I
The Coach
Brenda stared out the window of the coach as it shuddered to a halt in the middle of nowhere, or somewhere; they could be anywhere as far as she knew. The fog outside the window obscured all views that were further than three or four feet away, and the lights from inside the coach reflected the interior from the window back to her in a twisted form of reality.
“Back in your seat, Jordan,” Brenda demanded, and grabbed him around his small waist, planting him firmly back in his place. He wriggled and writhed, but she held firm and shot him a warning glance. She was in no mood to fight tonight.
It had been a long journey, and exhaustion was finally claiming her in its perpetual grip; three hours without a cigarette didn’t help either. She shot the same warning glance at the No Smoking sign on the back of the chair in front of her, and when that didn’t satisfy her, she smacked it with the heel of her hand. The man who had been dozing in that seat peered over the head-rest and threw her a similar look.
“Sorry,” she blushed and returned her gaze to the window.
She could hear rustling all over the coach as passengers, few in number, stirred from sleep or from books and newspapers and peered over the seats in front. The coach had now come to a complete halt and the engine, once noisy in the quiet, still night of the surrounding mountains, was now silent and dead.
“What’s going on?” someone eventually cried from the rear of the coach, and the voice was quickly followed by a murmur of questions and queries from the other passengers. The driver stood up, holding his hands up to appease the people he had driven the last two hundred miles and called for calm.
“It’s okay. We seem to have a small problem with the engine. I know what it is, so I’m just going to check the back and then we’ll be on our way.”
A blonde woman, all big hair and puff-ball black jacket who was sitting alone two seats from the driver stood up and surveyed the coach. “What was that flash?” she asked, and Brenda turned and stared at Jordan.
She hadn’t seen any flash, and assumed it had been in her son’s mind. Now she wondered if she had in fact dosed off and not known it. She cupped her hands and squinted into the murky grey of the fog but it was useless: she could see nothing. Jordan sat on his hands and stretched his four year old body as high as he could, occasionally leaning over the side of the arm rest and looking up and down the aisle. He was agitated; a long coach trip with only a colouring book for entertainment took its toll on a child with such a short attention span. The colouring book had been thrown on the floor only and hour into the trip.
“Sit still, Jordan,” Brenda snapped, and returned her gaze to the window.
***
Veronica Player – stage name, stage presence - whipped out her make-up compact and studied the tired lines around her eyes. She smoothed out the dry lipstick to give it an air of being refreshed and snapped the compact shut, unable to look upon her aging countenance for too long. She was sure there were more lines around the corners of her mouth than there had been this morning. But then, the artificial lighting on the coach was a little unforgiving, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought.
‘What was that damn driver doing now?’ she thought, and peered out the window and downwards.
He was fidgeting around at the back of the bus and she could hear clanging noises that were doing her head no good at all. She needed a drink, and after glancing around the coach to make sure no one was watching, she plucked a flask from her handbag, undid the screw top and took a long, welcome swallow. She sighed loudly, and burped softly against the back of her hand, slipping the flask back into her bag as surreptitiously as she had drawn it out.
She glanced at her watch; it was a little after nine pm, another two hours of driving through black mountains and countryside before they reached Aberdeen. If they managed to get the coach started and didn’t waste any more time. She was due onstage at midnight and every minute counted if she was to be ready on time.
Well, she was often fashionably late. It added to her allure and it was sometimes a good thing to keep her fans waiting, even if they were probably so drunk by that time that they didn’t know who was performing on stage. She could have been a drag act as far as they were aware.
Someone made a commotion from the back of the coach and Veronica craned her head up and glared at them. There were two teenaged girls and a similarly aged young boy travelling on their own in the back seat near the small toilet. They had by all accounts been asleep all through the minor disturbance of the coach stalling and had only just now realised they were not home yet.
“Why have we stopped?” the boy called out, craning his head in the direction of the drivers seat, and Veronica slipped out her flask again to take another drink.
***
The little boy behind was now kick-kicking his feet against the seat next to John’s in an annoying rhythm that sent vibrations up his back, and he was quickly losing patience. He liked children; had always wanted a little Johnny of his own. But they could sure as hell be irritating. The mother was attractive, if a little plain looking in the black overcoat she was wearing. Her hair was strawberry blonde and neat, and although she was attractive, there were telltale lines of a hard life around her eyes. He had seen that when he threw her an annoyed look when she had smacked the back of his seat. She was the kind of woman who would be safe and reliable, unlike the feisty, free spirited bitch who was his ex wife.
Thank god that was over.
The teenage boy from the back of the coach had awoken his friends and they were jumping from one side of the coach to the other, trying to see out the windows. They were as much in the dark as everyone else on board and John felt like screaming at them to sit down and shut up. His temper was frayed and the coach breaking down had only added to his anxiety. To make matters worse, he felt the familiar throb of a migraine beginning, and he prayed it wouldn’t amount to too much of a nightmare; the cooling strips he used on his forehead were in his case in the belly of the coach, as were his extra strong painkillers.
John flicked open the newspaper he had read front to back, even the usually avoided sports pages, and wished he had brought a book, or at least another newspaper or magazine. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night, and although he had nothing in particular to rush home for, he still preferred his small cramped flat in the ass end of the city to the claustrophobic interior of a broken down coach.
***
“Stop nudging me, woman,” Michael snapped and pushed at the bulky figure of his wife who was leaning over him to peer out of the window. Her massive frame, which should really have been given two seats on its own, blocked out the light and made it nigh on impossible for him to see the small print of the John Le Carre book he was greedily digesting.
“I’m trying to see what the driver’s doing. Stop your whinging.”
Christine wiped at the glass, and when that didn’t offer any better a view, she breathed condensation onto it and scrubbed at it furiously with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“It’s fog, you silly lump. You can’t clean it,” Michael smirked and pushed at her again, more forcefully this time. “Go into the seat behind me. You’ll get a better view.”
Christine paid no heed to her husband’s wise words and squinted through her sixties-styled glasses into the foggy greyness beyond the window. There was nothing to see but fog, fog and more fog, and the slick blackness of the road on which they seemed stuck. She glanced in each direction, but the more she concentrated on seeing past the impenetrable blanket of greyness, the more her own reflection peered back at her.
“Did you see that flash? Do you think it was the engine blowing up?” she asked, and Michael resolved himself to the fact that he would never finish the last twenty pages of the book he was reading in these circumstances. He slammed the cover shut and slipped it into the bag down the side of the chair where his wife had stashed the packets of biscuits and flask of coffee.
“Engine’s don’t blow up, Christine. We’ve just stalled. It was probably lightening.”
“But there was no thunder,” she replied wonderingly, attempting to correlate the lack a thunder clap with a flash of lightening. She puzzled it for a moment and then sat back down in her seat, the fat from her sides – she called it love handles but any professional dietician would call it dangerous obesity – rolling over the sides. She fidgeted for a moment, smoothing out the wrinkles in her hand knitted cardigan, her favourite travelling garment, and picking flecks of imaginary fluff from her floral skirt.
“You always treat me like a fool, Michael,” she huffed. “Just because I’m not as smart as you or as well read.”
He ignored her and leaned back on the head-rest. His neck was stiff from reading so long and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and catch forty winks. From thirty eight years of marriage however he knew that when Christine wanted an argument and felt as though her feelings had been dealt a hard blow, he would never hear the end of it until she was satisfied that he was well and truly sorry. He was in no mood at the moment though to placate the imaginary hurt she was feeling. He was tired, and approaching sixty years old took its toll on the appreciation of a long trip.
“What were you reading, anyway?” she asked, changing the subject when she realised he was not going to budge from his stubborn position.
“You wouldn’t know it,” Michael muttered and rolled his head away from her, hoping she would take the hint.
“I take it by that you mean it’s too high-brow for me? You ever read any Jackie Collins, Michael Watson? She’s a very good writer. Very real characters. And all those goings on in Hollywood. It’s no wonder they’re all on drugs. I was speaking to Ertha Pullman a few weeks ago and she totally agrees with me. They’re either all high or they had some of their brains sucked out when they had that plastic shenanigans done to their faces.”
Michael sat bolt upright and glared at his wife. “What the hell are you talking about, woman? Can I not have a little kip? We’ve been on this bloody coach for nearly three hours and I’m tired. Now shut up and read some of your Jackie Collins and leave me in peace.”
Christine stared at him as though he had just smacked her right across the face; all bulging eyes and a half open mouth that looked like she might have a lost a little of her own brains. Her lips trembled and she was about to retaliate with a small plaintive, hurt sentiment when the coach rocked as the heavily set driver stepped back on board and issued the bad news.
***
Colin Buchanan held up his hands as every pair of eyes on the coach stared at him, all ten of them, judging by a quick and secret head count. He was ready for an outburst, and having been in this situation many times during his twenty years driving the dangerous roads of the Cairngorms, he was quick to fish out the ones who would be most trouble. He glanced furtively at the woman with the big hair two rows back and noted the groggy, alcohol fuelled look in her heavily made up eyes. She was one to look out for.
He also noted that the three teenagers in the back seat were now awake; he wouldn’t have to yell to get their attention now.
“I’m sorry, people, but I have some bad news. This coach isn’t going anywhere tonight. The battery’s gone.”
The elderly couple shot each other a glance as other voices called out from their seats. It was the elderly woman he addressed however when she asked the most stupid question he had ever heard.
“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Has someone taken it?”
It took a moment for Colin to realise she was being deadly serious.
“Gone, as in burst. It shows fine on the meter, but it’s leaked all over the fuselage and burned out the motor. The engine is dead as a result.”
“But we’re in the middle of nowhere,” piped in the woman with the big hair, her words slightly slurred. He was sure he could smell the citrus stench of gin even from this distance.
The teenagers in the back row whipped out a mobile phone each almost in unison and started pushing buttons fervently. Finally one of the girls held hers aloft and started waving it around her head slowly. Colin thought he heard her curse as she and her friends each tried in vain to get a reception, which he knew was futile. These mountains were the hardest places at the best of times to get a signal on his own, top of the range mobile, but with the fog, it would impossible.
“Those won’t work out here,” Colin said in a blunt, matter of fact way, patting the phone in his chest pocket. “I’ve already tried.
A young girl in her early twenties who sat halfway up the coach remained silent, unwilling to seem openly fazed or worried about their situation, and she was the only person who didn’t bombard him with a volley of questions. As the chorus of worried voices grew louder he held up his hands again and gestured for them to be quiet before he continued.
“We’re not exactly in the middle of nowhere. There’s a sign just up the road a little. Cairnkirk is a mile and a half away. The only problem is we’ll have to get there on foot. We can call for help from there. Now, we can either all go together or someone can come with me, but I’d prefer if we all went.”
“Why do we all have to go?” It was the woman with the young boy who spoke up. She seemed genuinely worried not for herself but for her young son, and she draped a protective arm around his small shoulders.
“Because I would feel better if there was no one on this coach if a tractor or truck plows into the back of it. I’ve put up a breakdown sign a few feet from the rear, but in this weather, a driver might not see it in time to brake.”
Now the faces of the passengers seemed almost comically to droop together as every expression became identical. Those who could easily do so glanced at each other for reassurance or companionship, and those who were separated by more than a few rows simply stared at Colin as if he held all the answers to their problems. And in a way he did, as he was the only person here who knew these roads like the back of his hand although, and he wouldn’t admit this to a single person lest he cause panic, he had never heard of the town or village of Cairnkirk. He had never even seen the sign before.
He didn’t want to admit it to himself, or indeed to any of the passengers, but he had possibly taken a wrong turn in the fog and missed their eventual meeting with the dual carriageway. He simply had no way of knowing.
“Are we all agreed? We all go into Cairnkirk and find a phone?”
His question was met by a disgruntled affirmative and the passengers began to rise and shuffle. Some had handbags to collect and backpacks stuffed with food and drink for their journeys and they were collected as though their final destination had been reached. They shuffled down the centre aisle and Colin stepped from the coach and into the chilly, unforgiving night.
***
Veronica stepped off the coach first, throwing her handbag over her shoulder and plucking a packet of strong cigarettes from her jacket pocket. She lit one up and almost stumbled forward as the excitable four year old pushed past her legs and into the road, his mother calling after him. She felt the presence of the other passengers around her as they stepped down from their useless transport and studied the few feet in either direction they could see.
“So where’s he gone?” Veronica asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette, noting that the mother of the toddler had the same idea and she slipped her a sly wink.
Everyone looked around, trying to see through the veil that obscured their view. The elderly woman who had asked the stupid question started calling ‘driver, driver’, a tone of panic in her voice, and her strong willed husband told her to shut up, a sentiment shared by Veronica. Had she been a little more inebriated she might have smacked the hysterical woman around the head.
“He was here a minute ago,” Veronica said. “He maybe ran on ahead.”
Perhaps it was the slow dulling of her brain by the alcohol, or perhaps because she wasn’t a panicky woman by nature, but she really couldn’t care less whether the driver had fallen down a pot hole and broken his neck. As far as she was concerned, he had gotten them into this mess in the first place, and had most probably caused her to lose out on her wages for the nights work.
The man with dark hair and semi-handsome features, at least handsome enough through gin soaked eyes, tried to placate everyone’s rising fears with words of calming wisdom. He surmised that the driver had skipped on ahead, even though he would have to have been surprisingly quick for a man of his size, and that they should just follow.
But follow where? That was the question on everyone’s lips. They had no idea where they were going. And now the little boy started calling to the driver too when it became apparent that a shared feeling of dread was passing through each and every passenger and touching them in a way that the boy felt more acutely. His mother tried to hush him, and he held tightly to her leg as though fearful she would suddenly disappear as the driver apparently had.
“I see the sign,” said one of the teenage girls, who seemed as worry free and fearless as Veronica did. To children of that age, not yet old enough to make their own decisions, but wise enough to hide their true intelligence from their parents, this all seemed like one big adventure and something to tell their school friends the next day. Veronica envied them their carefree spirits, and their young, lithe bodies. She glared at the girl with all the jealous vehemence she could muster.
The small group of passengers made their way the few yards up the gently sloping road, where they soon realised it branched off in two directions, one to the north west of where they stood to some unknown destination, and the other, as the sign indicated, one and a half miles to Cairnkirk, a village or town neither of them had ever heard of. They glanced at each other, the thoughts plain as day one each of their faces, even though in the darkness they should really have seen nothing. It was more a feeling that each of them gave off, a smell of fear made visible as though extra senses had kicked in when their eyesight couldn’t function properly.
“Do we hold hands, or what?” Veronica asked sarcastically, but it wasn’t as dim-witted a question as it first seemed. They were in the middle of nowhere, with little light to guide their way, and no one to lead them. There could be cliffs or steep slopes out there in the darkness and fog, hidden from view until the moment was too late. There could be wild animals, even though Veronica could not think of no wild animal in the Scottish countryside that posed a threat to humans.
But now that she thought about it, that was what was missing out here, on the lonely road to nowhere where anything might, and could go wrong; animal sounds. Not a single rustle from the grass at the side of the road. Not the flap of wings or a cry from a nocturnal bird overhead. It was as if they had been transplanted on an alien planet where life forms were invisible and quiet, phantoms to be felt rather than experienced with all senses, and she shivered in spite of her tough demeanour.
She didn’t want to voice her concerns to the rest of the passengers either. They would think her crazy. A drunkard with too much make up and enough hairspray on her head to destroy the ozone above a small country. She lit up another cigarette and waited for the signal to move forward.
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