“You need to leave,” she said. “Get off this bus.”
“Driver!”
Harold was livid now. “Driver,” he shouted, stamping his foot on the ground.
“Oh dearie me. Harold, honey. Oh for the love of all that’s normal, what in tarnation?”
While Harold kicked his feet and yelled for The Driver, poor old Dawn couldn’t pull away from the sight of the dead body in the cage beside her. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.
“Let’s just go home, Harold.”
Her hands tugged on the back of his shirt whole he continued to shout and curse. Behind them, someone was praying. It started off a quiet mumbling, covered by their hands. But once they got started, it quickly got out of hand, and sure enough, everyone got involved.
“Harold I’m frightened. Do something, please.”
It was deafening now. Their voices grew loud and terrifying. Some of them chanted hymns and rituals while others praised their many deities. They damned those who did not believe and turned their plight into a moral and sanctimonious victory, regardless of whose blood would be shed.
Finally, Harold had had enough. How much more could a man possibly take?
“Hang on, darl,” he said, as he rushed up and banged heavily on The Driver’s door.
As he did, The Old Man turned ad smiled at Dawn.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
Despite all the commotion, he looked so calm and pleased with himself.
Dawn, on the other hand, did not.
“Have you any regrets?” he asked.
And like that, everything went quiet. Dawn needn’t say a thing. It was hard to be asked a question like that at a time like this, without immediately thinking of all the kisses she had passed on, and all the challenges she had been too scared, too weak, or too shy and cowardice to overcome. In an instant, all of those pillars of disappointment raised to the surface, bringing with them, the deep sediment of shame. Knowing that this was the end, she felt that if she had one more chance, and just one more second, this time, she would have enough courage change.
The Old Man watched her as she drifted into the warm and salted reverence of her unfulfilled past. He watched her, and as he did, it was as if he was in a dark theatre, and Dawn’s soft sighs and moans were the gentle strummings of a guitar. He swayed back and forth as she too swayed, caught in the ripple of her memories. As she lightly bit down on the end of her finger, so too did The Old Man bite down his. And as a tear escaped from her eyes, so too then, did a river of delicious sadness run down The Old Man’s face. And the whole time his eyes were closed. He followed her every beat. He followed her every aching rhythm.
“Stop this bloody bus!”
And like that, the bus lurched forwards. Its brakes locked and it skidded along the road. The screech of its wheels and the stench of burning rubber was enough to stop the incessant chanting, and all their prayers went silent once more – though their lips continued to quiver and shake.
Harold immediately ran to Dawn. She was in a twisted heap and was obviously in a lot of pain. It could have been her shoulder or her hip, or maybe she was just overwhelmed. This had been a big day after all.
“Are you alright, dear?”
He could be so gentle, not when he wanted to, but at moments like these when it was so unexpected. He kissed her once, on her forehead, before he lifted her back on her feet. And then he kissed once more on her lips; and then the very worst of him dissolved into the sea of her attention. All those inconsiderate traits that had come to define their relationship all these years, they up and vanished. And all that was left was the man she fell in love with; the man that even he had forgotten had once existed. As they kissed, all she could think of was the first time that they danced. That was so long ago. She couldn’t quite remember the song that was playing or even the colour of her own dress, but she could remember the feeling as their eyes locked, and their bodies swayed back and forth. And Harold, he remembered too. He remembered the look in her eyes, and he could see that no matter how much their bodies aged and how hesitant their minds became, her eyes were as young now as they were back then. And he realised how long it had been since he last noticed. And if you asked him, he would tell you, “She wore her mother’s wedding dress. It was all that she had. It wasn’t at all a formal dance. Most of the other girls were in mini-skirts or jeans. But oh, she looked spectacular. I knew in that moment that I had to spend the rest of my life with this woman. I knew that I couldn’t stand another second apart. And a week later we wed. There was not a second in her life where she did not exude charm and beauty. There was not a second that she did not make extravagant. And thus, not a second of mine was dull and without passion.”
They both felt this in that one longing kiss. It was good to feel young again and to be held in such doting affection. In that instant, looking in Harold’s soft and considerate eyes, Rose remembered the first time she had ever looked into them. And in that instant, all of her regrets disappeared.
Bang! Bang!
Harold fell first. He landed on his back and Dawn followed him, still coupled in his arms. Both were dead before either of their bodies touched the ground. Such a surprise was it that they both died, still smiling at one another just like they did after their first kiss; and like they had for an entire week, after the first time they made love.
“We’ll be getting to where we’re going very soon.”
The Driver then dragged the old couple by their feet and threw them out the door. Their bodies landed in a heap on the side of the road. It didn’t take long before the vultures got a whiff. And as the bus pulled away once more, The Old Man stared out of his window, looking up at the drones which circled above.
The praying continued, but it was silent now. It had been replaced with the radio which crackled at first, but eventually became clearer as the bus got further down the road.
“You look happy,” said The Girl.
He did. The Old Man looked as if he had finished a roast and a bottle or port all by himself. He sat back in his chair looking as if he couldn’t take a single drop more – not a single tear or sigh. He looked content. Well, he looked more than content actually. He looked rather bloated as if at any second he might vomit or pass out in drunken decadence.
“Don’t really care for much of the past, but I tell you, I miss the music. I miss the blues.”
He let out a massive sigh, making some room in his belly, or in the back of his thoughts. His blood felt warm. He could sleep for a week in the snow right now, and he wouldn’t be buggered by the cold. He felt dreary by the second. Tiredness cast a spell on his mind. It pushed away all the other thoughts and he felt safe and cosy all of a sudden as if he were an infant, wrapped in his mother’s arms and suckling on her warm nipple.
But how long would that last? How long until the fever set in? How long until the cold shivers ran from the back of his spine, down to the tips of his toes and back up, until they rooted in his trembling hands – pulsing in the tips of his fingers? How long until that drunken smile was washed off his face? How long until he felt the aches again? How long until his stomach twisted and turned? How long until his throat swelled and his gums ulcerated and bled? How long until his hands shook and his face turned sick and pale? How long until blood became cold and acidic? How long then, until the itch returned? How long until he had to kill again?
“I wish I could feel like that,” said The Girl, watching The Old Man sleep.
She couldn’t sleep, though. It wasn’t her dreams so much as the thoughts that crept into her mind the second she closed her eyes. Listening to the radio, and grating her wrists on the chains that bound her, she could distract herself from the strangeness that she felt in her womb. It was as if her entire stomach was twisting around like an elastic band. She felt, every now and then, and ever so faintly as if her heart were beating below her stomach. Each tiny thud made her want to vomit. Each twist of her stomach made her wish that a cliff would
appear out of nowhere and that the bus would suddenly lose control. Each feeling she had that this foetus was real made her wish that it was not. And each of those wishes was soaked in guilt – the type of guilt ran ships onto rocks. It was the type of guilt that just couldn’t be forgotten and was almost impossible to ignore. It was the type of guilt that had The Girl tearing her hands from her restraints – not to escape, but for a moment of quiet and solitude that came from the torrential pain.
As The Old Man slept, and as The Girl continued to pull on her chains, the bus roared toward an exit that appeared on the horizon. It was not any sign The Girl or any of the prisoners had ever seen before, and it was not a place of which any of them had ever heard. It was a sign that was scratched into the bark of a tree. It did not have words. Its town did not have a name. There were merely symbols of men with spears and women – dressed as eagles – with their wings abreast; and one of oxen running with broken spears in their sides.
The bus slowed as it neared the exit and it pulled onto the gravel road. The sound woke The Old Man from his sleep. They drove for another twenty minutes on a rocky path that led them beneath thick brush and seemingly into the middle of nowhere. Neither The Old Man, The Girl nor any of the prisoners had ever seen anything like this before. Neither of them was happy. The sight of the trees enveloping their bus filled them full of choking and claustrophobic dread. Their prayers grew loud once more as outside, hidden among the trees, something followed them. And there was more than one. Whoever or whatever they were, they darted in and out of the thick brush, barely visible except for the rustling of leaves and the bird-like shrieks that they gave off every couple of seconds. There were so many of them and so few on the bus.
“I don’t want to die,” shouted a nun.
She was the first to be dragged off, and she was followed by two of her sisters. One by one they were taken into the thick scrub where they vanished, never to come back again. And as a wave of panic drenched all those on the bus, The Driver returned to his post, started the engine, and continued on further down the road.
“Why are you doing this?” shouted one.
“May God have mercy on your soul,” said another.
“May God damn you to fucking hell!”
XXVIII
It was actually quite serene. Neither of the prisoners had been this far out the city. Neither of them had ever even seen this much green in their lives. As beautiful as it was, though, this unknown land brought with it an abundance of fear. All the usual sounds were gone; aside from the bus of course. But whenever it was forced to stop, which it did so constantly, the prisoners were bombarded with the call of nature. For the most part, it was terrifying, listening to insects and creatures that were so small they couldn’t even be seen, yet they were all around – in the prisoners’ hair; in the cracks of their mouths; and creeping about near their genitals.
There were only five now. The bus had stopped maybe a dozen or so times, and each time was more terrifying and a great deal more dramatic than the last. They were taken in twos and threes, but never alone. And when that time came, each prisoner begged for their shitty little lives. They did so until that failed to work, then they offered the lives of their friends and family, and those they knew were still practising their faith – in clandestine temples and churches, tucked in the backs of nightclubs and delicatessens. And when they were all out of bargains, they returned to their futile prayers, resorted to vile insult, or just screamed for dear life – like an infant snatched from its mother’s womb.
And in groups of two and three, they were dragged off the bus kicking and screaming, and none of them were ever seen again. Each time, The Driver returned and got back to his post as if nothing had happened – as if he’d only pulled over to relieve himself, or to balance the air in the tyres. He didn’t say a word, and he didn’t at all look fazed or unsettled. If anything, he looked a little tired – from all the driving, and all the getting about.
And the whole time, the radio wouldn’t stop with its constant and terrible news. They were supposed to play songs but they never did. By the sixth or seventh stop, those hosts were so entrenched in their opposing views that it seemed that neither of them was ever going to back down. Yet persist they did, in their tireless discourse – painting their own grass greener than the other, and dipping from the same bucket.
What they spoke of, though, was horrible to hear. Both of them argued over politics and fault. It seemed both sides were to blame for the events that transpired.
“The first shots came from the east, they were from your side – your supporters,” said one host, reading account after account from those who were wounded, those who were barely grazed, and from the pallbearers who had to carry all of those tiny coffins.
It was hard listening to him speak without taking every single word as the absolute and given truth. His voice crackled and he choked on many words, but this only made him look stronger and more deserving of belief and one’s avid, bias subscription.
But the casualties spread across both sides, and there were those caught in the crossfire that had no political conviction whatsoever – but each side claimed their bloody wounds as their own.
“Too bloody convenient,” said the other host. “Just look at the damn trajectory.”
He sounded blunt and defensive at first. He also sounded slightly mad and obsessed. He said things like, “I don’t wanna use the word conspiracy,” but then two seconds later he did just that. “It’s a damn conspiracy,” he said. “There, I said it.” And it was hard to take him seriously on account of his wild and vivid claims. It was only when he too started quoting the parents and siblings of those who been needlessly slaughtered did his point start to take any weight – not that this was a conspiracy, but that his side were the real victims.
And both hosts played their pipes and fiddles, and they led their listeners this way and that. By the end, none could agree on who was right and who was wrong. Where they did find consensus though was when the news turned to the events that had transpired across the city. The information was sketchy at best, but both hosts provided as much insight as they could.
“All I can say is that what happened to them, and what’s gonna happen to them is the least of our concern,” said one host. That was his final opinion after his report on the mass kidnappings across the city from rehabilitation centres, and even from the streets itself. He mentioned the buses and though he didn’t how many there were exactly, he said that whoever was behind this had pulled off quite a feat. He mentioned one or two situations where gunfire was exchanged, but he downplayed the extent of the bloodshed and the trauma. He quoted an officer who mentioned that several of the buses had been packed with explosives and they, along with their hostages, were used to bring down buildings and bridges and to break open roadblocks and barricades. And he quoted a mechanic who out hunting wild dog who swore he saw one or two of these buses, and he believed, beyond doubt, that they were being taken off to some kind of death camp or burial site. His opinion, though, which both hosts took serious, was that the future was pretty grim for whoever was unlucky enough to be packed onto those buses. “If anything,” said the host, referring to the kidnapping and probable torture and execution of all those people. “It’s the only silver lining to come out of any of this.”
And by the sixth or seventh stop, the imagination of all the prisoners was, by that time, nothing short of rabid. Whereas the first prisoners escorted from their cages were quiet and somewhat civil, by the time the news and gossip had set in, it was impossible to imagine anything outside of the absolute worst – and for people like them who had participated either passively or single handily in some of the most horrendous atrocities of mankind, the very worst of which they could imagine was a terrible, terrible thing indeed. The worst that they could imagine was any type of just and biblical revenge for all that had been done.
And by the twelfth stop, the last of the prisoners were spent of their fear and potent anxiety. And th
ey were also starved of any will to fight or to negotiate the terms of their fate. In the beginning, they offered treason and treachery as dowry for their release or the sparing of their lives. By the middle, when that didn’t work, they were bargaining with blowjobs and an assortment or strange and lurid sexual positions. The least interest they received, the more perverse was their offering. But by the twelfth stop, they were syphoned of their wilful reserves. They sat in their cages listening to the same radio broadcast as it repeated over and over again. And as it did, they sat cold and numb in their cages seemingly blind or ignorant to the serene and breathtaking views.
And when the bus eventually came to a stop, and as the last five prisoners were ordered taken from their cages, not a single word was said. They all marched along slowly with their heads bowed and their backs hunched like overgrown trees. Neither of them had any fight, not anymore. They weren’t even shackled, but they sure as hell moved like they were. Their feet scraped off one another and their heads rested on each other’s backs. And as they made their way out of the bus, clouds of dust burst upwards as their feet clumped into the dry sand. There they stood - side by side - with their heads anchored to their feet, and their hands cupped at their front – even The Girl.
It took a while before The Driver stood before the prisoners. He let them stew for a bit. The sun was scorching and thousands of mosquitos were wreaking havoc on their bare skin. After some time, though, he spoke.
“You are all that is left of faith and therefore, you are all that is left of humanity.”
He didn’t sound condescending, and he didn’t sound ominous.
He sounded hopeful.
London When it Rains Page 14