Fish

… he ran and ran and run run run down by the canal running harder and harder striding and further and further and running and running and not looking back and rounding the corner feeling confident scared shrewd stupid RUN RUN RUN leaning forward and downward and down down down to the towpath sucking in breath and holding it - holding it – jump! … Arc through the air, breaking through water arching arm over arm, cutting the surface swimming harder and harder and over and over and suddenly out.

Broken.

           He sits broken in a mesh of brambles under the searching branches of a leafless oak. Not moving. Not trusting. Smother the breathing. Slow the breathing, slowly, slowly, silence the mind; blank the outside; blind to their stare: blind to a breath that mists through the air.

The red glow of the liquid crystal display showed only four minutes of his workout to go when the phone rang. He ignored it and worked the rowing machine harder; pulling the chain back further; rushing the air through the spinning wheel; trying to drown out the phone. The chain jumped and buckled against its guard; but the ring, ring, ringing disrupted his rhythm; his stroke; his breath; chiming seconds through seconds; second to second – he stopped. He’d swallowed his breath and a huge bubble of air had caught in his chest; causing a shock of pain that forced him into a cuddle in his seat where for a few seconds he enjoyed the warmth of self-embracing arms.

The ringing returned to the beat of his heart and mingled with the sound of hard breathing. He was still sat on the rower and his feet were still fastened. He acted; powering his upper body forward towards the Velcro straps, fingers outstretched; making a grab at the corners, but mistiming it; his body springing back to leave him sitting straight once more. He took a breath and then made another go at it; expelling air from his lungs as his stomach contracted; staying down longer; making contact with the Velcro corners and ripping them back to release his feet; his body simultaneously falling back from the retracting seat. He lay in a heap on the floor.

Stepping up he sent his hand out to find support from the adjacent cross-trainer, but he missed it, he was missing everything today, and tripped over the base and smashed his shin into the metal strut; sending him to his knees. The man sucked saliva through his teeth; carefully getting up and moving over to sit on the blanket box in the corner; the mirror on the open wardrobe door watching him cover his shin with moist massaging palms; gently easing the pain.

He looked up and his eyes set on his moment of waking: a moment caught by what looked like some sort of conceptual art. But it looked too much like that: it looked like an exhibit. Yes, an exhibit: too contrived – not real. An unmade queen-sized bed that had two perfectly stacked and puffed up red satin pillows on the right hand side: puffed up pillows that lay untouched next to a gloss-red bedside cabinet and here - here the single tube of a chrome lamp that should’ve been shining down onto that old Indonesian magazine spread out beneath. It was this magazine that made it all look fake; made it look like it had been deliberately left open; open to deliberately show the glossy picture of that pretty little Asian girl; a deliberately pretty little Asian girl who had ‘Agnes Monica’ written in celebrity silver across the breasts of her tight-fitting fucking T-shirt.

Sitting alone on the blanket box in the corner, Tony noticed the mirror and looked away. He pressed his foot flat on the carpet, gently moving his leg from side to side: the pain still present. Only now did he realise the phone had stopped. He lifted himself up and made his way downstairs; stepping through the hurt and leaving little tears of sweat to burst against the bare rungs of the staircase.

Entering the living room, Tony broke into a vertical stream of dust-filled light that poured through a crack in the curtains. He passed through; blacking out half the room; until the light flashed back; catching his sight and spinning it round to stop on the brilliantly illuminated electric pink replica phone: Evan’s electric pink replica phone. The one they had picked up from the Tate Britain shop; the one that had an authentic ring tone: ‘Oh, I love old ring tone like that Tony. You get for pretty Evan Tony? Please Tony, please…’ Tony, Tony, Tony! Tony was standing in the middle of the room, understanding the replica circular dial which hadn’t moved but faced him with derision from the table; its colour glaring at him; wanting Evan back; not understanding what had happened; wanting to be touched with a delicate finger. He considered it a moment and saw his muscular arm reaching forward; unclenching its fist to make a finger that squeezed its thick yellowing nail into the petite little hole; hiding the zero; making the first necessary half-circle as he dialled the only number he knew by heart: his mother’s.

He rang until the phone cut in to explain his mother wasn’t in, that he could leave a message if he wanted to… But he didn’t want to, and he didn’t want to think about who else could’ve been calling either. Tony turned to examine the old futon instead; figuring out why it looked so tired; standing back to see how far it was leaning back; and yes, it was resting on the windowsill; trapping the curtains: it needed straightening. He rubbed his hands to signal a clean up, and with a show of enthusiasm he pulled the futon forward and straightened it up against its hinges; pushing it back towards the window and making sure that a small gap was left for the curtains. He stepped back to look at the change. It was dramatic: the futon looked like a sofa, but now its seated position had exposed two lost mugs between its legs and Tony was no longer distracted. He turned and retreated upstairs; walking past his bedroom door nice and quick on his way to get washed. He opened the door to the once dazzlingly clean bathroom, but the chrome taps were dull; bending into the bath where a series of dark rings had merged into one; broken only where he rested his back. He bent forward to put the plug in and twisted the hot tap; ignoring the grime. It’s amazing what you can ignore, he thought.

Again the phone ring rang rung. He guessed the persistence of a computerised call centre and shut the door, but it only muted the sound a little and he withdrew to the corner of the bath; sitting on the edge; trying to ignore it; massaging the bridge of his nose with strong index fingers. It might not be the bank, he thought, it could be anybody. But why would anybody ring? No, it’s the bank; some teenage boy on a minimum wage; reading from a script; not listening; acting all grown up and demanding a payment or… He was paranoid: he would dial 1471 and check the number out on the internet. Yes, technology was great.

But he didn’t check anything: he had to start work in forty minutes, so the bath was quick and the uniform quicker before he sat on the futon downstairs. He picked up a silver plastic control and with the press of a button Sky News broke the silence; an excited reporter talking over a perfectly filmed ocean; a perfectly filmed ocean that was breaking over Japan and swamping Gadaffi. Teeth then laundered soggy cornflakes which were sweetened with banana slices and followed up with a dirty mug of tea and four Tesco value crumpets; oozing with olive margarine and marmite. Then he was out: running on pedals as he rode up to the bridge before turning a black knobbly tyre onto the canal’s towpath and then on and on and on to work.

When he arrived the buses were parked at all angles in the depot; drivers’ walking round; some stopping to chat while they checked lights, wheels, emergency exits: lit cigarettes. The twenty four year old controller tugged at his yellow high-visibility vest, ‘Tony! Where’s ya High-vis’!’ But Tony cycled past and hid his bike between two blue steel containers round the back; hearing the controller giving it to Gordon who was retiring next year, ‘Put your tie on Gordon!’

‘IDIOT’

In the, well, I don’t know what you’d call it, it was just a room with a long table and a few chairs scattered about; a few bus drivers sitting around with early morning faces that said I’m awake and I’m happy and nothing’s gonna get me down. From behind the coffee machine came a friendly voice with the same old greeting he had used ever since seeing Evan and Tony together, ‘Hey Tony! How’s ya sexy little immigrant boy Tony?’ Tony shrugged his shoulders in a visual cliché of affected confusion. ‘You know I’m only messin with ya, don’t ya?’ he said, like he always said; through a nice big warm friendly smile; grabbing Tony round the shoulders and giving him a couple of friendly digs in the arm. ‘Hey, you got any smokes?’ begged Tony; steering the conversation away from Evan. Tony got his cigarette and the two men went for a smoke; Tony finding out that his colleague was leaving the country: the bank had put a payment order on his wages. ‘Oh’, said Tony, unintentionally dismissive: not wanting to think about that.

Tony went back in to get his paperwork and then out again to find bus number 8066: the one with the unadjustable seat. His first job was to drive over to Blackwood and there he was; picking up the kids for the school run; stopping over at the army barracks to get that gang of teenage girls: the girls that sat at the back and enjoyed tormenting him. But he wasn’t going to shout, he thought, he didn’t care what they did. And so Tony picked them up and it began all over again: ‘Can’t you drive more carefully? No one else hits the bumps like that! No one else drives the bus soooo BADLY!– Driver! Driver!’ And then another voice: a six-former taking control like a pantomime dame, ‘He’s ignoooring you! Heeee caaaan’t heeaar yooou!’ And then it came, ‘Driver! Driver!’ ‘Louder, louder!’ ‘Driver! Driver! Driver! Driver!’ The little ones at the front turning it into a song; and so it went, over and over and over and over; fragmented with laughter; high pitched laughter; all with a purpose; all having fun. He could feel himself breaking. He wanted to – He wanted to say ‘Shut the fuck up!’ But he didn’t. No. No, he drove on. He drove on and his chest tightened. Him; wanting to kill. Him; wanting to grab that fuckin slut of a fat six-form girl by the neck and throw her off the fuckin bus by her neck and shout something fuckin horrible about those stupid letters sown across her big fat back: the letters that spelt a big massive BUFF for fuck’s sake!. But he didn’t. No, Tony drove on; his chest tightening. He could do nothing but ask for quiet and be drowned out by even louder laughter. He’d done it all before, and they knew that’s all he could do: they knew. All he had to do was a fifteen minute school run, that was all, that was all he had to do. He could do it and next time he’d bring ear plugs: that’s what he’d do. But what always amazed him was their attitude when they got off. It was like it’d never happened; every one of them passing the driver’s cab and saying ‘Thank you,’ or ‘Thank you driver,’ or ‘Have a nice day.’ No. No, it wasn’t sarcasm. So what was it then? But it couldn’t have been him; he’d picked up loads of kids before and never had trouble. Sometimes the kids even stood up front and chatted with him: he used to enjoy the school run. He used to have fun. He just didn’t understand it.

He closed the doors and drove on back to Weystone, one hand on the wheel; the other blindly entering numbers to change the electronic blind onto his normal service route. Later though, he would have to go back; pick them up again and take them home. He tried to humour himself by recalling the letters of ‘BUFF’ on the back of that fat schoolgirl, but it didn’t make him smile: it made him hate her.

When he got to the bus stop he parked up to take his five minute break before the bus was due to leave. All the old ladies were there; grouping round the front doors, passes ready; silently waiting and smiling towards him through the grubby windows. He gave in and pressed the green button to release a hiss of compressed air as the doors opened and the ladies started on.

‘Hello love. You just started ‘ave ya?’

‘All fresh and ready for you Dorothy,’ said Tony; stretching a smile across his face; bending his neck; letting her hear through the little glass holes of the safety glass; so she could smile at least; so she could… But she’d already pushed her trolley past and now she was chatting with Mrs. Collier who had parked hers in front of the fold down seats.

‘Morning Marge. Ow, it aint ‘alf chilly in ere, aint it?’

‘Cold, but at least the Sun’s out – I’d say Spring is on its way!’

‘Oh yes, spring is on its way. You can say that alright. I think I might plant me tomatoes this afternoon.’

‘It makes me terribly stiff all the same, all this cold, and you won’t catch me planting no tomatoes. No, it just doesn’t seem worth it.’

‘Oh, get over will ya!’ said Marge, ‘As soon as we feel a bit of the summer it’ll be all too hot for yer.’ They paused for a few seconds, and Tony checked the internal mirror to see if Dorothy had taken offence.

‘S’pose you know Jean is back in again?’ Continued Marge, ‘She went in yesterday she did. I don’t know what Jack’s to do with himself. You know he ’asn’t drawn the curtains since.’

‘Oh poor Jack, I do feel sorry for him. It’s all such a shame. It makes you wonder, it really does.’

‘Oh yes, it really does. It really makes you wonder.’

‘The dog was out as normal though; barking away he was.’

‘Well, that’s one thing, though I wish they’d do something ‘bout all that barking. He barks for England that dog. There’s no chance of catching an afternoon nap with ‘im around.’

‘Is he really that bad? You don’t hear much of him down my end you know, you…’

Tony smiled at the old dears’ conversation; he was fond of them and for all their gossiping: they made him feel kind of comfortable. The bell rang just before the hospital, and he eased into the stop nice and slowly; not wanting his old ladies to fall as they made their way to the front. He stopped and opened the doors.

‘Have a nice day girls,’ Tony Prince said.

‘Did you hear that? Girls he said, it’s a long time since I been called that!’

‘Well, goodbye to ya Tony love, we’ll see you on the way back will we?’

‘I’ll be back to pick you girls up just past the hour.’

‘Alright then love, we’ll see you on the other side then.’

He looked in his mirror to pull away, car after car ignoring his indicator as he edged out to force a gap; receiving a prolonged Beeeeeeep! from an offended car; changing his temper in an instant as he yanked back his window and twisted round to show an erect finger into the outside air and hearing an even longer Beeeeeeeeeeeeep! But, as quick as his rage, came that usual feeling of stupidity; of embarrassment. Him, a professional driver – Him, a professional!

Tony slid the window back and drove on.

An hour later he was on his return trip, just slowing down to stop at the bus stop on the other side; his back aching. He stretched a thin smile across his face, opened the doors and pressed the button to lower the bus.

‘Hello ladies,’ said Tony Prince. Mrs Collier lent her trolley back and put the front wheels carefully on the step; balancing herself and the trolley with dexterity. It was then that the lump behind moved to the side and pushed his way to the front.’

‘Weystone,’ he said; holding out a fifty pound note, the old ladies trapped behind.

‘Ok, well, if you wait a second mate and let’s let the old ladies on first.’ He moved back lazily and leant on the window to let them pass; they didn’t say anything; just went on through. The lump turned to face him again; holding up the fifty pound note.

‘Weystone.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t change that mate, I don’t have enough in my float.’

‘So that’s your problem, innit? You should ‘ave the change, shun’t ya?’ He held the note against Tony Prince’s cheek.

‘I got no change mate,’ said Tony.

The lump pulled back the note and crumpled it into his shirt pocket. He turned and walked through the bus and sat in the middle of the back seats; staring hard through the internal mirror into Tony’s eyes. Tony pressed the red button and the doors closed. He drove on…

Checking the off-side mirror, he saw the hospital moving away as he rounded the corner; looking forward again; trying to ignore the lump’s intimidating eyes. He looked up ahead to the mini-roundabout; the one just ahead of the churchyard with The Great Yew; the lump watching him as The Great Yew seemed to suggest something. He looked back at the road and then back at the tree and then; and then his arm tensed; his hand smoothed over the wheel, folded and tightened at its top, and then time slowed. He’d always thought how easy it would be, and now he did it without even thinking: he watched his hand pull the wheel down to the left / his foot stamped on the accelerator. The rims cut into the curb and the tyres blew as the bus looked to the sky; sailing through the stone slabs of the church wall and flattening grave stones as the driver’s cab streamed through the sepulchre of the family Baptiste; the front bumper now slicing open the turf; the tree coming closer; faster; and the back of the bus smashing down on the already broken wall; fragments of stone wall catching on newly serrated metal; jamming into the sides of the engine; building up beneath the back of the bus until everything stopped.

Tony opened his eyes. He sat safe in his cab; safe in front of the window which had settled against the bark of The Great Yew; causing a small vertical fissure; distorting the light which now split Tony in two. He stared ahead. There was no sound; no sound at all. Except of course, there was, there always is, but these sounds Tony didn’t hear: he just sat there in his chair. He just sat there looking ahead.

There was a tapping. No, it was a knocking. He turned around and it was the lump’s knuckle tapping the safety glass; his face smiling.

‘I s’pose I’d better walk then,’ he laughed. ‘Nice one, I didn’t think you had it in ya.’ Tony looked at the lumps face through his own which was reflected in the glass.

‘You gonna open the doors then?’ Tony’s finger automatically found the green button and pressed. The doors opened with their usual hiss and the lump stepped out and turned his head.

‘Nice,’ he said looking round, and nodded as he turned and walked off through the churchyard.

‘Tony? Do you have a telephone Tony? I think Mrs Collier is going to need an ambulance; she’s not looking very well. I think it’s the shock has got to her, can you call?’

‘Yes, yes I can.’ But he didn’t. A policeman had just run in.

‘Is everybody alright,’ panted out the policeman.

Tony pulled the lever to his cab door and stepped out through a ruetine sensation until he was out of the bus; turning to look back the state of the destruction. The policeman saw him get out and ran to the door.

‘Driver! You stay there driver. Stay there!’ The policeman made his way into the bus; Mrs Collier was on the floor now. Marge was sitting by her as the policeman arrived taking his jacket off. He bent down to lift her head with one hand and slipped the jacket under it with the other. Tony was unconscious of the situation on the inside: he had stepped through a portal into the stylised setting of a gothic reality TV show. He looked across the churchyard, over crooked gravestones, and into the eyes of an excited audience gathering behind an old tomb; a couple of kids climbing on top of it to get a better view. Everyone was smiling, but Tony’s gaze left them; distracted by a tall man who was gradually approaching from the left; travelling towards them with the unnatural fluidity of a person given the slightest push across ice; a push across a timeless flat line which he seemed to glide effortlessly above; passing between gravestones; entering the rear of the crowd unnoticed by all except Tony: Tony who now studied the man’s matted hair which hung long; growing over his shoulders; streaming over a great grey coat; obscuring the profile of a face that Tony clenched his eyes in an effort to see; the hair moving to the side as the man’s head started to turn slowly, almost imperceptibly as if turning on a plate of oil; seperating and refracting light as grey black hair mixed with shadows; shrouding features until their eyes locked with a key that opened the door to the fear of billions; the fear of eternity; an ancient fear that fixed Tony to the ground as the sound of outside voices dissipated into the wind. For now that was all he could hear, the gentle rushing of a pleasant summer breeze that began to draw pace; growing stronger faster harder; spinning round him and picking up dust which flickered like a mass of irredescent crystals screaming round his body until they suddenly stopped in the air; hanging there to create a transluscent curtain of infinitesimal fragments which seemed to breath in before peacefully exploding into a shimmering pixilated white which immediately imploded into black.

Tony felt himself blink and the man was gone and the wind gently massaged the trees once more; giving way to the sound of voices nearby; addressing him; talking about him.

‘He’s in shock.’

‘Well, he’ll have to get out of shock then won’t he, he’s killed people and I for one can’t see what was the cause, can you? I saw him drive straight through the wall, and for what? And look at that old bird on the bus, she doesn’t look too good and as for that young mother and her child. Well, he’s put an end to them hasn’t he, and you tell me he’s in shock? Shock! I’ll give ‘im bloody shock!’

‘All the same Jim, we don’t know what happened, we really don’t. It could’ve been something mechanical. Let’s just find out first shall we,’ said the voice of reason.

‘Yeah! And you know what’ll happen. The police’ll come n take ‘im away and say he was a bit depressed or something, and then he’ll end up doing a couple of months in some five star prison and get out with a new council ‘ouse ‘n’ a new job which‘ll probably be better than yours and that’ll be the end of it! And all this, look at it, ‘e should be strung up. Strung up he should!’

‘Why d’ya do it man?’ came another voice. They were closing in; rounding on Tony.

The voice of reason thought it safer to keep out of it; he wasn’t going to get caught up in this. He began to walk off, away from the shouting, away from, what was it called? Yeah, Cameron said it didn’t he? Well, it was one of them anyway. What was it? Oh yeah, ‘The Broken Society’. That’s what they called it. He decided to walk away from it, no one noticed him leaving, and what could he do anyway? They probably wouldn’t do anything, not with the policeman there. No, the driver would be ok. Yes, he’d leave now and walk up to the railway station; no point in getting the car now, the whole place was gridlock: he’d pick it up tomorrow. He wondered if all this might end up on the news, it was a bus after all. They normally report bus accidents, especially a bad one like this. He could tell Sarah that he was there; he’d seen the whole thing. That was something they could really talk about.

Tony remained silent. He knew he was facing them, but he wasn’t looking. He could only see the image of the tall man and his head turning. He was trying to recall the face, but there was no imprint of it left, he couldn’t even remember those eyes. Why not? Why couldn’t he?

Then he felt it: the precipitation of thousand little needles pricking across his cheek; waking his nerves as he left his teeth numb. He could see them now and he could see that one was stepping back into the pack, his arms bowed out as if he had been carrying suitcases. Tony smiled. A real smile; showing blood soaked teeth that he was unaware of. He smiled at them with gritted teeth, his back to the bus: his front to a mob. A young hoodie stood at the front of the pack.

‘You wanna mix it do ya?’

‘Okay, settle down,’ came another voice, ‘Give ‘im a chance,’ pleaded a suited man; trying to pacify the younger men.

‘Tell us what happened then? What the fuck happened?’

‘You tell me,’ said Tony. ‘You tell me what the fuck happened. You’re the one with all the fuckin answers.’

‘Calm down. Let’s just all calm down. Are you trying to tell us that this wasn’t your fault, is that it?’ rejoined the suited man.

‘I’m not saying anything. I don’t give a fuck quite frankly sir.’ And he didn’t. He didn’t like to be harassed like this. This wasn’t his job. He didn’t know what all this was about. To be honest, he didn’t want to know. Tony had forgotten about Mrs Collier and the woman with the buggy who had passed beneath the bus as it crashed up the curb. Tony didn’t understand why these people were shouting at him. He didn’t understand what all this aggression was about. He was a good man, but he knew that when someone tried to bully you, you had to stand up for yourself. You had to give it back: show no weakness. But this was dangerous, he knew that. No one had taught him how to handle a mob. He stepped back, right into the bus. Tony hadn’t realised there was a bus behind him. He moved to the side and turned to see everything at once. He looked back at the mob; the older man was being pushed to the back: he had no influence now. Tony looked about him, there seemed to be people everywhere. He could see through the window of the bus now, and there was a policeman with both hands on Mrs Collier’s chest; pushing down intermittently. Alongside the bus was the only way, he thought. Alongside the bus and round the back and then down to the canal. Tony Prince ran and ran…

            He had arrived at the end of the hedgerow on the other side of the canal. There was no towpath on this side and they wouldn’t think he’d’ve swum over. The hedge was full of brambles and it was going to be painful to sink into, but he’d have to do it. He could see them already. They were over there; coming along the towpath. One of them had brought a torch and was shining it along the bank of the other side: his side. He would have to do it. He stretched his arms out and pushed himself back into the hedge, the thorns of tangled brambles stuck into his scalp, but he was in. He pulled his legs up and waited; conscious of the little rivulets of blood trickling down his face. He remembered laying pipe work when he was on the buildings, when he was young, when his ganger told him, ‘All you have to remember is that water will always find the easiest way down.’

            They walked past on the other side. The man with the torch was a policeman, but he saw nothing all the same.

            He waited. He couldn’t go home, they would soon find out where he lived: they would just have to call the depot. He needed to think of something, but he was tired, wet and tired, and still not yet spring, but the coldness had left him now and he felt warmer: comfortable enough to sleep. He let his head fall, and his eyelids fell with it. He slept.

            Little Mickey Palmer was messing around on his dingy when he saw Tony sitting there; hanging out of the bush. He paddled round quick as you like and went back to his dad who had his fishing rod sitting hopefully above the water downstream.

‘Didn’t I tell you to park ya boat up there? You’ll scare the fish away Mickey.’

‘But Dad, there’s a man! I think he’s dead Dad!’

            After Mickey’s dad saw Tony, he took out his mobile and rang the police. Mickey stared at the man and could see little white clouds of air coming though the frost of his nostrils. The police bought a boat out and everything, and Mickey’s dad was talking to a policeman, but they couldn’t stay. Mickey’s dad said they should pack up and head home; there’d been enough fun for one day. When they got back, his Mum was in the kitchen.

‘Oh, I didn’t expect you so soon, did you catch any fish?’

‘No, but I think you can safely say that Mickey caught a big one, didn’t you son?’

Little Mickey Palmer smiled back at his dad; then he looked at his mum and smiled the biggest smile ever!