UPSIDE DOWN
- twist III -
The next morning I was firmly resolved. I had enough of all this work pressures. Enough of trying to be perfect for my parents and for everyone else. I want to go away. Far far away from all of these things, but where will I go?
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I walk for what seems like hours, my head in a daze, my feet moving blindly. The sun is beating down, and the pavements are dusty, and after a while my head starts to throb. At some point my mobile starts to vibrate, but I ignore it. At last, when my legs are starting to ache, I slow down and come to a halt.
My mouth is dry. I’m totally dehydrated. I need some water. I look up, trying to get my bearings. Somehow I seem to have reached a Bus Station, of all places. Numbly, I turn my steps toward the entrance and walk inside. The place is noisy and crowded with travelers.
The fluorescent lights and the blaring announcements make me flinch. As I’m making my way to a kiosk selling bottled water, my mobile vibrates again. I pull it out and look at the display. I have fifteen missed calls and another message from Carlo. He left it about twenty minutes ago. I hesitate, my heart beating with nerves, then press 1 to listen to it.
“Jeez, Divine, where are you? You've missed the meeting.”
As I’m standing there, something catches the corner of my eye. A familiar face is just visible through the crowd. I turn my head and squint at the man, trying to place him—then feel a fresh jolt of horror. It’s Butch Augustin, one of our staff.
Panic hits me like a lightning bolt. I have to get out of his line of vision. I have to hide. Now. I edge behind a vast woman in a beige mac and try to cower down so I’m hidden. But she keeps wandering about, and I keep having to shuffle along with her. She then stalks off towards the vending machine.
I’m totally exposed in the middle of the concourse. Butch is about fifty yards away, talking on his mobile phone. If I move, he’ll see me. If I stay still… he’ll see me. Suddenly the electronic Departures display board renews itself with fresh bus information.
A crowd of waiting travelers grab their bags and newspapers and head toward the departing bus. Without thinking twice, I join the throng, hidden in their midst as we sweep through the open barriers and onto the bus. It pulls out of the station and I sink into a seat.
“Refreshments? Hot and cold sandwiches, teas and coffees, soft drinks, alcoholic beverages?”...comes a man.
“The last, please.”
No one comes to check my ticket. No one bothers me. Suburbs turn into fields, and the bus is still rattling along. I’ve drunk three small bottles of gin, mixed with orange juice, tomato juice, and a chocolate yogurt drink. My heart rate has gradually subsided, but I have a bad, throbbing headache. I’m sitting with a hand over one eye, trying to block out the light.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Unfortunately… alternative transport…”...The conductor is crackling over the loudspeaker.
I can’t follow what he’s saying. I don’t even know where I’m headed. I’ll just wait for the next stop, get out of the bus and take it from there.
When the bus suddenly starts to slow down. I look up to see that we’re pulling into a station. People are gathering up their bags and getting off. Like an automaton I get up too. I follow the people off the bus and out of a tiny, twee country station. There’s a pub called The Bell across the road, which bends round in both directions, and I can glimpse fields in the distance.
