Unwritten
Got talking to an old bloke on the bus; well, he did the talking–she just sat, at his side, miles away, pretending interest. Was comfortable with her own company this time of day, before the loneliness and boredom kicked in, forcing her to talk to her semi-retired husband Bob. She didn’t have a job; went up town, same time every day, for a routine coffee, and to waste her benefit–on ornamental teddy bear collecting.
Most people on this bus travelled free, being pensioners: she had her bus pass for her disability–sickness of the mind. She kept this fact to herself, and was quite upset as nobody seemed to question her age–taken it for bloody granted she was theirs. She said nothing; on nodding terms with most of the people on this bus taken every day.
He seemed to like the sound of his own voice; just as well, because, what with the babble of the travelling rabble, and the creak and rattle and bang of the deathtrap bus, she could not hear what he had to say for herself. He nattered on. She grinned and nodded, panicked when he asked her to elaborate her answer; had to say “pardon?” at least three times, so he’d yell at her as if she were deaf or daft: she’d say basically what he wanted to hear.
Was on the bus every morning, the little old man saving her a seat next to him. She was getting used to listening to him, answering him. Straining to hear, heard he was in the army in the Second World War, that he did not get on with his children who lived far enough away, and that he lived alone. Poor bugger. Empty nights, empty days–empty house.
That first Monday morning, when he wasn’t on the bus, she wondered… This was the day he collected his pension… Two weeks elapsed and she did not see the little old man. Recalled the last time she’d seen him he’d seemed to be short of breath–death hovering? over her head. She began to ask around if anyone had seen him recently: they shook their heads. She didn’t know where he lived–did not want to, truth be known–but she knew he lived on his own. At last she told a man she thought to be his friend she was a bit worried not seeing the old man. “Haven’t seen him myself; I’ll knock on his door.” But he gave her no answer. A week later he told her, “Still haven’t seen him.” Seemed unconcerned. “That’s it,” she thought, “he’s dead.” She said nothing: kept her fear to herself.
Lying, warm, next to her husband Bob: dear old Bob, in bed–she imagined the old bloke all alone–lying putrefying on his (would be for some reason she thought kitchen) floor. He’d be a hell of a mess by now. Gave her idea to write a story–zombie or ghost. Hoped someone would pay him a visit, before he visited her. Someone brave enough to knock on his door and question the silence–rescue of a sort: the body disposed of, to decompose deep under ground, in peace, with dignity and well away from her and her conscience–guilt buried.
She coughed and spluttered as she woke to an almighty stink. Her husband farting–smell much worse than that: talk about bowels of Hell! He must be ill. Felt ill herself–dry retching. Stretched out her arm, to find he was not lying next to her. Must be in the bathroom–could do without a bloody mess.
“Bob!” No answer. “You all right?”
The reply came from a vague shape standing in the darkness at the foot of the bed.
“Bit bloody late for concern now, isn’t it?” The voice a hoarse, rasping whisper, distorted.
She shuddered.
“Bob?”
“Bob?”
“Bob!”
