George woke his son and the two went to work. Gerry fired up the tractor and together they attached their snow plough. The Rome farm was near to the Kirk o’ Shotts, an ancient church in central Lanarkshire which sat on a hill, dominating the skyline for miles around. This was the high ground between the east and west coasts and snow was a fairly regular feature in wintertime. Normally they used the plough on the poorly maintained single track back roads to clear avenues for their cattle and to open up access around the farm. Theirs was a supply and demand business and they needed to keep their assets in good condition or they could quite easily face financial ruin. Tonight looked like being an entirely different prospect.
“I knew I’d heard something,” George said, “Depending on which way the wind blows you can just hear the engine of the bus rumbling away in the background. The lights are on so there must be someone on board.”
“You don’t know that dad,” but George just shook his head.
“We need to reach the bus.”
The coach was on the main road around a mile away from the farm and the snow was deep. The coach sat in a dip in the land and the snow was drifting deeply on one side, which was now partially covering the windows on the lower level at the driver’s side.
“It’s going to take us a while to get there,” Gerry said, “The plough isn’t really designed for snow this deep and I can’t see that we’ll make it all the way. Maybe we should phone the police?”
“There’s no time for that,” George said. He was becoming impatient with his son’s reluctance to help, “It would take the emergency services hours to get here in this weather. We’ve seen this before and we could end up being cut off for a time, so we need to try and get there now. OK?”
It was hard going and the snow got deeper as they worked their way downhill. There wouldn’t normally be a bus on this stretch so George guessed it must have been diverted onto the old A8, which ran parallel to the newer motorway. ‘It must been closed down,’ he thought. George knew from experience that planners never planned for weather like this. At this temperature the normal way of making roads safe didn’t work. Grit and salt were only effective up to temperature of around -10c and it was way below that already. George looked at his watch which read 2:45am and he wondered if the main road might reopen. There would be little point in clearing the motorway during the blizzard as the snow was coming down at such a rate that any progress would be undone in a matter of minutes.
They had managed to dig through about a quarter of a mile in the first hour when the lights went out in the bus and the engine stopped. They saw it shudder to a stop and the chassis swung on its suspension from side to side as the pistons stopped firing and the engine died.
“That’s bad news son. If there’s anyone on there, it’s going to get cold pretty quick,” George said, trying to convince himself the coach could still be reached more than anything else. The closer they got the harder the task became. The sheer weight of the snow was causing problems for the plough blade and they had to take it in turns to physically move snow by hand to relieve the pressure on the plough and allow it to keep moving. After a while it became clear that they were facing a thankless task. In the end the tractor gave up, the dark diesel fumes spluttering into the night against the tractor’s arc lights, a stark contrast to the whiteout which surrounded them. The pressure was too much and the machine overheated and died. They still had a reasonably clear route back to the farm but still had 300 metres to go before they would be able to reach the bus.
George phoned his wife Jean who was now wide awake back at the farm, “Hi...yes but its bloody hard work...listen could you get over to the barn and attach the trailer to the quad bike and get it down here?... it should be fine...listen we’re having to dig by hand...the tractor’s died...no it’s not ideal...but it’s the only option we have and we’re close now, so close...OK yes...of course...yes OK...speak soon. Hurry, Jean.”
Both father and son were both exhausted and freezing by this point. Their jackets weren’t made for these conditions and their hands were numb and their faces ruddy and blank as the biting icy wind robbed them of expression, the cold bringing tears to their eyes. Two hours later they were close, inching ahead using shovels and grit, determined to reach the bus – finally they got there.
“Thank Christ,” Gerry said, “I hope there’s someone in there after all this.”
Following the instructions on the side of the bus he turned the emergency access lever clockwise beside the door. Nothing happened. He took off his gloves and forced his hands through the rubber seal between the double doors. Slowly they juddered open until there was enough room for them to squeeze through.
“Pass the torch, will you?” George said.
The bright beam shone a halo into the interior. Outside there was no light and the grey skies left the coach looking black inside. It took George time to find a focal point as the torchlight swept through the bottom deck. It seemed there was no one on board after all. The driver’s seat was empty. The key was still in the ignition.
“There’s no one here but why would they have left the engine running?”
“It’s strange right enough – best check the top deck too,” He watched his father make his way up the steps. When he reached the top floor the low height of the roof forced George to stoop.
“There’s nothing here,” George said as he paced the isle, “Wait – what’s this?” he said bending over to pick up a pair of jeans on the floor and then a jacket and jumper. “Women’s clothes?” he added sniffing the garments in a gesture Gerry found odd but didn’t mention.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be leaving much behind on a night like tonight,” Gerry said, but that was all there was and both men then returned to the bottom deck and sat down.
“Well that was a complete waste of fucking time,” Gerry said but wished he hadn’t when he caught the glance from his father.
“We had to try – what if someone had been here?”
Then from the back of the bus came a soft thud. Both men were startled and Gerry screamed despite himself.
“What was that?” he said, whispering, concerned that he might have given himself away.
“Snow falling from the roof perhaps? Although it sounded like it was inside – somewhere at the back?”
“I’ll check,” Gerry said, trying to appear a bit braver as he edged forward, torch in hand.
The bottom deck was split into three compartments. The first two quarters were reserved for seats which were arranged around three sets of tables as was standard in the luxury model. At the back a boxed off area at the side revealed a spiralling staircase which led to the top deck, while at the end of the aisle on the bottom there was a door for the onboard toilet. The rest of the bus was given over to luggage space at the back and was only accessible from outside. The door of the toilet, which was covered in black material and matched the interior walls, was closed. But it was obvious this was where the sound had come from.
As he opened the door he peered round with fearful eyes. When he saw her, he wondered if it was already too late.
3
When the coach was an hour overdue John Dale started to worry, but given the blizzard he knew it would take time for Stevie to make it back to base. When he still hadn’t returned after two hours, he became anxious and had an uneasy feeling something had happened. The radio was dead, with white noise the only response. As a last resort he had checked the travel websites and although there were multiple road closures there were no major incidents reported and he could not figure out why Stevie had not arrived back. John Dale had taken a lot of stick when he had taken Stevie on because of his background but he had reasoned that you couldn’t label someone for the rest of their life just because of one mistake however serious. Stevie had already paid his dues. He had been a great driver these last four years and always stuck to the timetable, until now anyway. That he hadn’t heard from him in since he left from the bus station in Glasgow was
worrying but the motorway had been closed and it would have taken time to wind through the city and the surrounding countryside for what should have been a 25 minute trip. Dales Travel catered for tourism but the company had branched out to provide a limited commuter service between Lanarkshire and Glasgow. Business had been slow of late and when John Dale saw the forecast he sensed he might have been gifted with a golden opportunity to generate some good PR and extra cash. There would be a lot of people stranded by the weather and additional coaches would be in high demand. By stepping in and providing a lifeline for commuters John Dale knew he was facing a win-win situation. ‘But where the hell was the coach,’ he thought. He tried the radio one more time but again all he heard was static. All the other drivers were home and dry and he was alone now at the Shotts depot having sent everyone else home. John only lived a few streets away so he could afford to stay on, but the weather was hellish and he knew the business would be shut down for at least the 24 hours while the authorities tried to beat back mother nature and restore normality. Having paced the shop floor for half an hour, checking his watch every minute, he bit the bullet, phoned 999 and reported the coach as missing.
***
N Division was the branch of Strathclyde Police which covered North Lanarkshire. The area had once counted among the industrial powerhouses of British manufacturing but that had been a long time ago. Today the region was still nursing a long term hangover after the collapse of heavy industry in the 1980s. Unemployment was higher than average and the promise of an IT boom had disappeared virtually overnight, with the lure of cheap labour in Eastern Europe proving too big a temptation for business, despite the Government millions which had been pumped into their coffers to come to Scotland in the first place. And after the boom, came bust. The first signs of decline came when civic leaders ran out of cash and were unable to maintain the region to the level it had become accustomed. Parks became overgrown, services closed, potholes scarred the streets like tarmac acne. The signs of decline were apparent. Everyone talked of progress but somehow life never seemed to change. Each new facelift was more like a coat of makeup, destined to be washed off by the end of the night. Pockets of affluence could be found, as they can in any area, but so far there had been no phoenix like renaissance for this forgotten stretch of ravaged hinterland. It was here that Frank Simmons worked his beat. He had only been a Constable for two years and still had a lot to learn. He had always wanted to serve his time in Glasgow but he had been sent here instead. Pouring out his fourth coffee he sighed, puffing air into his cheeks – he knew he was in for a long night. The snow was thick and lying which meant problems for the overnight desk. They had been dealing with abandoned cars and lorries for the last four hours. There had been 34 minor accidents reported on the roads and now that the motorway was closed his less fortunate colleagues had been sent out to travel along the carriageway to mark off all the vehicles that had been searched and found to have no-one in them. It was hard work but there would be hell to pay if someone was found dead behind the wheel, simply because there was no-one to find them. Eight years ago a man had been found sitting at Buchanan Bus Station waiting for a bus home from Glasgow. He had waited and waited, but in the end he didn’t leave. Eventually someone from the control centre had gone down to tell him there the station was closed but the advice came too late. The traffic controller had tapped on the sitting man’s shoulder but instead of turning round he slid off the bench and tumbled onto the concourse like a bag of old clothes. The coroner’s report suggested he had died of the cold and had been sitting dead for as long as five hours. No-one had noticed. People had come and gone and he had also been spotted on camera. No-one did anything. That was his final moment – staring into space at Stance 46 waiting for a coach that never came. In his inside pocket they had found a small wrapped necklace for his granddaughter. The papers had loved that and questions followed asking why this could have been allowed to happen and what was wrong with the world that people could stand by and do nothing. It filled half a page but was forgotten by the next day. Thinking back Frank knew that was part of the reason he had signed up, because he wanted to try and do something for the victims, for the people no one cared for. Tonight, though, he knew he would rather be in bed. Getting home tomorrow might be more of a problem than it should be. Frank’s office was in Motherwell which was the regional HQ. The phone rang. Control again.
“Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank said, “I’m still here – what have you got for me this time? Six old ladies stranded on their way to the bingo perhaps or maybe Miss Scotland has picked the wrong day for a bikini shoot?”
“Very good,” said a blank voice at the other end. Frank didn’t know who it was, it must be someone new. He had meant to ask but they had had so many conversations tonight that it seemed the time for introductions had passed.
“We’ve had a report of a missing bus. It was travelling from Glasgow through to Harthill but had to take a diversion through the City’s Southside after we closed the motorway. The owner has been on to say he expected the coach back between 9:00 and 10:00 but it hasn’t shown up yet. He can’t raise the driver but says he’s one of their best. He’s hoping there hasn’t been an accident – you could hear he was worried. He said he had been waiting by the phone in Harthill. Traffic doesn’t seem to be moving much past Newhouse now. The snow’s three or four feet deep in places. I’ve never known it to be so bad. I just thought you should know about this one. It’s a luxury coach with all mod cons so even if they do get stuck they should at least be warm. I’ll keep you posted if anything else comes in but it looks like this one might be a problem.”
Another phone was ringing from a desk at the far side of the room, “Thanks Control,” Frank said, “I think it’s going to be a tough night but as you say it’s probably nothing.” ‘Strange the driver hasn’t been in touch by radio.’ Frank pressed the flashing red light to take the next call in what was likely to be an eventful evening.
***
On the coach George and Gerry were still staring down in disbelief.
“What the fuck is this?” Gerry said, pointing.
When they had opened the door at the back of the bottom deck they had uncovered a figure lying curled around the stainless steel toilet bowl wearing only her underwear.
“That explains the clothes on the top deck,” George said.
The woman was handcuffed with her hands pulled behind her back. Her bare stomach was pressed against the metal fittings. Her skin was blue grey but she was not shivering.
“Is she still alive?” said Gerry.
George was crouched over her, checking for a pulse.
“She’s still breathing but her heart rate seems slow. She won’t have had any heat on this bus since the engine died and that was hours ago – I think she might have hypothermia. We’re going to need to get her to hospital as soon as possible but let’s get her back to the house and try and get some heat through her. Phone your mum and tell her to get a move on – we need to act fast.”
***
Arbogast didn’t know how long he had been out cold for but it couldn’t have been long. When he awoke he wasn’t sure where he was but he did know he was freezing. His sense of smell was overwhelmed by the strong stench of urine and rotting food. As he opened his eyes it was obvious he was not at home. He threw up, retching until it seemed as if there could be nothing left inside him. Saliva dripped from his chin as he propped himself up on one arm, his hand going numb as it sank beneath the snow. Looking at the thin film of snowflakes building on his jacket he started to come to. ‘My head is thumping,’ he thought, ‘and there’s the taste of blood. I must have been in a fight? No the blood is dripping... My head is bleeding – where am I?’
As he regained some sense of composure he knew he was still quite drunk although he was sobering up quickly. The alcohol was already starting to leave his system, marking the start of what he suspected would be a rather unpleasant hangover. Grasping onto the side of t
he industrial bin he hauled himself up to a standing position. The snow had seeped through his clothes but he knew he had also pissed himself. ‘That explains the smell.’ Slowly the evening’s events came back him. He had been was lying between two industrial waste bins in the lane directly behind Devil May Care. ‘What have I done?’ Arbogast didn’t see himself as a problem drinker. He liked a drink; it was true, but not generally to excess and rarely through the week. Groaning at the state he was in he finally remembered that he started his new job tomorrow – later today in fact – with the chances of creating a good first impression getting slimmer by the second. Looking around Arbogast knew he was out of sight, safe from prying eyes in the alley. Glasgow was a Victorian city with the centre based around a grid system. Between the blocks ran a network of lanes mainly meant for access and deliveries but which by night served a range of functions ranging from outdoor toilets through to prostitution. The council were trying to redevelop these areas so they would be used by people in the same vein as Barcelona’s Gothic quarter but given it was always either freezing or raining Arbogast didn’t see much hope of a cafe culture taking hold anytime soon. Looking down at his sodden trousers he felt deeply ashamed. ‘Some fucking elite I’ll make.’ He checked his watch: 2:23am. ‘Fuck.’ He knew he’d be lucky to get a taxi in his current condition so he made a start on the long walk home. Arbogast avoided the main streets and kept to the alleys, keeping a low profile and avoiding the eyes of the occasional passerby. As he walked down by the banks of the Clyde in heavy snow he shivered and thought of Japanese films. Snow usually represented death, a habit which had slowly infiltrated western movies. Tonight he felt like death itself. If he were in a Japanese film he would be dead within five minutes. As he trudged on contemplating his own self inflicted misery he noticed a light glowing in the distance through the gloom. His saviour tonight was to be Kerry. Kerry’s snack bar was a city institution. An all night van selling many cultural fried delights, most of which were conducive to an early heart attack. But tonight as he held the roll thick with sauce, dripping fat and running egg he welcomed the impromptu meal as being fit for a King. He washed it down with a scalding hot cup of third rate tea, rising up on the balls of his feet and savouring the moment. Then he remembered groping the girl in the club, “What an arse you have been tonight John, what a complete and utter arse.” Kerry looked up from serving the next customer, “Did you say something,” but Arbogast was already back on the road.
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 2