Terminus

The only thing he can see clearly is the yellow metal pole of the bus-stop as the bus draws up to it. Beyond this is darkness with faint points of light. It is so much darker here. You can’t see the walls covered in graffiti or the overflowing rubbish bins they passed earlier. Still, he knows these are outside, waiting for light.

There’s a soft shudder of the brakes, a hum, a hiss and the bus stops. He sees the driver switching off various systems and starting to pack up. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed him. That’s possible. It is late and the last passenger alighted several stops earlier. Perhaps the driver won’t notice him.

The driver glances up and sees the man's reflection in the windshield. “Last stop,” he announces and returns to his accounting. The man doesn’t move. He looks through the window to the darkness outside. Where has the bus stopped? He’s never travelled on the bus to the terminus. The area is unfamiliar and unknown.

“Didn’t you hear me mate? I said, last stop,” the driver calls out without looking up.

Perhaps it’s a park. He never takes the children to a park because of the syringes, the condoms, the vagrants. And then there’s the perverts. Parks were different when he was a boy. People would have Sunday picnics. People walked their dogs. People played cricket or kicked a ball.

The driver looks up and looks back over his shoulder. “Hey! Are you deaf? This is it. I don’t go no further.” The driver stands unsteadily, his muscles uncramping. He swears to himself and waits for a reaction from the man. “Don’t you understand English? Do you speak English?” The man nods. The driver points to a small dark apparatus above the driver's seat. “There’s a video camera. Don’t do anything stupid.”

So, the driver thinks I'm dangerous. That's a laugh.

The driver is now a couple of metres from him, but he keeps his gaze lowered to the driver's knees.

“Look mate, the bus doesn’t go anywhere else. Only back to the depot.” The man looks up at the driver and is reminded of an elderly Italian waiter. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’d better clear off. I’ll give you one more chance and then I’ll call the police.” The driver motions towards the door. “Come on.”

“Is that a park?”

The driver frowns. “Yeah. Green’s Park. The terminus. Are you lost?” The driver leans closer and sniffs audibly. He thinks I’ve been drinking. The driver straightens and steps back a pace. He is quiet but visibly tense.

“I don’t let my children play in the park anymore.”

The driver doesn’t answer immediately. “Why?”

“It’s just not safe.” The man looks up at the driver and the driver stares into the man's face. There is silence as the man sees the driver mulling over what he has said.

“How many kids you got?”

“Two. Two girls. Would you like to see a photo?”

The driver shrugs and then changes his mind and nods. The man eagerly withdraws his wallet from his jacket and flips over to a photograph in a plastic sleeve. He holds the photograph out to the driver. The driver bends down.

There are two girls sitting on the grass, a park somewhere, and behind them a man and woman. The man appears to be tall, lanky as they say, with blond hair. The woman is a shorter but not much. She has her arm around his waist. They are smiling. Happy family. The driver straightens and looks at the man. It could be him in the photograph but he's not sure. Then again, why would he have a photograph of someone else's family? “Yeah. Lovely kids.” The driver sighs.

The man can feel the driver's frustration and fatigue. The imposition. Still, it can't be helped, can it?

“They say that I shouldn’t even wash them by myself,” the man says softly. “My wife should always be there. In case someone thinks I’ve touched them.”

The driver frowns and repeats, “Touched them?”

“Interfered with them. Can you believe it? How can people even think such awful things? When I was a little boy I’d have a bath with my sister on Sunday night. We shared the same water. We even pissed in it and it never worried us. Mum and Dad never worried. Nobody did.”

“Things have changed,” the driver agrees and sits down heavily in the seat diagonally opposite. He yawns. “It’s late. I’ve got to get back to the depot. I can’t let you stay here. I mean. You’ve got to get off.” There is no response from the man who stares at the photograph. “I can drop you off down the road. I’m not supposed to, but, you know…. Just this once.”

The man cannot stop the tears forming in his eyes. He cannot stop the tears running down his cheeks and chin. He looks up at the driver. He opens his mouth but there is no sound. He shuts his mouth and looks down at the photograph of his daughters. He strokes their faces through the plastic with his thumb.

The man can feel the bus move as the driver walks over and sits down beside him. Then he feels the driver’s arm around his shoulder and a large, rough hand pulling his head down to a warm chest. The driver smells of cigarettes, and garlic and hours of perspiration. The man is being rocked and his head is being stroked. And the tears come in heaving waves.

Somewhere inside his head the man hears humming, and the darkness is kept outside.