by Gordon Brown
‘So who’s left?’ The Bouffant King is talking.
‘For me, Mary, Caroline and Jenny. You?’ says the Man in Black.
‘Caroline, Deborah and Enid.’
‘Oh you’ll love Enid. Kinky if you push it.’
‘Really?’
‘If you persuade her. Know what I mean?’
They’re looking at the women as they talk. I’m not sure I want to hear this.
‘Caroline is the real money,’ says the Bouffant King.
‘Hard nut to crack. Hell, I’ve been on the case for over a year.’
‘Worth it though.’
‘No doubt.’
‘How was Jenny?’ the Man in Black stage-whispers.
‘Dull as dishwater. I think I was the first man in her pantyhose for a decade. It smelt that way anyway.’
They both laugh.
‘So who’s next?’ The Man in the Black leans out of the booth. He catches me listening. ‘You looking for some old tail?’
I duck back in.
‘Young man there fancies some aged pussy I think,’ says the Bouffant King.
I slide out of the booth, taking my meal into the morning heat. I’m followed by two of the old ladies. They sit down next to me.
‘Hi, I’m Enid and this is Tanya.’
The ‘kinky’ one and friend.
‘I see you were talking to Bert and George,’ says Enid.
‘Is that the man in black and his friend?’ I munch as I talk.
‘That’s them.’
‘Can I ask what you’re all doing on the bus?’
‘Sure,’ says Enid. ‘We’re off to a mystery convention in New Orleans.’
My look of confusion spurs her on.
‘Mystery novels – you know, detective, crime. We go every year.’
‘By bus?’
‘Three of us are scared of flying. Anyway, we’re all retired. We’re in no hurry. What are you doing on the bus?’
‘Going to see a friend.’
‘You should join us. Bert and George aren’t much company.’
‘Not unless you pull your knickers down.’ They’re the first words Tanya has spoken.
‘If you don’t mind, ladies, I’d rather grab some sleep.’
‘JD will do that to you.’
I’m not as anonymous as I thought. ‘I’ll take that on advice.’
‘Well, any time you want a chat we’ll be at the back – you can’t miss us.’
They get up and head for the bus as their friends troop out to join them. Bert and George are laughing as they leave.
*
El Paso comes into view at just after half-past five. We need to transfer buses and there’s forty minutes to kill. I avoid the Mystery Mob.
The bus leaves carrying the same passengers who’ve been on board since Los Angeles. The last of the hop-ons left us at El Paso. It’s just the Mystery Mob, the Bouffant King, the Man in Black and me.
The light is dropping. Outside, the land has a bad case of dry brushwood acne on either side of the highway. The odd oncoming headlight breaks the monotony but, as the light dips, there’s little to see.
A broken shell of a shack flies into view. A long-dead Dodge, rusting back to the earth it came from, guards the shack’s front door. I check the printed itinerary that the ticket man produced. We’re not far from the next stop. My Jack Daniels is burning a hole in my bag.
The laughter is like a gunshot in my ear.
‘Bert, fuck off.’
Bert is laughing as Enid shouts after him. He returns to the seat behind me to sit down next to George.
‘What did you say?’ asks George.
‘Asked if her ass was available for rent.’
They both laugh.
Bert hangs over my seat, his bouffant moving of its own accord. ‘Want to split that bottle three ways? We’re dry.’
‘No.’ Direct usually works. Only this time it doesn’t.
‘Too good to drink with us old fogies?’
‘No. I just want a quiet drink.’
‘So do we son. I’ll get you a fresh bottle at the next stop.’
‘No thanks.’
‘We insist.’
It dawns on me that he’s drunk. They both are. George adds his two cents’ worth. ‘We only want a drink.’
I shake my head. ‘Might have had one too many already.’
‘You tellin’ us how much we can drink, son?’ Bert has an edge to his voice.
‘No. I just want a quiet time.’
George taps me on the shoulder. ‘Look, all we want is a drink and we’ll be off your case.’ His words are loud. A mean drunk. I seem to attract them.
‘Look, I’m just going to slip down to the front of the bus and leave you two alone. You can pick up a bottle at the next stop and drink till you fall over. Ok?’
George pushes Bert to one side. He exits onto the aisle. ‘Look, son. You ain’t going to down that bottle on your own – so just divvy up the fair way.’
I stand up. ‘The bar is closed.’
George is a few inches shorter than me. I have earned-muscle on my side, but he’s drunk and running on brave pills. He stands his ground. I place a hand on his shoulders. I lean forward.
He tenses. ‘Get your hands off me, son.’
‘Or what?’
He tries to step back. I grip him.
‘Or what?’ I repeat, leaning in close. I don’t want trouble. But he’s drunk enough to do something real stupid.
The scene has the attention of the bus now. The Mystery Mob are fixed on us and George knows he’s on a loser. He might get a punch in but I can take him, and he knows it. He can back down, but his future sexual conquests are watching and his chances of bedding them are slipping away. He rocks a little from foot to foot.
Bert wades in. ‘George, you old fool. Let the boy be.’ He turns to the Mystery Mob. ‘Now ladies, has anyone squirreled away a little drink they would care to share?’
George backs off, glad of the exit. I slide down the bus, choosing the seat behind the driver. I twist the cap on the bottle to settle down for a drink.
An hour later and the noise from the back of the bus is akin to a school kids’ outing. It sounds like Bert and George have mined some drink from someone and are winding up the Mystery Mob. The driver glances in the rear view mirror.
‘Noisy for an old bunch,’ I say, cup to my lips.
‘Always the same,’ he replies. ‘Teenagers and the gray brigade – as bad as each other. I’ll need to warn them though. Other passengers won’t be happy.’
I am the only other passenger. ‘I’m OK,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah, but there will be others to get on and that’s when it won’t be OK.’
I think there’s a suggestion that I might like to go have a quiet word. I’m having none of it. I sip at my drink.
A horn blast from a rig grabs my attention. My window lights up as a truck flicks its full beam at a car riding beside us. The car lays an inch of rubber on the blacktop as it’s forced to duck back and fall in at our rear.
The light revealed, just before it slid back, a black SUV. The alarm bells go off in my head. The headlight had briefly picked out a man in a suit in the passenger seat. I think he might have been looking up at me. I think it’s Buzz 2.
I cross the bus, sit on the other side and wait. A few minutes later the top of the SUV glides up again – matching the bus’s speed. It doesn’t overtake; instead it hangs there – on the wrong side of the road. Another truck approaches. This time the SUV accelerates, pulling in front of the bus. The bus driver hits his horn, swearing at the SUV as it accelerates before slowing down fifty yards in front.
The SUV’s rear window is lit up by the bus headlights – but the tint is heavy and I can only make out two shapes. My mind goes into overdrive.
I flick open the itinerary and look for the next stop. Van Horn. I’ve never been there.
The SUV keeps ahead. Gaining none. Losing none. I check my watch. We’
re scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes.
I weigh up the options and don’t like any of them. Waiting for the next stop is bottom of the list. It will be suit city. Getting off early is a poor choice. It’s still scrub desert outside. I won’t get far on foot. There might be a chance to get off as we enter the town and make a break for it but, for all I know, the bus stops at the edge of town. I wonder why they showed their hand early. Why not wait for the bus to pull in?
I lean forward to talk to the driver. ‘Do we come off the highway for the next stop?’
The driver turns slightly to answer. ‘Yes. Not long now.’
A second SUV drifts alongside. I shift back to the seat behind the driver. ‘Don’t leave the highway at the junction.’
The driver turns round. ‘What?’
I point at the road. ‘Don’t stop. Keep your foot on the gas and just drive.’
Chapter 18
The SUV in front begins to slow down.
‘Kill the internal lights and keep up the speed.’ I slide to the edge of the seat to get a better view.
‘What?’
I slap him hard over the back of the head. I need control. ‘Lights out. Foot down.’
He reaches down. He flicks a switch and the bus descends into darkness. There’s whooping from behind as the school kids think it’s recess.
‘What the hell do you want me to do?’ The driver’s shoulders are tensed up.
I yank out the Leatherman’s blade, jamming it into the back of his neck. Hard. ‘Just drive.’
‘We should turn off soon,’ he says.
‘No. We just keep going.’
‘Where to?’
I have no idea. I look around the driver’s seat. ‘Do you have a map?’
‘No. GPS.’ He points to the small unit sitting on the dash.
‘Pass it here.’
He pulls it off the dashboard and passes it up.
The SUV is less than ten yards in front.
‘Pull out and overtake,’ I order.
The driver signals. Almost immediately the SUV swings to block us.
I push the blade into his skin a little more. ‘Right up his ass. Get the bus up his tail.’
The driver doesn’t respond. I push the blade deeper and his skin splits. A drop of blood spreads down his neck – black in the light of the instruments.
He plants his foot. The bus surges forward. For a second the SUV doesn’t react; then, with only feet to spare, it accelerates.
I try to play with the GPS, but I can’t work it with one hand holding the rail and the other on the knife.
‘I’m going to remove the knife. If you piss me off, I’ll stick it in your ear and slice open your eardrum.’
The GPS is touch-screen. I flick around the area we’re travelling through. I whizz by something and back it up. A small airport. It’s marked up as Culberson County Airport – a three-runway triangular set-up. One of thousands across the country. It’s less than a mile beyond the town, three-quarters of a mile from the highway at its nearest point.
We pass the exit for Van Horn as two SUVs speed along the on-ramp to join us. We are now four to one.
The GPS shows a road running parallel to us, the Old Bankhead Highway. It runs out just beyond the airport with the turnoff leading to it just ahead.
‘Slow down. Right down,’ I say.
The driver obeys. Two of the SUVs pull up beside us. A window winds down on the nearest one. Buzz 2 waves at the driver to pull over.
‘Ignore him.’ My heart rate racks up as I weigh up my options. The speed at which the two new SUVs joined in suggests they have the town loaded up. They still want me bad.
My head starts to thump but I shake it to try and concentrate on what I need to do.
A shout goes up from behind. The Mystery Mob seem to be having more fun.
Then my head explodes. I want to curl up, but I need to keep my mind on the job at hand.
A shout from behind. ‘What the…?’ Then a scream. A man’s scream.
‘Jesus, what are you fucking doing?’ Bert is shouting.
The driver turns round.
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ I yell. My head is splitting down the middle.
‘Fuck.’ The word hammers down the length of the bus. ‘Get off me you stupid cow.’
A muffled thwump and another scream rises from the back of the bus.
One of the new SUVs tries to cut in front of us, forcing the driver to brake. I lean forward, planting my hand on his foot. I push down. The bus leaps forward, catching the SUV on the inside rear. The car flips to the left. The other SUV has to stand on the brakes to prevent ploughing into it. They both vanish from view, leaving a lone escort out front.
I clip the driver’s head. ‘I told you not to stop.’
Another scream from behind. ‘How do you like a little persuasion? A little kinky, eh?’ Enid’s voice is strong. ‘He talks dirty. I don’t like it when he talks dirty. I tell you what, Tanya, I’ve got scissors in my bag. Be a good girl and get them for me.’
What the hell is going on back there? I turn round but there’s not enough light to see by. My headache is starting to blind me.
‘No. Noooooo!’ The scream from behind is desperate.
‘There, got it,’ says Enid.
‘It’s so gooey,’ says Tanya.
George shouts out. I can’t be sure what is going down but I can guess.
‘You shut up. You’re next,’ cries Enid.
‘I got his cell and he has KY in a tube. Maybe George would like to see if it fits,’ says Tanya.
I get back to the job in hand. I suspect that Bert and George are on the receiving end of a bad night but I can’t cope with the headache, the suits and the nonsense on the bus.
I tap the driver on the shoulder. ‘I want you to take the next turn-off. Don’t indicate; wait until the last minute. I’ll tell you when. Do you understand?’
The driver nods as another SUV pulls up beside us. The tinted window is down. This time there’s a gun pointing at the bus. The driver sees it. He eases off the gas. I reach down, pushing his foot again. ‘They’re not going to shoot with a bus full of passengers. But they will shoot if we stop. It’s up to you.’
The driver stares ahead.
The junction emerges in the headlights of the SUV. It’s unmarked.
‘Now wait until you are on the junction – then hard left. Once you’re round give it as much gas as you can.’
The white lines are no longer a blur as the driver eases off for the turn. Each line looks like a stepping stone over a black sea. The SUV passes the junction. The bus looks like it will follow suit.
‘Now,’ I shout.
The driver pulls hard down on the wheel and we swing across the oncoming highway. I’m flung hard against the chair. I look back at the road. The following SUVs are caught out and miss the turn.
We are slewing to a halt. I smack the driver’s head. ‘Foot down.’
The road we are on is no more than a dirt track. Seconds later we’re bouncing across a set of railway lines. There’s still commotion from behind and, as we leap the lines, I step out onto the aisle to try and look back.
My foot slips and I fall onto the chair. I try to stand up. I slip again. I put my hand on the floor. It comes up wet, sticky…and warm.
What the hell?
I lift my hand into the light cast by the instruments in front of the driver. I realize that Bert and George are having a very, very bad night.
Car lights appear in the giant wing mirrors of the bus. They gain at speed, but the road is too narrow for the SUVs to get past and the terrain either side is lethal.
I haul myself back onto my seat. ‘Another half mile and then take another left. There should be a road.’
The driver is hunched in concentration. He’s driving too fast on a road that’s not designed for the behemoth he’s trying to control. Add to that the chasing cars, the nonsense going on in the rear, my knife, and his shoulders are rods
of iron under his jacket.
One of the SUVs pulls out into the desert in an attempt to overtake. I reach out, grab the steering wheel and pull it towards the vehicle. The bus lurches off the road. The driver yells, pulling the wheel back. I hear a crunch and headlights spin away to our left.
I strain to see ahead. I haven’t got this all figured out but action is better than inaction. The road twists and turns. Every so often a pair of white eyes flick out of the dark as the headlights hit the back of some nocturnal beast’s eye sockets.
We crest a small rise. There’s no sign of the road promised by the GPS. I play with the machine. ‘Where the hell is the road?’
‘What road?’ the driver responds.
‘It says on the map there’s a road – the Old Bankhead Highway.’
‘It’s nothing but a dirt track. Gone long ago.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I live nearby.’
Shit.
Somebody grabs my leg and I leap. Twisting round I bring my fist down on an arm holding the material of my pants. Bert looks up at me. He tries to talk but it’s muffled. His tongue is gone. I want to lash out. Push him away. Get him the fuck out of my face. His bouffant hair is a matt of blood. The 69 cardigan is ripped and torn. His mouth opens. A dark hole. ‘Mmmphhh.’ Jesus.
I step back. We hit a large pothole, flipping Bert over. His pants are gone, as is his manhood. No tongue – no dick. There is a scream from behind. George is receiving the attention of the Mystery Mob. I push Bert’s arm away. The Mystery Mob are getting their revenge big time and I’m sure I’m the catalyst.
My head is pounding, a steam hammer, making it hard to think. My skull is in a vice, as if someone is turning it tighter notch by notch. The bus staggers to the left. I’m thrown sideways. I grab the rail to pull myself upright. The driver is staring at Bert. I slap him on the face. ‘The road. Look at the fucking road.’
He turns back but we’re off the track. The bus bounces out across the desert floor. Then, suddenly, another dirt track flashes into view at right angles to the way we’re travelling.
‘That must be it. Get on it!’ The driver’s shoulder gets a thump as I say this.
The driver hauls the wheel. If this is the Old Bankhead Highway then the GPS is having a laugh. The driver was right. This is no better than the road we were on.