He had performed his first noble deed, freed a
group of people from the yoke of superstition. He’d done well and it was only
his first day on the job.
Maxwell
drew back his shoulders, stuck out his chest and put a new spring into his
step.
He had just begun to
whistle when he heard it: a low rumble. Not thunder? thought Max. That’s hardly
fitting.
The
rumble grew into a growl.
Not
some wild beast?
Max
turned in his tracks and stared back along the ruined road. Something large was
heading his way. Something large and red, swelling in size as it drew nearer
and nearer.
Maxwell’s
eyes widened.
It was
a bus!
It was
a big red London bus!
Maxwell’s
eyes became very big and wide indeed. The bus bore down upon him. Accelerating.
Maxwell dithered, knowing not which way to flee. Certainly not forward. To the
side then. Into a ditch. Maxwell made to take that dive, but tripped over an
untied bootlace and fell once more onto his face.
The bus
rushed forward, nearer and nearer. As Maxwell fell he caught a fleeting glimpse
of the driver’s face. For a split second they faced each other, eye to eye. The
driver had a smiley face. There was no doubt at all in Maxwell’s mind as to
whom that face belonged.
‘Reg…‘ Maxwell screamed and tried to roll himself into a ball. But the big red bus
was on him.
Maxwell
held his breath and awaited the hideous life-stopping crunch.
But the
hideous crunch didn’t come.
Maxwell
opened his eyes and looked up.
And up.
The bus
had risen from the road and was sailing into the sky.
And
there wasn’t just one bus.
There
were three of them. One behind the other.
And
they were all empty!
Maxwell
gaped, open-mouthed, and watched as they ascended into the heavens, bound, no
doubt, for Terminus.
‘Well
I’ll be …‘ But Maxwell said no more, for to his ears there now came shouts
and screams. Glancing once again along the way that he had come, Maxwell spied
three figures running towards him. One old, one young and one of middle years.
They were picking up stones as they ran.
‘Bastard!’
they cried, and names far worse. ‘You made us miss it! You made us miss it!’
Sensing
that further theological debate would probably serve no positive purpose at
this time, Maxwell took to his substantial heels and fled towards the north.
4
The travelling TV was a
large and histrionic affair, solidly constructed of worthy oak and elaborately
embellished in alliterative découpage. Sundry smiles smothered its
sides. Scandalized statesmen and seductive super models. Sensational sports
folk and sullen serial killers. Scathing satirists and sedentary scientists.
Sober scholars and the scabrous singers of scatological songs.
A
somewhat staggering sight.
This
whole was mounted upon four sturdy wheels and furnished with a towing bar and
ox harness. A zany, done up in the multi-hued costume of his calling —
long-billed cap of tawny red, green felt tunic with slashed sleeves and blue
silk cummerbund, pink tights and blue suede brothel creepers — pranced about amongst
the viewing public who had gathered in the town’s square, soliciting alms and
acting the warm-up man.
Having
finally satisfied himself that he had wrung from the gathering all he was
likely to wring, he pranced up to the travelling TV and made much of polishing
the screen and carefully adjusting the knobs.
Now he
hushed the crowd to silence with a finger to his lips, counted down the seconds
on a Goliath pocket watch, flipped the set’s on button and, bowing,
backed away.
The
screen cleared and lit up to reveal the face of Dayglo Hilyte, news teller.
Dayglo wore a pale grey skin toner, dark eye shadow and black lip gloss. His
bald head had stencilled curls snaking down each cheek. The widow’s peak which
began an inch above his pencilled eyebrows made his face appear an ungodly
chimera of Mickey Mouse and Bela Lugosi.
At the
sight of Dayglo Hilyte, several small children amongst the
group of people from the yoke of superstition. He’d done well and it was only
his first day on the job.
Maxwell
drew back his shoulders, stuck out his chest and put a new spring into his
step.
He had just begun to
whistle when he heard it: a low rumble. Not thunder? thought Max. That’s hardly
fitting.
The
rumble grew into a growl.
Not
some wild beast?
Max
turned in his tracks and stared back along the ruined road. Something large was
heading his way. Something large and red, swelling in size as it drew nearer
and nearer.
Maxwell’s
eyes widened.
It was
a bus!
It was
a big red London bus!
Maxwell’s
eyes became very big and wide indeed. The bus bore down upon him. Accelerating.
Maxwell dithered, knowing not which way to flee. Certainly not forward. To the
side then. Into a ditch. Maxwell made to take that dive, but tripped over an
untied bootlace and fell once more onto his face.
The bus
rushed forward, nearer and nearer. As Maxwell fell he caught a fleeting glimpse
of the driver’s face. For a split second they faced each other, eye to eye. The
driver had a smiley face. There was no doubt at all in Maxwell’s mind as to
whom that face belonged.
‘Reg…‘ Maxwell screamed and tried to roll himself into a ball. But the big red bus
was on him.
Maxwell
held his breath and awaited the hideous life-stopping crunch.
But the
hideous crunch didn’t come.
Maxwell
opened his eyes and looked up.
And up.
The bus
had risen from the road and was sailing into the sky.
And
there wasn’t just one bus.
There
were three of them. One behind the other.
And
they were all empty!
Maxwell
gaped, open-mouthed, and watched as they ascended into the heavens, bound, no
doubt, for Terminus.
‘Well
I’ll be …‘ But Maxwell said no more, for to his ears there now came shouts
and screams. Glancing once again along the way that he had come, Maxwell spied
three figures running towards him. One old, one young and one of middle years.
They were picking up stones as they ran.
‘Bastard!’
they cried, and names far worse. ‘You made us miss it! You made us miss it!’
Sensing
that further theological debate would probably serve no positive purpose at
this time, Maxwell took to his substantial heels and fled towards the north.
4
The travelling TV was a
large and histrionic affair, solidly constructed of worthy oak and elaborately
embellished in alliterative découpage. Sundry smiles smothered its
sides. Scandalized statesmen and seductive super models. Sensational sports
folk and sullen serial killers. Scathing satirists and sedentary scientists.
Sober scholars and the scabrous singers of scatological songs.
A
somewhat staggering sight.
This
whole was mounted upon four sturdy wheels and furnished with a towing bar and
ox harness. A zany, done up in the multi-hued costume of his calling —
long-billed cap of tawny red, green felt tunic with slashed sleeves and blue
silk cummerbund, pink tights and blue suede brothel creepers — pranced about amongst
the viewing public who had gathered in the town’s square, soliciting alms and
acting the warm-up man.
Having
finally satisfied himself that he had wrung from the gathering all he was
likely to wring, he pranced up to the travelling TV and made much of polishing
the screen and carefully adjusting the knobs.
Now he
hushed the crowd to silence with a finger to his lips, counted down the seconds
on a Goliath pocket watch, flipped the set’s on button and, bowing,
backed away.
The
screen cleared and lit up to reveal the face of Dayglo Hilyte, news teller.
Dayglo wore a pale grey skin toner, dark eye shadow and black lip gloss. His
bald head had stencilled curls snaking down each cheek. The widow’s peak which
began an inch above his pencilled eyebrows made his face appear an ungodly
chimera of Mickey Mouse and Bela Lugosi.
At the
sight of Dayglo Hilyte, several small children amongst the
Similar Books
