Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

Catching the Number 79 Bus

Set the table. Cereal, milk, sugar lined up with the crease of the tablecloth. Bowl and plate next to that pink rose. Tick the list. Cup and teapot next to the vase. Sit down, chair straight. Tick the list. Newspaper fold lies along that line. Count the letters in the head line, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100. That’s good. Today’ll be OK. Tick the list.

    Coat and bag ready. Check the light switches, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50. Check the kitchen, check the sitting room. Tick the list. Purse, ticket, keys. Purse, ticket, keys. Purse, ticket, keys. Check the light switches. Check the keys, open the front door, check the keys. Check the light switches, check the keys. Close the door. Tick the list.

    Count the slabs in the pathway to the gate, 10, 20, 30, miss the broken one 40, 50. Close the gate behind. Tick the list. Count the slabs to the bus stop, don’t tread on the lines. 10, 20, 30, 40, miss the broken one and the half one doesn’t count. 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100. Stand on the right spot at the bus stop, not near the lines. Mrs Simms isn’t there today. Tick the list. The blue car from yesterday is there again. Count the cars in the street. ‘10, 20, 30, 40, 50.’ There’s a boy coming to the bus stop. He mustn’t be here. He hasn’t been here before. If he is here there must be a yellow car as well. Count the cars. 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60.

    He’s looking at me. I can see his eyes. He must be here instead of Mrs Simms. The bus will come soon. 80, 90, 100. 10, 20, 30, 40. He’s shouting at me, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, never go past 100. 10, 20, 30’

    He mustn’t run in the road. Stop at the road, look left, look right, look left, look right, look left, look right. 70, 80, 90, 100. 10. Must always look. He isn’t looking. He’s shouting again. Red car, blue car, silver car. Tick the list. There isn’t a yellow car. The bus will come. ‘50, 60, 70.’ He’s going to shout again, 80, 90, 100, 10, 20

    You must always look. Fast cars. Silver cars are the fastest, they never stop. Look left, look right, look left, look right. You must always look. 80, 90, 100, 10, 20, 30. The bus will come. Yellow car going past. I’ll be safe today. Tick the list. Tick the list.’

    ‘80, 90, 100, 10, 20. The 79 is coming. He’s running on the road. Look left boy, look right boy. 79, 79, 79. Stop. 30, 40, 50, 60. Tick the list, tick the list.

    I like the smell of Mum’s pink dressing gown. It’s a mixture of all of us; me, wee Jane, Mum and Dad. Sometimes I think I can still smell Bobby on it. There are marks, spots, stains all over it; with a story to each one. Mostly spilled drink and fag burns. But just near the hem, that’s where Bobby drew a bunch of flowers with his felt tip pens. He thought he’d smarten it up. We all laughed about it with mum on the sofa. For a few moments we felt like we were one of those families that always laughed. We were tickling each other, Bobby giggling the loudest, falling onto the floor, and jumping back up with bony fingers finding the tickly spots. It’s the shortest, longest moment I can remember of Bobby.

    Then suddenly Dad was there at the door. He didn’t even have to move for us to know that he was off his head. I could see it in the muscles round his mouth. Mum looked at me, nodding her head towards the bedroom. ‘I’ll bring your tea in a few minutes, kids. Into bed.’ I pushed Jane and Bobby towards the other door.

    ‘It’s OK,’ I told them, ‘Mum’ll be in with some sandwiches in a wee while.’ We put the TV on dead quiet and cuddled up in the bed.

    ‘I could hear your fucking noise down the landing; you should keep those kids quiet.’ Mum never said anything. I could hear her move towards the kitchen. ‘You can fucking get me something to eat before you feed those little shits.’ He never ate anything. He was crashed out on the sofa in five minutes.

    During the night Bobby woke me to say he was going to the loo. I watched him as he opened the bedroom door and immediately the smell of Dad flowed in, vomit and sweat and piss. Bobby crept round the sofa but on his way back he stopped and stood over Dad. Just looking down at him. Then he picked something up from the floor and ran back to bed.

    ‘Look what I found’, he whispered, ‘There’s loads of them falling out of Dad’s pocket. Boxes of sweets, he must have nicked them for us.’

    ‘Bobby, you shouldn’t have taken them, go and put them back’ I said but Bobby was already stuffing them under his pillow.

    ‘I’ll have them at school tomorrow’ he said.

    He never made it to school. He danced out into the middle of the road. The policeman said he was high as a kite, he’d been tormenting some poor old soul at the bus stop, fell in front of the number 79. Turned out Dad’s sweets were ‘special ones’ meant for grownups. We went to the bus stop and put loads of flowers there. Other people put teddy bears but we didn’t in case they got nicked. People are mean like that.

Mum always washes her pink dressing gown by hand now, keeping Bobby’s picture of the flowers dry; so she doesn’t lose it.