.”
Jessica arched her chin, resting it on her hand, the elbow bent on her knee. “Try me.”
“Okay. Well, one of my rules is I have to write five thousand words a day. Without fail.”
Jessica smiled, her lips parting slightly. Her front teeth shone in the darkness. “Really? That’s a lot. How many pages is that?”
“It varies, depending. About twenty or so?”
“Good. I like that you’re being honest.” She ran her gloved hand through her hair, flopping it to the side of her head. “And now I feel special.”
Greg said nothing and half-smiled, the good mood lost.
“It’s important to make your readers feel special. After all, without them, you don’t have a career, isn’t that right?” Jessica said, her tone flat.
Greg nodded. “Simple economics. Without customers, there is no money, no profit.”
“Do you write for the money?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I do it because I love it.”
“Is that an actual answer or a way of fobbing off the critics?”
“An actual answer. The truth. Any author who says otherwise shouldn’t be writing. Money isn’t what this is about. If you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for the wrong reasons. One of the first lessons I learned when I picked up a pen.”
Jessica smiled. “I’m so glad you said that.”
Greg laughed nervously, feeling awkward. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It sounds honest, humble, and not arrogant. I’ve met a couple of writers before and – well, they say don’t meet your heroes and all that. I wish I hadn’t.”
Greg nodded, staring out of the window. “It can be a bitch when that happens.”
Jessica said nothing, but he sensed her brown eyes staring at the back of his head.
“So who did you meet?” he asked.
“No one massive, just a couple of indie authors who … well, let’s say they were up their own arses. Complete waste of time.”
He turned to her. “Anyone I would know?”
Jessica levelled her gaze at Greg, looking him in the eye. A smile curled the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “But a woman never tells.”
He laughed. “Well, their loss. You seem like a nice girl. You still read, which is nice. In this day and age, I’m surprised anyone does.”
Jessica nodded. “Yes, their loss.”
Greg pulled his coat sleeves and flexed, stretching in his chair. He reached down and slipped his trainers off, massaging the balls of his feet. He felt a little better already. In reality, he was avoiding conversation; trying to keep himself busy, but realised he had hours ahead of him, hours before communication could cease. After three minutes, he gave up. Sighed deeply and smiled. He wished he could watch the mesmerising rain for the remainder of the journey instead, but felt her eyes boring into his back. He sat back and turned to Jessica.
“So, Jessica. Enough about me. Where are you headed tonight?”
“Nowhere,” she muttered.
“Nowhere? You must have a destination in mind?”
She shook her head. “No, not really. I like jumping on buses now and then. Spontaneous. The freedom to do whatever you want, whenever you want, is invigorating.”
“A traveller, eh? Nothing wrong with that. The United Kingdom is a beautiful country, when explored right. Coaches are a bit laborious, but they ensure you get there without busting the bank.”
“I also find a lot of authors travel on them,” Jessica said.
Greg felt another shiver travel up his spine. He laughed, rubbing his chin. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I also find a lot of authors travel on them. The coaches, I mean. All of the time. What is it with your agents and publishers? Don’t cover expenses? Or too tight to cover anything other than a night ride to nowhere?”
“They usually do … wait, what?”
Jessica turned to him. “You think it’s coincidence that I’m on this coach with you?”
Greg said nothing.
She chuckled. “What are the odds of one of your fans bumping into you on a coach to the middle of nowhere, and a night trip at that?”
He shook his head. “This isn’t funny.”
Jessica snorted. “I never said it was.”
“So you’re stalking me?”
Jessica held her hand out and waved it sideways, squinting a little. “Eh, not re
ally. Stalking implies I’m doing it from afar. You know, hiding behind a keyboard, sending letters stuck together with dried cum and bubble-gum, making secret videos of people, weird shit like that. Why do that when you can simply talk to your target face to face?” Jessica licked her lip, her eyes dark in the shadows. “Much more effective. You can vouch for that.”
“You’re joking, right?” Greg said, still disillusioned. His brain was still foggy with fatigue, his routine shattered in several ways. His body was sweating profusely; he could feel cold dampness under his armpits. The shirt sagged heavily on his back, the material soaked through. His eyes wobbled in their sockets.
“One thing about me, Gregory. I’ll give you this one for free. I never joke. Not about writing, and particularly not when it involves my favourite authors.”
Greg shrank back in his chair, his skin prickling with goose-bumps. “I think you should leave now,” he uttered. “Leave. I’m giving you a chance to walk away.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And what makes you think you have the control here?”
“I no longer want you sitting next to me. Please, find another seat. I’m warning you.”
“It’s a free country. You can’t make me move,” Jessica retorted. Her eyes had darkened slightly, no longer shining in the shadows. For some bizarre reason, Greg noticed a ladder stretching up her right leg, beneath her skirt. Pale flesh shone through the holes.
“In that case, I’ll call the police.”
Jessica smiled. “Go ahead.”
Greg paused, watching the strange woman. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone, holding it away from her. He swiped the screen and jumped. The screen said NO SIM. He flicked it a couple of times, to double check. His finger stuck to the edge of the device, small remnants of cold coffee still smeared along it. Confused, he looked up.
Jessica held up her hand. “You might need this.”
In her gloved palm was a small blue SIM card, gold plastic on blue. She closed her fist, bending it in half, snapping it. A tiny crack made Greg flinch. She then placed it in her mouth and swallowed.
Greg watched her do it, eyes wide, fear trembling through his body. He felt cold sweat trickling down his back and sides. He said nothing.