legends · 4 min read ·
Route 40, Last Run
A late-night bus driver follows an announcement to stops that are not on the route, and takes on passengers who are not on the timetable.
I have driven the 40 for nineteen years, the late one, the one that leaves the depot at 23:10 and winds out through the estates to the end of the line at Priors Ash. I know every stop on it by its cracks. I know the pub that throws out at 23:30, the nurse who gets on at the hospital in a blue tunic, the old man with the cat in a basket who must be getting on for ninety.
The new announcements went in last spring. A recorded voice, a woman's, level and clean, that tells passengers where they are. *The next stop is Hawthorn Avenue.* A little tone, then the name. They'd tested it. They'd said it would reduce complaints.
I'm not complaining. I like her. I don't mind the company.
The first night I noticed was a Wednesday. Fog. We were coming out of the hospital with four on board when the voice said:
*The next stop is Marsh Lane.*
I knew what I was looking at. The road between the hospital and Hawthorn Avenue has no Marsh Lane. The bus's route data runs to the metre. I thought a fault. I carried on, and in the fog I saw a bus stop. A shelter, red-roofed, with a flag, on the left, just where there was no stop. A woman was standing at it with a shopping bag.
I don't stop where I'm not meant to. But the bus slowed itself. The brake went on with a sigh, I hadn't touched it, and the doors opened with a hiss, and the woman got on. She tapped a card on the reader that gave a green light and a cheerful beep. She sat by the window. She did not look at me.
I told the depot. They said it was a bug. A software fix would be pushed the following Tuesday.
On the Tuesday she announced *Pelham Cross*. Then *Sallow Row*. Then *The Cutting*. At each one, a stop appeared in the road. At each one, a person got on, someone you would not look at twice. A man with a briefcase. A young woman in a school-style blazer, much too late. A big man in a donkey jacket, who sat at the back with his hands on his knees. They tapped their cards. I saw nothing on the screen but a green light.
By the end of the line, at Priors Ash, the bus was nearly full. I pulled up at the terminus, put the handbrake on, and turned in my seat. I said what I always say: "End of the line, everyone."
Nobody moved.
They sat there, thirty of them, in their coats, looking at the floor. I walked down the aisle with my torch. They had their cards in their hands, held in their laps, the little pale rectangles. I looked at one. It was a normal transit card with a photograph and a name. The name was a woman's. The date of issue was 1974.
I went back to my seat. I thought: this is the bit where I'm supposed to be frightened. But the funny thing is, I wasn't. I was sad. Because of the way they sat. Because every one of them had the face of someone who had a long way to go and was not sure they would be let off.
The voice said, in her calm, level way: *Thank you for travelling with us. This bus is now terminating. Please take all your belongings with you.*
And the passengers got up, together, with a small rustle like a field of corn, and filed down the aisle and off the bus, one by one, into the dark car park, and went away across the grass.
I've done the run for four months now. It's the same every night. A new stop, new name, someone getting on. The nurse and the old man still ride as before. They don't seem to notice the others. I've started to learn the extra stops. I know their names by heart. I've been writing them in a notebook.
Tonight, at the depot, I took my break in the canteen and a colleague said, off-hand, "Have you heard they're replacing the voice? It's being retired. They're getting a new one."
"When?"
"Next Monday. Why? You'll be pleased. The old one gave people the creeps."
I put down my tea. I said: "What's the new one say?"
"Just the names. The proper ones. Hawthorn Avenue. Pelham Cross. No Marsh Lane. Marsh Lane doesn't exist."
I've got my notebook out now. There are ninety-one extra stops in it. I have driven the route in my head, all ninety-one of them, with a thing in my chest like a hand that is slowly closing. If the voice goes, the stops go with it. And the people who were still on the bus will have no one to tell them where to get off.