OPEN TOP BUS

it was a Wednesday. It had to be. But it was so long ago.
The open topped bus passed me on my walk home from work. The lower deck crammed with people…the upper deck accommodating just one person. A young boy, no older than eleven…light brown hair not so long that it touched his collar, but still long enough to be blown and tousled. He stood at the front of the bus, his head only slightly higher than the windscreen, his arms outstretched…like he was pretending to fly.
Downstairs, the faces of the passengers peered through the windows of the lower deck. Dull black eyes and sallow complexions that I assumed to be the effect of the grime on the window glass.

I watched the bus trundle away. It turned left on the Old Quay Road…a detour from its usual route. The Old Quay Road leads to only one place…the old quay. And that is all. No post office…no general store…not a public house or a hotel or even a house or a holiday chalet. Just a quay. There was no reason for the bus to venture there. I was intrigued so I followed.

As I turned the corner onto Old Quay Road the bus was already two thirds of the way down the hill, and gaining momentum. I stood and, from my bird’s nest vantage point, I watched and I waited for the bus to stop. But it didn’t.
It carried on moving forward…down and around a bend where the tarmac road turns to gravel…across a wide concrete bridge that traverses the flood defense water channel...bypassing the neglected fisherman’s hut…scraping narrowly between two mooring posts…and on, down the quarry stone jetty.
It appeared to skim across the hard flat sand which had been compressed by a receding tide. The bus followed that same tide and, in no time at all, caught it up.

The bus crashed into the sea. The low, ebbing waves seemed to cow and break gently, allowing the bus easy admission to the wide and open deep blue ocean.
Like a schooner, the bus cut its way through the brine…white horses chased its progress either side, and the water rose up, past the grimy windows of the lower deck and the ghostly faces therein, leveling off three feet short of the top of the roofless bus.
I watched as it sailed, a rate of knots faster than any vessel I have ever seen sail. I watched it shrink in size as it pierced the distance. I watched it disappear beyond the horizon. And all the time, the boy held his arms out…like wings.



I was considered a lunatic by the folk of the town. I was the only witness to this extraordinary event. I had alerted the coastguard. Five times I had to repeat myself before the person on the line accepted that he was hearing exactly what I was saying.
I ran, full pelt, the mile back into town. I ran with so much determination that I crashed into the front desk at the police station. Again, five times I had to repeat to the desk sergeant my story…and then twice more when the desk sergeant called a PC over to witness and confirm my tale.
After a pathetically lax investigation performed by the relevant authorities, and lasting no more than one hour…the investigation was abandoned.
No people were reported missing. No nationwide appeal for the return of a missing boy. No missing bus. No oil slick…no debris…no clues.
No people were reported missing. No nationwide appeals. But I know what I saw. It was a Wednesday. I remember it well. It was my birthday.

I had seen the boy earlier in the day. Market Place. He was walking amongst a group of people older than himself. Adults. He stood out not only due to his contrasting youth but because his attire and his demeanor were noticeably different to theirs. His beige, thick woolen jumper a highlight in the back drop of the grey flannel overcoats worn by the others.
They walked…heads hung down so low that their faces were hidden in shadow, whereas the boy seemed to glide over the tarmac…head held high and with a beaming smile.
I remember him because, momentarily, our eyes had met. The boy stopped walking for a second and his sky blue eyes seemed to penetrate my own, staring deep into my very soul. He smiled again and turned and was lost within the grey flannel of his companions.


I will admit to my weakness. Drink. Whiskey has been a very good friend to me over the years. Since the event. Before that day I barely drank at all. I was a responsible man. A married man and father to my precious little daughter. I was the owner/manager of a book shop that was situated on Fore Street, a busy cobbled thoroughfare lined with shops and bars, art gallery’s and bakery’s, and which serves as a convenient shortcut from the north side of town to the south. An affluent street of busy tourist and local trade.
I was a member of the local Guildhall Committee and I sat on the Arts Council. I was, by my own estimation, an upstanding member of the local community.
This changed. It became lost. I became lost. A ghost. Bearded, stick thin and balding and uncared for.

I couldn’t shake the images of what I had seen out of my head. I relived the event in vivid colour, night after night after night. I began to drink…openly at first, and enough to cause concern and illicit comment from my wife on a few occasions.
After a while, I found it easier to drink privately…and then to drink privately as well as openly.
I would try to convince people of what I had seen, boring my story into any ears in any bar, willing listeners or not. And I told my story with such raging conviction, with such deep scorched passion that it bordered on aggression. Countless times, unfeeling, ignorant landlords would ask me to kindly leave their premises. I became the town drunk. I became the sad professor.

I can’t remember when she left. I can’t remember the exact day. I remember she went first taking my daughter with her. Then the business. And then the apartment. I single handedly lost all that I ever had and I had ever loved. And through all of that time when I was failing to notice that things were crumbling around me…falling away…drifting and slowly sinking…the thing that I just could not fail to see was that image of the bus and the boy sailing over the horizon.
And through all of this destruction and devastation I continued to expound my story, holding on to the dear hope that someone, at some time might believe me. My life became a series of rituals: wake…wash…dress…sometimes eat. The essentials. Then, I would venture outside in search of cheap booze and unsuspecting ears that were virgin to my tale. The vital essentials.
I would always try to charge a nominal amount, preferably whiskey, for the privilege of hearing my renditions. Never did a day pass when I didn’t stumble home drunk.

From the debris of my circumstance I was able to salvage three things that, to me, were invaluable. My wedding ring which was made of white gold and which I wore around my neck, looped to an old boot lace. A solid silver photo frame, hinged with two compartments housing two pictures. One of my wife and one of my daughter. I kept this with me at all times, within the breast pocket of my shirt, close to my heart. And then, a limited and rare edition of my favourite classic novel, Moby Dick by Herman Melville which was passed down to me by my Grandfather who in turn had received it from his father. This I kept wrapped in a plastic shopping bag, in the right hand pocket of my overcoat. These three items, now, being my most treasured possessions. Sometimes I would take the book out and hold it whilst I performed my story telling…as if it were a holy book.


A creative mind can either elevate or destroy you. My claims of a bus sailing out to sea were so incredible it would take either an absolute genius or an absolute mad person to believe it. It was a childish claim. Not one expected from a pillar of society. But I held on to my conviction with such nail breaking determination that I unwillingly succeeded in ostracizing myself from everybody around me.

First comes incredulous astonishment. Then comes doubt. Then comes ridicule. Then I am forgotten.

People began by responding with a laugh and a pat on my back, as if waiting for the punch line.
Before long this was replaced with the posing of questions designed to contradict my claim, none of which I could answer.
Questions from the obvious…
Why were there no reports of a missing bus?
Why were there no reports of a missing bus driver…or a single, solitary passenger?
Where are the parents of the boy, if this is true?
to the more sublime…
why didn’t the bus sink entirely?
Why didn’t the passengers on the lower deck make their way upstairs?

No matter how much I tried I could not keep this demon within me quiet. The more people protested the more I reacted. The more they ridiculed the more I stood rigid. The more they denied the more I believed.
I am passed off as a screwball…a delusional alcoholic…the village idiot…the local eccentric…the embarrassing none-example of an otherwise fine and respectable community.
If only they knew what a deaf, dumb and blind community it was.

Days rolled into months rolled into years. My story had become somewhat longer over time. More elaborate. But always centred on the one unique subject.
I survived in a squalid bedsit. My rituals the same, day in, day out.
It was a Tuesday. I remember. My social security cheque arrived every other Tuesday.
After cashing it at the local post office, and inserting one five pound note into my left sock, (a habit I had developed as a young man with the methodical thought and theory that I would always be able to get home), I placed the rest of the money inside a small polythene cash bag, which I then buttoned within the rear pocket of my trousers, and I made my way to a small bar hidden along one of the cobbled side streets. A bar that served cheap ale and even cheaper whiskey. A bar where the not so gleaming and angelic would congregate…where deals were made in the shadows…where money was exchanged for tiny parcels, both items being passed in a back handed fashion like the strange handshake of a secret club. A bar where lunatics could get lost amongst other lunatics…unless you were, as in my case, considered off the scale.
I bought a double whiskey and made my way to one of the more shaded corners of the barroom. Within the hour the bar was full. No ignorant strangers yet today. Just locals. People who we’re aware of me. So the only available seats in the room were at my table.

Two men, maybe in their early forties, enter the bar, They buy drinks and sit on the empty stools opposite me. One, clean shaven and lively, the other sporting a stubbly growth of salt and pepper whiskers and dark ringed eyes. Both in possession of fine fresh ears.
I began to relay my story and they sat, apparently enthralled, and listened, breaking away only for toilet visits or to replenish our whiskey’s.
When I had finished, the fresh faced one of the two leaned forward and motioned me towards him. What he said rocked me like an earth tremor.
We have seen it too.
I sat back, aghast.
What?
Yes, he repeated, we have seen it…isn’t that right Jed?
We have, said his companion.
It’s here now…hiding in a cove just a quarter of a mile around from the harbour…isn’t that so Jed?
It is, came the reply.
I sat bolt upright
Then lets tell them all, I said as I motioned to the other people in the bar.
Shush! We need to take you to see it first…we need to make sure it’s the same bus we’re talking about.
He smiled and for the first time I noticed his teeth were stained black. A strange contrast to his soft and, given his probable age, youthful face.

The banality of his sentence evaded me at the time. I was stupefied, not just on whiskey but also at the sheer thought that, at last, finding someone…two people who believe me. I let the rather unsettling thought of there being more than one sea worthy bus slip from my mind and I allowed the two men to lead me from the bar and along the cobbled street. We cut through the grounds of St Peters Church and followed a small lane, which lead to a track on the east side of the harbor.
The track rose up and over the headland and, as was local knowledge, descended to a small sandy cove which was popular with daytime tourists and nighttime lovers.
Even then it never occurred to me that, given the cove’s popularity, someone surely would have seen, and been just a little too astounded by the site of a floating bus not to report it.

The two men stopped.
Lets take a break, said the one with the black teeth.
Jed, his bearded companion, seemed nervous.
And that is all I remember.

I awoke to cold rain on my face. My head was ringing like a thousand church bells. The dirt track was quickly turning to sticky mud. I dragged myself up and sat on a large boulder at the side of the track, a stinging sensation at the back of my head. I ran my hand around and when I brought it back there was blood.
Recollections came like a slide show in quick time. Staccato images depicting the events from only hours before. The bar…the men; the black teeth, the salt and pepper beard…the bus and the boy…the whiskey…the harbor…and the dirt track.
In moments of confusion, or when I am in need of calmness, I reach for the ring attached to the bootlace around my neck. It was gone. I frantically pushed my hand into the folds of my overcoat and found the breast pocket of my shirt empty. My plastic money bag too was gone, as was my copy of Moby Dick.
I slumped down on the cold stone boulder, puddles developing all around. In one of these puddles something seemed to glisten, reflecting the full moon. I crouched down and retrieved the photographs of my wife and daughter…not yet sodden enough to be irretrievably damaged.
I sat back down on the boulder and took off my left shoe and sock. I slipped my bare foot back into the shoe and, after taking the five pound note out and placing the photographs inside, put the sock into my breast pocket.

I made my way down the muddy path and across the harbor, the reflection of moonlight once again coming to my navigational aid. The church clock informed me that it was nearly eleven. I found and entered an off license.

Your head mate.
The cashier was pointing to a trickle of dried blood that had veined its way across my right cheek.
There’s something wrong with your head mate.
I am well aware of that, I retorted, now just sell me that half bottle will you?
The cashier was taken aback by my quietly aggressive tone but he continued to serve me anyway.
I could have refused you, he said as I left the shop
Whatever, I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

I stumbled my way along the harbor front. People were just beginning to vacate the bars that lined one side of the road. I came to a row of commercial size refuse bins that stood in an alleyway separating a fish and chip takeaway and a closed newsagents. Nestling myself amongst the bins, I slumped against the alleyway wall and looked out through the narrow gap in the plastic barricade I had made for myself. I unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and drank down a third of its contents in one go. I replaced the cap and I looked out to a black inky sea. I heard the gentle rumble of an incoming tide. I felt the cold rain on my face. And I fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

He was there when I awoke…his large athletic frame blocking the early morning sun. From his shadow protruded a hand with which he helped me to my feet. He smiled a familiar smile…barely visible with the glare of the sun which enshrouded him like the corona of an eclipse.
He took the bottle which I still held in my hand and, unscrewing the cap, poured its remaining contents onto the floor.
That same hand took hold of mine and lead me one hundred yards or so to Chapel Street where stood a café that opened for business in the early morn, its owner taking advantage of the market of delivery men and fellow early rising shopkeepers.

It was when we were sitting at one of the bench like tables inside the café that I could clearly see my new found companion. He looked to be around thirty. His hair was long and brown and kissed by the sun. He wore a beard that was at least six inches in length. His jacket and, from what I could make out, his trousers seemed to be made from a dull blue vinyl material…the arms and seams stitched with a thick, beige woolen thread. Teeth…shark teeth, acted like toggle buttons that kept his jacket closed. His feet were bare. And his sky blue eyes burned deep into me.
The waitress delivered a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and hash browns…warm buttery toast and a large mug of tea that my friend had ordered for me. He sat and smiled and watched me eat hungrily. And for all of this time he did not speak a word.
It was when I had finished eating that he produced a shopping bag, very similar to the one I had used to protect my book. He motioned for me to look inside.
I delved into the bag and produced my copy of Moby Dick, my silver frame and my white gold wedding ring. Nothing made sense. Even my elation at having my possessions returned to me could not subdue my confusion.
When I next looked up the man was at the door. He turned to me and smiled a beaming smile that filled me with warmth. And then he was gone.


I returned to my digs and slept for what seemed like days with no dreams at all to recall.
When I eventually awoke I felt rejuvenated…refreshed…more alert and cohesive than I had been for the past twenty or so years. Gone was the craving for a harsh wake up hit of whiskey, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of elation…near euphoria.
I sat on the edge of my bed and picked up my shirt which lay crumpled on the floor. I took my sock from the breast pocket and returned the photographs of my wife and daughter to their rightful place. I placed my wedding ring on the picture of my wife and I closed the frame like a book, enveloping the ring.
I bathed and I clipped my nails and I shaved. I combed my hair back and promised myself a visit to the barbers. I dressed in clean clothes and I made my way out into the sunshine.

My old shop, which still served as a bookshop, was now owned and run by a stout Majorly character who concentrated his semi-retired efforts on a more niche area of trade.
A sign in his window read: Rare and Antique Book Specialist. I left him my copy of Moby Dick and was surprised to be offered, upon my return a few days later, the grand sum of five thousand pounds.
My great grandfathers legacy which, I am convinced was heading to a loving and caring family…if not my own.

It was a Sunday. I know because I had checked the regularity of the bus schedule and saw that they departed on the hour. Sunday time schedule.
Almost three weeks into my new found sobriety I packed my few belongings into a newly purchased rucksack. I left the door keys on a coffee table and walked out of my bedsit. The town looked clean today and so much warmer than I ever remembered it before.
I made my way slowly up the incline of Tregenna Hill towards the bus station. Towns people went about their business. The signs in the doorways of florists, newsagents, coffee shops, gallery’s, estate agents and grocer’s flipped from closed to open.
I received three or four ‘good mornings’ from cheery shop keepers, none of whom suspected who this short haired, clean shaven, smartly dressed man in tweed jacket, cotton trousers and walking boots actually was. Certainly not the unkempt grey figure that he was less than a month ago. The one who spouted continual nonsense about a boy on a bus.

I rounded the slow bend at the top of the hill and slowed my pace as the bus terminus came into view. Incoming passengers were alighting an open top bus as a queue of departing passengers waited to replace them.
I slowed even more, gauging the pace of my steps.
The waiting passengers boarded the bus, the last one paying their fare and prompting the driver to close the door. A hiss of air breaks and the bus pulls away.
I watch from the opposite side of the road as the bus moves past me. I see the faces of the passengers on the lower deck through cleanly washed windows. Passive and happy smiling faces. A group of young holiday makers giggle from the top deck as a sudden warm gust of Atlantic air blows over them.
The bus pulls away.
I am filled with philosophical contentment. Not so much a feeling that I have found any kind of answer but a feeling that an answer lies somewhere…and that, maybe, the answer isn’t that important after all…and that, maybe, what is more important is the journey itself.

I watch the bus accelerate away and I follow its path on foot. And then I see it. The only face looking back at me through the rear window of the bus. A young lad. No more than eleven. Light brown hair not touching his collar. Eyes like the sky and a smile that floods me with warmth. And the bus disappears over the crest of the hill.