Out of the Known

I hated that journey.

In the winter I would leave the house when it was still dark and join those other dispirited souls waiting at the bus stop. The bus was invariably late and full. The very worst times were when it had rained and you could see, and smell, a slight mist rising from the old woollen overcoats that people wore. The summer was not much better, similar smell but this time from hot, disgruntled bodies squashed together on a journey to, well to hell for some, to heaven for others and to boredom and depression for me. Few people made eye contact or attempted conversation.

Mornings always followed the same pattern.

Alarm set for six, giving me about ten minutes to psyche myself up for the day.

I wish I was a morning person, up with the lark, out in the garden to inspect my little kingdom with plenty of time left for a luxurious soak in the bath followed by a nutritious breakfast. Makeup could be carefully applied and suitable clothing for the day chosen.

But I am not a morning person.

I fall out of bed at ten past six, groaning. Stumble into the shower; just hoping it’s not hair wash day. Whilst the toast is cooking, or more often than not burning, and the water for the coffee is boiling, I ‘slap’ the makeup on. No time to clear up before I leave the house.

It was always the same crowd at the bus stop. Most of them bleary-eyed and half-asleep like me. I rarely had much of a conversation with any of them, just a nod, a smile, a ‘Good morning’, or a ‘Dreadful weather again,’ or even ‘Nice to see the sun.’ but nothing that you could call a real conversation.

The same faces sat on the bus regarding the new influx, squashing themselves ever closer to the window so that no part of the body would touch any part of a stranger’s body. Eyes turned to the window, not seeing what lay beyond its opaque, finger stained eye, afraid that a smile or a look would invite conversation, confidentialities.

Once settled onto a barely padded seat with the warm, almost comforting fug enveloping me, I would close my eyes and nod off for a few moments. I had taken this journey countless numbers of times. No matter the time gap when I opened my eyes again I would know exactly where I was. The sound of the brakes, the bumps in the road, the stops, the starts, the coughs, the rattles told me the stage that I had reached. The large Victorian house its façade only remaining, its extensive gardens being used for the development of retirement flats. Scaffolding blocking out its windows. The sad, boarded up pub I remember going to as a child. Its beer garden, a place where I ran and played. A glass of lemonade and a packet of crisps, sunshine and contentment. Its windows now fly posted with ads for tribute bands and alternative music. Shops, houses, offices going by in a blur. I no longer saw them.

Occasionally the boredom of the journey would be relieved by the addition of an eccentric passenger. A middle aged lady beautifully made up, coiffured and attired but needing two seats to accommodate her immense bulk. An old man, grey haired, presentable clothing, highly polished shoes but with a giant crucifix around his neck and a bible in his hand. You just knew that the plastic bag in his other hand contained a bottle of the elixir of forgetfulness. The lady speaking to her child in some unintelligible language. She unsmiling, dark haired, dark eyed. Her daughter, like one of the ‘Angels’ of Saint Augustine and wreathed in smiles.
My fleeting interest soon lost in the everyday.

And then one day He got on the bus. I did not notice him in the usual melee that accompanies the starting and stopping during rush hour. I barely noticed him when he took the vacant seat next to me but I gradually became aware of him. It wasn’t anything that he did, or even said. He kept to his half of the seat and in no way impinged on my personal space. But I knew that he was there. I usually accepted that there was someone occupying the adjacent seat and unless they had a particularly bad smell or tried to talk to me I could easily forget their presence, lost in my own thoughts. But this day, that first day, I could not lose myself and ignore my journey.

By the time we reached the terminus, which was my stop, I had begun to feel uneasy, unsettled. The quick glimpse I had taken of my travelling companion told me nothing. An ordinary man, of ordinary looks of an indeterminate age. Someone who could pass as Mr Average. He seemed to be completely unaware of my presence and when he got off did not give me a second look. I sat for a few minutes, allowing the bus to empty, trying to shake off the strange feeling.

A day’s work drove the unpleasant feelings away and an evening out with the girls made it disappear completely.

Disappear completely that is until the early hours of the morning. The bedroom was dark with a faint green glow from the clock and with a just perceptible fringe of light around the curtains. I turned over and pulled the quilt up around my ears hoping that sleep would soon return. And then I remembered. The dream! I held the quilt even tighter, clinging to its security, willing myself to go back to sleep.

I’m sure you must remember those nightmares you had as a child. The first seconds of consciousness bringing with it perfect clarity and then with complete wakefulness a fading of the horror leaving behind a feeling of unease. This would vanish within a few minutes of being cuddled up with mum or dad. This ‘dream’ was different. Within seconds details began to form, to take on an existence. I was on the bus. Just me. And him!

Sleep did eventually return, but not a restful sleep.

I awoke with the alarm and tried to push thoughts of the nightmare away. I decided that if I missed breakfast I could catch an earlier bus, which is what I did. I suppose I thought that I would avoid the stranger. I know that I was being silly and that the logical explanation was too many glasses of wine and a late night cheese sarnie. My granny always told me that cheese before bed caused nightmares!
 

The journey passed uneventfully. There were some slightly sarcastic remarks when I arrived at work at such an early hour. My day went well, I suppose relief at not seeing the stranger again and at five fifteen I was waiting for my usual bus.

The evening journey was much like the morning one; same sights, smells and faces. I settled into my seat and read some of the news in the free paper and then began to doze.

Suddenly I was wide-awake. I had that ‘someone’s just walked over my grave’ feeling. The hairs on my neck seemed to be standing up and I was very cold in spite of the warmth of the bus. I must have disturbed the person next to me, a young man attached to his ipod whilst frantically sending text messages, because he gave me quite an unpleasant look. I looked around the bus and then I saw Him, sitting at the back reading a book. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and as I stared he raised his eyes from his book and stared back at me. He was unremarkable, as I have said before, except for his eyes, which had a deep intensity to them. I could almost see dual images of myself within their depths, felt myself to be swallowed up by them.

With difficulty I managed to lower my gaze and turn my head away. For once, on this journey that I had taken so many times, I did not know where I was and how close was my destination. The rest of the journey passed in a blur. I was afraid to turn around, to meet those eyes again. Each time the bus stopped to allow people on or off I would look to see if it was his stop. I had not seen him get off and I had this dread that he would follow me and so find out where I lived. I was tempted to use the wrong stop but I was too desperate to get home.

A few of the usuals stood up at the same time as I did and we walked towards the front of the bus, squeezing our way past others. As I waited for it to stop I took a quick look towards the back seat. It was empty!

I hurried towards my house with constant looks behind expecting him to be there. Once inside I locked and bolted the door. I was shaking. I tried to rationalise it but couldn’t think of an explanation.

And that was how it began. At first he would just be on my bus to and from work, I never saw him get on or off no matter how hard I looked. If I did happen to look at him that same penetrating stare and a feeling of being swallowed up. The dreams continued, just me and him on the bus. Then I began to see him in other places, waiting at a bus stop as my bus went past; in a queue for lunchtime sandwiches; shopping in the supermarket. I was almost afraid to go out, became quite paranoid. I told a friend, she joined me on the bus to work, went shopping with me. If I caught a glimpse of him I told her but for some reason she never did see him.

She suggested a holiday, a break away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I felt close to a breakdown and decided that this might be the solution.

I’ve always loved the Lake District and so my friend and I hired a cottage in the village of Elterwater in the Langdale Valley. Roaring fires, long healthy walks and good home cooked food at the village pub. Within a couple of days I felt almost back to normal, I suppose the fresh air and exercise were responsible for that.

Our last day there. I’d had no nightmares and I’d not seen any strange men, other than those ramblers we’d met on our walks. I felt completely refreshed and ready to face the world again. We decided to walk over the hill to Grasmere, have lunch there and get the bus back. Half way there it began to rain, the walk became a scramble and we fell into the first café we found completely sodden and covered in mud but exhilarated from being exposed to the ‘elements’.
 

A delicious lunch and a glass of wine and we were ready to catch the bus.

‘We’ve got ten minutes before the bus leaves,’ my friend said, ‘You get on, I just want to get something from the shop.’

I was quite happy with this as I was feeling pleasantly tired and a slight snooze on the bus would be very welcome.

The bus was empty, the driver obviously having gone for a tea break. I made myself comfortable and closed my eyes.

I was so comfortable and relaxed. And then I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I knew.

It was him!

I turned around and found those deep penetrating eyes staring at me, dual images of myself within them.

I just had to get away.

I ran off the bus and into the path of an oncoming bus.

And now it is my turn to sit and wait for the next soul.

I AM THE HARBINGER!