The Bus on Thursday Read online

  “You have infected me.”

  So I just look at him and I say, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  And then he’s saying, “Oh, I don’t blame you. I blame myself. I was ill-prepared. I should have fasted. I should have used holy water. But no, I saw a need and I thought I could do it, and now I have prostate cancer. Do you see?”

  I am shaking my head, in disbelief more than anything. So he leans right into my face and he says: “It departed you and it entered me.”

  I go icy calm. I say to him: “Let me get this straight. You have prostate cancer?”

  And he says, “I’ve just come from my urologist this minute.”

  “You think I gave it to you?”

  “Yes, unwittingly.”

  I take a deep breath and I say, “Listen, mister. Do you have any idea how common prostate cancer is in men your age? Talk to your urologist. I did not give it to you. The cancer did not depart my body and enter yours. And, fyi, Friar Hernandez, just by the way, cancer is many things, but one thing it isn’t is contagious.”

  This is when he got scary. Up until now, he’d been a bit mad but mostly pathetic. All disheveled and sweaty and loserish. But now he seems actually, certifiably, dangerously insane. Like a psychopath. His eyes have this manic gleam, and he’s saying, “It’s the demon, don’t you understand? The demon that I cast out of you has entered me. I was vulnerable, and it saw that I was vulnerable—”

  At which point, I shout at the top of my voice, “PLEASE DEPART.”

  Except not so politely.

  And then I shout, “DO ME A FAVOR AND KINDLY STAY AWAY FROM ME FOREVER.”

  Also not so politely.

  But he just stands there, taking big deep breaths like he’s preparing for a long swim underwater. And then he says: “Maybe you’re right.”

  I don’t say anything. Because I have come to realize that every time I say something, this guy seems to feed off it somehow or use it against me. So I stay mute while he edges around me like I’m some kind of tarantula. And he says in a very low voice, “When I look at you, I can see it there still. Oh yes. I can see it still residing there within you. So perhaps I wasn’t entirely successful…”

  I shove him as hard as I can—I actually can’t believe the strength I suddenly find within myself—I shove him out the door so hard he crashes backward into the lockers in the corridor, and then I slam the door and I lock it. I lean against it with my full body weight, breathing hard. To be honest, I’m surprised at myself. Also I’m wondering whether I’ve hurt him. I can hear him whimpering and moaning out in the corridor, but I don’t want to open the door and check because I suspect he might be tricking me. Sure enough, after a while, I hear him creeping away.

  Only in Talbingo, folks.

  Unbelievable.

  So when I finally pull myself together after all that, I get my bag and I unlock the classroom door and I’m on my way out when I realize Glenda is still in her office, just sitting quietly at her desk. So even though the last thing I feel like is a chinwag with Glenda, I do the decent thing and pop my head in and say good night.

  And she turns to look at me, and I can see she has been sitting there crying for a good long time, because her eyes are red and her face is all puffy and swollen. And she says: “What did he want?”

  I say, “Who?”

  “Friar Hernandez,” says Glenda. “Who do you think?”

  “I don’t know, he wanted to say a prayer or something.”

  She doesn’t say anything to this, just sits there, so I wait for a moment to see if she’s going to volunteer anything else. I notice the bin has been emptied and the strand of my hair has been removed from the filing cabinet handle and the whole room stinks of antibacterial spray. After a few minutes seem to have ticked by or possibly a lifetime or two, filled only by the sound of Glenda sniffling into her sodden hanky, I say in a loud, cheerful voice, “Okay, well, have a nice evening, Glenda! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And then she says, “It’s a very odd coincidence, isn’t it, Miss Mellett, that you should find the body.”

  Well, after the day I’ve had, this really takes the biscuit. I suddenly feel immensely weary, just exhausted from all the nonsense I am continually expected to endure in this backwater. I turn and I say, “What are you suggesting, Glenda? That in my desperation to secure this position, I murdered my predecessor?”

  And Glenda says, “Well, let’s face it, you’ve never had a single nice thing to say about her.”

  A horrible silence descends between us. Then I turn and leave.

  Okay, so I’m sound asleep and I’m dreaming that I’m making out with Gregory in the backseat of his Charger. Suddenly I think, Wait a minute, if we’re in the backseat, who the hell is driving?? And I look up, and somehow I realize it’s his dad driving and his mum beside him in the front seat—also Ryan’s in the backseat with us, squished up against the door, playing on his Nintendo. So that’s embarrassing, given Gregory and I are practically having sex. And I’m trying to get a good look at the parents, because I’m curious, but all I can see is the backs of their heads and the dad’s fingers tap-tap-tapping on the steering wheel. Meanwhile I’m starting to become aware of this strange erratic rumbling noise, and I’m thinking, What is that? Because it sounds familiar, and the familiarity is making me uneasy. And then I see it—it’s the bus again, the horrible stinking bus I got stuck behind, but now it’s coming straight for us on the highway. But the dad doesn’t seem alarmed, in fact he doesn’t even seem to see it, because he’s certainly not taking any evasive action, and I’m thinking, Of course! This must be how they got themselves killed in a car crash! And then I think, Hang on, does that mean I’m about to die too?? So I’m gesturing wildly at the bus and trying to warn them but I can’t seem to form the words, and next I hear this terrible asthmatic squeal as the bus slams on its air brakes, and I think, This is it, this is how I’m going to die, how ludicrous—

  And then I wake up. With a start, like they do in the movies. I lie there in bed for a moment before it dawns on me. The dream is over but I can still hear a rumbling noise. And it’s coming from outside.

  I get out of bed and creep to the lounge room window, which is the window that faces the street. And even before I pull the curtain aside, I know what I’m about to see.

  It’s the bus, of course. The horrible stinking bus.

  I swear to God.

  Parked right outside my house on the street.

  Its engine is idling, really rough, like it’s got the wrong fuel, and every now and then it makes a kind of lurching sound, as if someone’s giving the accelerator a bit of juice. Its headlights are on, and its interior lights, too, but they’re very dim and kind of bluish. From what I can make out, it seems to be empty. Nor can I see any driver, but I guess there has to be one because now the door opens, by which I mean the bus door.

  It opens like it’s expecting a passenger.

  And for some reason, this just freaks me out. I mean, I’m seriously unnerved anyway, owing to the day I’ve had, but the way this bus door slides open, complete with wheezy sound effects, this just spooks the bejesus out of me.

  So immediately I pull the curtain shut. Then I run to the front door and make sure all the locks are bolted. Likewise the back door. Then I stand there stock-still in the hallway. My heart is thumping so loud, I swear I can actually hear it.

  Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

  So I try to talk some sense to myself. I say, Eleanor, seriously, this is just a bus. This is just a bus which happens to be parked outside your house. Are you now developing a phobia of public transport?

  Okay, you’ve had a bad experience with a bus. Possibly this exact same bus, although admittedly it’s hard to be sure in the darkness. But when you really examine that previous incident closely, was it not caused by your own stupidity and impatience to get home and crack open the sav blanc asap?

  True …

  But why does (possibly) this very same bus
now materialize outside my house in the middle of the fucking night?

  Harassment, that’s what this is.

  And at the very least, if this is not direct harassment, then it’s extremely inconsiderate of the driver to be idling his rattly old rust bucket directly outside my house at such an ungodly hour. (Okay, it is only 11:30 p.m., but still, I was sound asleep, having sex with Gregory.) So I decide to confront him. In my nightie. I surprise myself sometimes with my assertiveness.

  I go to the front door and undo all the locks, then I open it. The first thing that hits me is the smell. It smells noxious, like it’s emitting all sorts of toxic exhaust fumes. Also, the rumbling is now much louder, interspersed with the odd clunk and rattle—seriously, this bus needs its muffler attended to at the very least.

  And for what seems the longest time, I just stand there on the porch and stare at it. Because now I am struggling with two equally strong but conflicting desires:

  1. I want to run back inside, lock the doors, and hide under the bed.

  2. I want to board that bus.

  It’s like the feeling you get sometimes with heights—standing on the edge of the Ridge, for example. It is simultaneously extremely scary and yet somehow weirdly compelling. There’s a pull, I guess, is the best way to describe it.

  Likewise with this bus. It’s something about the fact that it opened its door—it feels like it opened for me. Consequently, I feel an anxiety not to keep it waiting. Like, if I test its patience by dilly-dallying too much, it might leave without me. Yet at the same time, I cannot seem to get my feet to move. It requires an enormous exertion of will for me to finally step off that porch and onto the path. And even then, it’s a weirdly slow, stilted, stiff-legged walk, like a paraplegic’s first steps or something. Part of my brain is trying to hold me back is what it feels like. Part of my brain is so desperate for me not to board that bus, it is trying to get me to forget how to walk. Like I suddenly have no notion of what my knees are for.

  So with my nightie flapping about me in the wind, I’m staggering down the path toward the bus. And as I get within about a meter of it, I reach out toward it and the door slides shut. Very abrupt, with a nasty metallic sound like it fully intended to take off my fingers. Then the whole bus gives a kind of shudder, like someone’s walked over its grave. It moves off very heavily, working through its gears, and lumbers around the corner into Pether Street, scraping up against a street sign in the process. I can no longer see it now, but I can hear it, which is almost worse, lurching and wheezing through the back streets. Finally it reaches the highway—I can tell by the whining sound of its engines ramping up to full throttle.

  I stand there listening for a solid ten minutes, till I’m not sure I can even hear it anymore. Then I realize my feet have gone numb on the cold ground, so I hurry back inside, pull all the locks across, and bury myself under the blankets. But I can’t sleep, so I get up and write it all down. And now the strange thing is, I’m wondering if I didn’t actually dream the whole thing. Something was certainly weird about it all.

  It’s getting so that I don’t trust my own consciousness.

  Is that mets? Is that what brain metastases feel like?

  I can’t afford to think like this. I need to sleep. I need to get some actual sleep.

  I just had a thought. An actual rational thought.

  If the street sign is damaged, then it actually happened.

  If the street sign is not damaged, then I must have hallucinated the whole thing.

  I’m going to put my coat on and run up and check.

  The street sign is not damaged.

  I am going mad.

  So anyone might think I’d had enough drama for the week, but in fact there was more to come. Thank God it’s Friday, is all I can say. And the irony is that I came to Talbingo to escape the stress! Because stress is just like the worst possible thing for breast cancer. And on a scale of 1 to being carted off to the nuthouse in a straitjacket, let’s just say I am well and truly into the red section. I mean, the needle is probably spinning around and around like it does in cartoons. Like the altimeter in a cockpit when a plane goes into a graveyard spiral.

  So my day begins at dawn. For some reason, I’m suddenly wide-awake, even after having seriously about two hours sleep max. I get up and go to the window and peer out. The kangaroos are moving down to the water and, as I’m watching them, I catch a glimpse of movement in the Pondage. It’s hard to see because of the mist, but there seems to be a small figure wading waist-deep. And even from this distance, I can tell that it’s Ryan.

  I think, Shit! What’s he doing? I throw some clothes on, and I hurry down to the edge of the Pondage. And there he is, quite a way in now, right up to his chest, in fact. I call out to him, “Ryan! What are you doing?” But he doesn’t seem to hear me. And then I realize that he seems to have a small fishing net in his hand and he is ducking down under the water and then reemerging with the net filled with mud and Pondage crap. He sifts through it quickly, tips it out, and goes under again for more. The air temperature, I might add, is about four degrees Celsius. I know from experience that the Pondage water would be practically zero. I mean, how can he stand it? Why hasn’t the boy got hypothermia? It’s insane!

  So next time he pops his head up out of the water, I scream out to him again, louder this time. And he looks up and sees me and gives a little wave, then just continues sifting through the contents of his net. So I holler at him, “Ryan! Come out! I don’t think it’s safe in there!” But he just ignores me. I realize then that as the only adult present, I have no other option but to go in and drag him out. So in I go, fully clothed, like an idiot.

  Immediately my legs start cramping from the cold, like they did yesterday. Also, I have a lot of clothes on and the weight of them waterlogged is pulling me under. And the bottom of the Pondage is so boggy—it’s a huge effort to drag my feet up out of the mud. It’s getting worse the deeper I go, till the mud actually pulls one of my Blundstones off and then, with the next step, the other one. So now I’ve lost my favorite boots—thanks a lot, Ryan! And all the while I’m struggling out to him, Ryan’s busily ducking underwater and scooping, then examining his net, tipping out the contents, and scooping again. I keep screaming out his name, but it’s almost like he doesn’t hear me. I’m becoming more and more breathless with the exertion, and I suddenly realize with a jolt of horror that there’s a very good chance I could drown out here. And one nanosecond after I have this realization, I go under.

  I’m not sure what happened. I must have stepped into a hole. And although I excel at holding my breath, I wasn’t prepared this time, and I have nothing, no breath in my lungs at all. I thrash around underwater, trying to fight my way to the surface, but my clothes just keep pulling me down again.

  I manage to pull off my duffle coat and that action frees me enough to fight my way to the surface for a quick gasp of air, and then I go under again. Now I’m frantic. I’m not even sure that Ryan has noticed my predicament. I try to pull off my jumper next—it’s the big heavy cable-knit that Mum knitted me, and as usual she’s done the neckband too tight and it’s all caught up around my face like it’s trying to smother me, but I know I have to get it off or it will drown me. I’m completely fucking panicking. The more I struggle, the tighter the jumper seems to wrap itself around my head, and now my arms are all entangled in it. My brain is screaming for oxygen. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand the burning, bursting feeling in my lungs and the terrible, terrible sense of panic and I think, well, maybe it’s just easier to breathe—but some last vestige of survival instinct screams, NO, ELEANOR, WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T TRY TO BREATHE! IF YOU BREATHE UNDERWATER, YOU’LL DIE!

  So I breathe. Underwater.

  The next thing I know, I’m lying on the shore amid all the reeds and duck poo and I’m vomiting up water and bile and tadpoles and duckling feathers. I look up and there’s Ryan standing over me, and there’s a shaft of golden sunlight behind him because the sun has
just come up over the mountains. It’s like I’m seeing some kind of vision—Ryan the Exalted, the Glorious. And when I finally get my breath, I gasp out: “How did you do it? How did you save me?” Because I cannot imagine how he managed to pull me in, him being just a kid and me being all tangled up in my waterlogged clothes. But he just shrugs and says, “Well, it wasn’t that deep. I don’t know why you didn’t just stand up. I think you were having some kind of panic attack or something.” And when he says those words, “panic attack,” I feel this wave of indescribable rage and anger. Because that’s what Josh always used to accuse me of: having panic attacks as some kind of attention-seeking device. Even though I had every legitimate reason to be panicking, i.e. like the time I locked myself in the boot of the car and Josh didn’t even notice I was missing. So I say to Ryan, “Of course I was panicking! I was worried you would drown! What were you doing in there anyway? It was a stupid, stupid thing to do!” And then he tells me he was trying to find Miss Barker’s hand.

  So apparently word is out among the tweenies that Miss Barker’s corpse was missing a hand, and Ryan’s being all junior detective: “Why would she be missing a hand? Two hands, yes, I can understand that. Someone’s trying to disguise her identity. But one hand? It doesn’t make sense!” And I say, “Maybe a fish ate it. Did you think of that?” And he says, incredulously, “A fish ate an entire hand?” So I say, “Well, maybe it was several fish. A whole bunch of fish.” But he still doesn’t buy it. I’m getting a bit fed up now because the last thing I want to talk about is Miss Barker’s hand, especially since Ryan’s actual brother, who I’m in love with, is the one that, uh, shall we say, removed it from her. So I’m like, “Look, Ryan, why don’t we just let the police do their work. In the meantime, stay out of the Pondage. It’s too dangerous.”

  And suddenly I become aware of the fact that I am shivering violently because I am in fact tremendously cold, and that is because I am clad only in my muddy underwear, which is rather embarrassing. I have no idea what happened to my jeans. So I stand up and I say to him very sternly, “Listen, Ryan, you are not to tell a soul about this, all right? If you tell anyone, I am going to make sure there are very serious repercussions for you. Like maybe a foster home or a juvenile detention center.” And he gets a bit upset about this but he finally agrees, and then I run home in the misty dawn, praying that nobody sees me. It would confirm everyone’s opinion of me, that’s for sure, to see me scuttling across the golf course in my muddy undies.