IN A BUS SHELTER

A rough and ready sort of justice...

Henry knew that he was behind the times. He’d spent what seemed like a lifetime closeted in the cell that he cynically called home, though in truth it was less than a lifetime. But he’d cut Martha’s throat and knew he’d had to pay the price for doing it.

As far as he was concerned Martha had been a harridan and had deserved everything she had coming to her, especially that cut throat blade. That was the kindest word he could think when he contemplated the years of married life she had taunted him through. Mind you, he was decent guy (in his own mind, that is) and knew that maybe, on the odd occasion, he’d deserved it.

Like when he’d treated her to an expensive holiday abroad, in India of all places, and she had hated the fact that they were only there to for cricket, which she hated with the sort of hatred most people save for their worst enemies. He knew he should have been more considerate and taken her to the delightful seaside resort of Goa on the Indian coast, but if he had he would certainly have missed the cricket.

And he supposed there may have been other omissions on his part. Like some of the treats that had turned out to be nothing like treats as far as she was concerned. So what if he liked fish and chips? Don’t most people? Who on Earth would prefer caviare over battered cod? Martha would, or so she claimed, and that was what had spurred him on to slash that razor where he never should have.

Well, all that was in the past. The prison keys rattled one last time in the lock of the main gate, and he walked out. He’d paid his price, and it was one hell of a slice of his life spent away from all the things he’d wanted to do with those years. He’d wanted education, a college course, anything to lift him up above the norm, and all that had gone for him. He was getting on for seventy and who heard of seventy year olds getting university degrees?

At least Martha was gone. The woman whose spite and selfishness had tarnished all the days of his life, both in the marital bed when she wasn’t staying with a friend, and then in his lonely cell.

Not that it had always been lonely. He’d shared it with a few others over the years, not many him being a lifer. There had been monsters whose crimes made his seem as nothing. But he preferred not to think of those. They were morons who deserved everything they got.

He walked to the bus stop. They’d left him with enough small change for a bus ticket and a bite to eat when he got back to his home. Not that it would be his any longer. But he was determined to find it and do whatever he had to do to be accepted by whoever opened the door to him when he knocked it. Or rang the bell: maybe at some time during his years away someone had fitted a bell push. He didn’t know.

He was wearing the clothes that he’d had on his back when he’d been arrested, but it seemed that men’s fashions don’t change as much as women’s, especially when you’re not as young as you were, and felt that he’d fit in nicely despite the fact that his trousers had faded and his jacket looked as old as he knew that it was.

He waited for what seemed like ages, and then the bus came, jolting along though it was shinier than the buses he had caught pre-Martha.

The driver was a gruff sort, younger than him, but not much.

“You been released from that nick, then?” he asked him, indicating the walls of the prison.

He had his tale to tell all prepared: he’d had years to hone it.. How he’d been fitted up for something by the local cops, lazy sods that they were but they needed someone for whatever it was they accused him of.

“A miscarriage of justice,” he informed the driver, “I was set up.”

The driver cackled. “They all say that!” he said, grinning, “but by the look of you I’d say you’ve done a longish stretch. Quite a few years I’d say looking at the dust that you’re wearing!”

“Brumpton bus station,” demanded Henry, and “Please.” he added.

“Let me see,” yawned the driver, “I follow these things in the papers. You’re a killer, murdered your wife who, according to all accounts, was a bit of an angel.”

Henry shuddered. “You’ve got the wrong man,” he said, “I was fitted up for a robbery. That’s all.”

“And how long di you get, squire? By the look of you it must be fifteen or more years. For a robbery? You can’t fool me. And what’s more you’re not getting on this bus, so take your foot off the step and wait for the next one!”

And at that the bus lurched forwards, almost dragging him along with it as the door hissed to and all but trapped his foot. He heard a raucous sort of cheer from inside it as it rattled along.

The bus time table stuck in the shelter suggested he’d have to wait another hour for the next bus. Maybe he could walk most of the way home or, if he lacked the energy, walk to the next bus stop.

“All I want is to get back into decent society and be equal to the folk in it,” he grunted.

“Like you all do,” said a voice, and he spun round, not knowing there was anyone else there.

It was a woman maybe in her sixties if she was a day old. He could tell her sex from the voice, though in truth if he had forgotten what women sounded like it wouldn’t have surprised him, there not being much in the way of female voices in the nick, except for the visitors that other people had. Not hi, though. He never had any visitors.

“Pardon me?” he asked.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.

“Never seen you in my life before,” he replied, “but it looks as if I’ve missed a real treat,” he added.

“Don’t you try that line with me!” she snapped.

“Sorry?” he replied, questioningly.

“You killed my best friend,” she said, “and I ain’t going to give you any chance to do the same with me!”

Then he gave himself away. “Martha didn’t have any friends,” he told her.

“Ah, so you are a lifer!” she said accusingly, “though life don’t mean life, does it?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” he said, trying to sound confused and innocent. But he was neither, and the truth shone through.

“Oh yes you so, Henry,” she spat at him. “See, I know your name and sure as eggs is eggs I’m going to make sure that life is life by ending your wretched existence right now.”

“Who… what?” he stammered, suddenly scared.

“You killed Martha, and she was the love of my life, in and out of my bed when she could get away from you!” replied the woman, “and she told me, she did, the sort of selfish prick that you are! See this…” And she produced, from seemingly out of nowhere, a cut-throat blade similar to the one he’d used on Martha all those years ago.

“So say your prayers, punk!” she snarled, and with the exception of the feeling of something sharp on his neck he never knew any more.

And the next bus pulled in, but he was alone and ,motionless in the bus shelter, so it pulled out again.

© Peter Rogerson 16.09.24