Captives

EIGHTY-FIVE

There was always one.

David Lane muttered to himself as he rang the bell and the bus pulled away, passing Kensington Market on the right.

Always one who wanted to sit upstairs. Always one who ensured that he, as conductor, would be forced to climb the bloody stairs. At the beginning of a shift he didn't mind; he'd happily bound up and down the stairs to collect fares. But today he could hardly manage to walk from one end of the bus to the other, let alone up to the top deck. He'd pulled a muscle in his thigh playing football the previous Sunday and it was giving him a lot of pain. He'd thought about calling in sick, but he had actually received a phone call asking if he'd work a double shift as someone else had called in to report an illness. Consequently Lane had been working for almost ten hours, with just a break for lunch, and his leg was killing him. He moved among the passengers on the lower deck, cursing the single passenger who had chosen to sit above.

The bus was moving slowly, picking up at nearly every stop as it moved down Kensington Road towards Hyde Park Corner. Just the odd one or two extra passengers but they all, luckily, chose to sit downstairs.

Except the one bloke who'd got on at the earlier stop.

Lane massaged the top of his thigh gently as he waited for an elderly woman to find her bus pass. Perhaps he was getting too old to be dashing about every Sunday morning. He was approaching thirty-three and his wife had told him he should be taking it easier now. But what the hell, he enjoyed playing, despite the fact that he'd picked up half a dozen niggling little knocks since Christmas. And his pub team were doing well in the league; he didn't want to forsake them now. Anyway, thirty-three was hardly an age to think about 'taking things easy'. Plenty of time for that when he got old. He smiled as he thought of his wife's concern. Michelle was always worrying about him. The long hours he worked, how little sleep he sometimes got. His musings were interrupted as the old girl found her bus pass and presented it to him. He smiled and handed it back to her, steadying himself as the bus came to a halt and two passengers got off. He rang the bell and continued collecting fares, making his way to the back of the bus, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. As they passed Hyde Park Corner he began to climb.

The pulled muscle in his thigh stiffened as he moved higher and it was with something akin to relief that he finally reached the top deck.

The man was sitting at the front, gazing out at the lights of London, oblivious to Lane's presence. The conductor moved towards him, using the backs of seats as support as the bus lurched on into Piccadilly.

'Fares, please,' called Lane. But still the man didn't turn, didn't even move to reach for money.

He continued staring out of the front window as if mesmerised by the lights, glancing to his left as they passed The Hard Rock Cafe.

'Fares, please,' Lane repeated more loudly as he drew level with the man.

'Where to, mate?' he asked, shifting his weight onto his other leg.

The man didn't answer.

Perhaps he was deaf, Lane wondered. He was in his mid-thirties, his hair short, his face covered by a dark carpet of stubble. The collar of his jacket was pulled up around his neck and there were holes in the knees of his jeans. Don't tell me you've got no fucking money.

'Where do you want to go?' Lane said, more loudly.

The man looked at him, his eyes large, almost bulging in their sockets. Lane could smell the drink on him.

Piss-artist. Great, that was all he needed. He turned the wheel of his ticket machine and cranked out an eighty pence ticket. If this bloke was smashed then he wanted him off at the next stop.

'Eighty pence, please, mate,' Lane said.

The man nodded and reached into his pocket, fumbling beneath his jacket.

'Eighty pence,' he repeated.

He smiled and looked up at the conductor.

'If you've got no money…' Lane began.

'I've got no money,' the man said, grinning. 'I got this.'

He pulled the.357 Magnum free and pointed it at Lane.

'Have you got change?' asked Gary Lucas.

Then he fired.