The Night Bus

I can feel it. Excitement, once more, bubbling up inside me. I take my seat, the last bus of the night to Piccadilly. An empty bottle rolls towards me as we pull away from the bus stop. Street lights and illuminated signs cut through my ghostly reflection in the window. At the front of the bus, I can see the driver looking at me in his mirror. He's suspicious. I could tell when he took my money. The question, “Shouldn't you be at home in bed?”, was just there, waiting to be said.

I should be at home. Mum thinks I'm in bed. It's the way it works best, the way I have the most time to get away. She won't notice I've gone until I need to be up for school and by that time I'll have been at the airport for hours.

The airport. God, I love the airport. It's so big and shiny. It least, that's how it appeared, the first time I went into the departure hall. I just couldn't believe it. I must have been walking round those first years of my life with my eyes closed. I'd never seen an airport: not on TV or anywhere. So I walked into this huge, shiny room with loads of people all walking around, even at that time of night, and I was amazed. No wonder I got picked up by security almost straight away. A child, on their own, stood in the middle of the departures hall looking around, wide eyed, with his mouth open. Wasn't long before I got a tap on the shoulder and the questions had begun.

“Who are you with, kid?”

“Where are you travelling to?”

“Where are your parents?”

My mum had gone mad. Getting a call in the middle of the night from the airport and me turning up an hour later in the back of a police car. The first time I'd ever been in a police car. The officers were really nice.

It was my best friend Mark who put the idea in my head. His mum and dad had split up, like my mum and dad. But his dad wanted to take him on holiday. Can't say my dad's ever wanted to take me on holiday. Mum won't even tell me who my dad is. So when I saw Mark again after he'd been on holiday, he told me all about it. The airport, flying, sun (but I mean, like lots of sun), amazing beaches, sea and swimming pools. It sounded great. I wanted to go, so I asked my Mum. She just looked at me, then at my little brother and asked me where we'd get the money. I didn't ask again.

Then, one day during the holidays, me and Mark were hanging around the bus station at Piccadilly. We had all day to do something, so we'd walked into town. And while I stood there, looking at the buses and where they were going, one went past with the destination, 'Manchester Airport.' I'd never thought that buses went to the airport. I thought it was just planes. And it was then that I thought,

'I'll get a bus to the airport and then get on a plane to Spain.'

Getting the four quid for a night saver ticket was easy. There are plenty of kids at school with more money than brains. I did eight kids homework for 50p a time. It was really easy. I just had to copy out the answers from my homework. The hard part was getting dressed quietly, sneaking downstairs and getting out the back door without my mum noticing. But once we're in bed, she usually puts the TV on loud enough or falls asleep and so it's not as hard as it could be. She even likes it when I suggest I'd like to go to bed.

So, here I am again heart thumping, excitement building, on the night bus to Manchester, on my way to the airport. The second time I tried getting on a plane was the best. I saw this kid go blubbing up to the departure desk, crying that he'd lost his parents. I followed them as they took him through security. I didn't know about security. I just joined the queue and when the lady asked who I was with, I just dumbly pointed at the nearest family. Airports are good like that. I've found that if I find a couple who are talking a lot, I can just trudge head down behind them and everyone assumes I'm with them and they don't even notice I'm there. It doesn't work every time, but if the airport's busy enough, especially first thing in the morning, it works a treat.

Being air side was another world. The shops just looked so much nicer than the ones in Manchester. They cleaner, brighter, more colourful. There were cafes and I was starving but I didn't have any more money. I looked at the monitor and found a plane to Spain. I even found the departure gate and was convincing the lady on the desk that my parents were on the plane when the bloke with her called security.

I've never been that near since. I've been stopped at security, picked up by patrols air side. I've seen probably hundreds of aeroplanes but I've never been on one. My mum doesn't even get angry any more. She did threaten one time to handcuff me to the bed each night, but I think there are laws against that, because she never did.

Maybe this time I'll get on a plane. Maybe this time I'll see Spain and get a chance to play on a beach in the sun. Maybe. Still, I enjoy the buzz of trying.