Diary fragment · 2 min read ·
The Stopped Sign of the Ostmark Depot
A depot foreman keeps a diary of the bus that stops at the Ostmark depot gate every night at eleven, though the route it runs was closed a decade ago, and the passengers who step off it are always carrying his own handwriting in their bags.
- dated: The last week of the winter timetable
- narrator: Walter Gill, depot foreman
- reliability: unreliable
Monday. Locked the depot gate at eleven as usual. Checked the bays. Four buses in, two out on the late run. No sign of trouble. The yard lights hum like they always do.
Tuesday. Heard the air brakes outside the gate at eleven exactly. Went out with the torch. A double-decker, number 17, with its lights off and its destination blind showing *Depot*. It sat at the kerb with the engine ticking and nobody on the stairs. When I came close the doors folded open with a sigh.
Wednesday. Route 17 was closed in 2011. Checked the old timetables in the office. Its last stop on the sheet was the Ostmark depot gate, at eleven. Nobody has driven it for twelve years.
Thursday. The bus was there again. This time three passengers got off, an old woman, a boy in a school blazer, and a man in a long coat who carried a battered briefcase. They walked past me through the gate without a word. The man opened the briefcase in the yard and took out a sheaf of duty sheets, and I saw the top one was in my handwriting, dated for next month.
Friday. Went after the man. He walked into the staff room, sat down at my desk, and began filling in the rota with my pen. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He said he was covering the late turn, as agreed. I said nobody had agreed anything. He looked up at me, quite patient, and said, "Walter, you wrote it yourself."
Saturday. The rota for next week is complete in my hand. Every shift filled. My own name appears against the late turn on the Thursday, eleven at night, route 17.
Sunday. I did not lock the gate. The bus came at eleven. I was standing by the kerb with my coat on and my bag packed. The doors folded open. The driver, who was wearing my face, nodded to me, very politely, and I climbed the steps, and the doors closed behind me, and the bus pulled away toward a route that does not exist, and at the back of the empty saloon, on the last seat, a man in a long coat was writing in a small black notebook, and did not look up.