Loreless

The Bus

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The Greyhound bus jolted to a halt and woke Billy from his alcohol-induced stupor. Through the haze and as if underwater, he could hear indistinct voices. He fought to gain control over his clouded mind. As he did the voices began to recede into the distance. He opened his eyes and forced them into focus. In the semi-darkness and about half a metre from his nose was a cotton and plastic wall. It had a garish pattern. It was the rear of a steeply reclined bus seat. He tried moving but realised he couldn't. Curled up in a tight ball he was jammed between the aisle armrest and the side of the bus.

Totally soaked in sweat his right cheek was firmly stuck to the vinyl seat. With some difficulty he managed to pry it loose making a loud ripping sound in the process. He cringed. Rubbing his cheek he gripped the headrest of the seat in front of him and dragged himself into an upright position. He attempted to peer out of the window. It was dripping wet with condensation from the air-conditioning. With limited success he wiped it partially dry with the sleeve of his jacket. Looking through the moisture smeared window he could just make out some fuel bowsers and the facade of a roadhouse. Everything was bathed in a bright urine-tinged light.

Billy untangled himself. He stretched out his long thin legs, clambered out from between the seats and stood up unsteadily in the narrow aisle. The rest of the vehicle was completely deserted. Fixing his sights on the windscreen at the front of the bus he lurched forward down the mild incline of the aisle. Half jogging and flatfooted, he barely managed to avoid falling headlong down the curved stairs leading to the exit. He saved himself at the last minute by desperately grabbing the door frame. Gingerly he lowered himself down the last high step. He let out a slight sigh as he felt the comfort of terra firma solidly refusing to give way beneath his sneakers.

Steadying himself on the ajar bus door he scanned his surroundings. The roadhouse and fuel pumps were well lit by several large floodlights, all of which were attracting a huge variety of insect life and were heavily festooned with spider webs. The bus itself stood on the circumference of the light about ten metres from the roadhouse, everything outside the reach of the lights was pitch black. He could make out the interior of the roadhouse and noted a few patrons sitting around tables. The reek of week old cooking fat swept under his nostrils and he felt the bile rising in his throat. He spied a half-open door on the side of the building. The silhouetted figure of a gentleman in evening dress was placarded above the entrance. Billy held his breath, took careful aim at this newly acquired target and stumbled across uneven concrete to the door.

Inside a filthy basin coated in a fine layer of red dust hung from the wall. It was starkly illuminated beneath a single flickering fluorescent tube. To his left was a cubicle with a seatless toilet bowl. His eyes quickly snapped from one to the other. He chose the latter. He slammed one hand against the wall, leant over the toilet and puked up the contents of his stomach with a grunt. His head started throbbing. Stumbling out of the cubicle, he lunged towards the basin, caught himself and turned on the tap. There was a distant creaking sound and thick brown water gushed out before turning somewhat clearer a few moments later. He cupped his hands under the torrent and splashed water up onto his face. He repeated this several times before taking a large mouthful. The water had a distinct metallic taste. His vision, which had been somewhat nebulous up to now, began to sharpen. His head, however, was still thumping like a street percussionist with no sense of rhythm.

Billy assessed his own features in the rusty mirror above the basin. He was in his mid-twenties, of medium build, his skin having a slight brown hue although due to his recent exertion it had taken on a definite red tinge. His prominent nose was flat and spread broadly across his face. His hair was jet black with light curls which many a woman would have relished. It was difficult to determine his ancestry and at first glance you might presume that he was of Indian or Pakistani descent. Billy gazed into his bloodshot eyes. Under healthier circumstances his right eye would have been a deep brown. His left eye was an odd mix of blue and green. He surveyed his creased shirt, and pleased that he hadn't soiled it, made a futile attempt to smooth it flat.

Billy's eyes dropped to the gold chain around his neck and a number of events over the past twenty-four hours began to drift into his consciousness. Not all of them were clear but one thing was, he had no idea where he was right now. Not wearing a watch, he also had no idea what time it was, or even which day. He knew that the chain signified his recent engagement to his girlfriend and that they had plans to marry. He feared that he would, or had already missed, that most important of appointments. The ceremony was scheduled to occur the day after his bucks party.

The party itself had begun in the early afternoon and he had spent it in the beer garden of his local pub with his friends, a group of ex-university students. They were all prone to consuming vast amounts of alcohol and also adept at planning boyish pranks. After spending several hours in the sun, combined with the alcohol, he had begun to feel decidedly unwell and all ability to maintain clear vision had deserted him. In the early evening his friends had offered to arrange to get him safely to bed and convinced him that he could sleep it off on the trip. He vaguely remembered them putting him in what he thought was the back seat of a taxi, now it was obvious that the vehicle was quite a bit larger and there was more than one back seat. He had then drifted off into a comatose state and that was the last thing he could recall.

How his mates had managed to sneak him onto a bus was beyond him, but he knew they were capable of all sorts of miracles.

In his university days he had once woken to find himself with both hands taped together, his body bound with rope to his mattress and in the centre of somebody's dorm room where a wild party was in full swing. He had vivid memories of a very drunken woman attempting to release him with a pair of scissors. Much to his distress, and being fully incapable of defending himself, he recalled the mortal fear he felt that she would sever more than just the rope. Later that night his friends had transported him, mattress and all, back to his own room. They had generously stopped on the way to tilt the mattress to one side and stuck his head in a bucket, enabling him to perform what was commonly known, in college terms, as a technicolor yawn. It was clear that yet again he had been the victim of his own inability to curb his alcohol intake. It also slowly began to dawn on him that unfortunately this time a rescue party would not miraculously arrive to steer him back to the safety of his own bed.

Billy shook his head violently and splashed some more water on his face. He made up his mind that it was time for decisive action. Clenching the basin firmly with both hands he stared intensely one more time at his own visage, before doing a deft about-turn and stepping out into the darkness. He heard the bus gunning its engine and the driver beginning to double shift up through all eighteen gears. In panic he sprinted towards the road. Before he had reached it all that remained of the bus were its taillights dimming in the distance.

"Shit!"

He turned back to face the roadhouse and noticed that all the interior lights were doused. He heard another vehicle driving off somewhere behind the building and then nothing. Only the buzz of the floodlights competing with the noise emitted by the myriad of insects encircling them.

This was clearly, not good.

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