15
The bus looked empty and the prostitute climbed aboard it, relieved to be returning to the safety of her home and that the night’s labours were over. As Julie Neilson lowered herself into the seat her right hand touched something warm, soft and sticky. She recoiled instantly as if burnt, examining her palm and finding it scented with the sweet, sickly aroma of spearmint. Recently-chewed chewing gum. Taking her hankie from her pocket, she spat on to it and began to wipe her palm clean, noticing as she did so that the back of her hand had a couple of liver spots on it and that the veins were clearly visible, flowing like frozen rivers towards her knuckles.
‘Hen, hen… whit ye oan this bus fer?’ demanded an unfamiliar voice, one which swooped from treble to bass and back again. She raised her head from her cleaning task and watched as a couple of youths bundled each other into the seat directly in front of hers, one of them upending a bottle of Buckfast into his mouth and the other grinning at her, his face now unnaturally close to her own. They were both young enough to be her children, and she had no desire to talk to them, but they were an unknown quantity. They were likely to be unpredictable, and ignoring their question would be seen as rude.
‘Fer a ride…’she said, adding quickly, but not quickly enough, ‘…hame.’
Immediately, they burst into raucous laughter, one nudging the other with his elbow, repeating together, ‘Fer a ride, eh? Fer a ride! You’ll be lucky!’
She lowered her eyes, looking down at her knees, hoping that if she seemed withdrawn and uncommunicative they would become bored, find something else to attract their attention and allow her to continue her journey in peace. Let her think about other more pressing things.
‘Like fags, hen?’ the dark-haired one asked, taking another draught from his bottle and waving an open cigarette packet under her nose.
‘Naw,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘Naw – you like real men, eh, men like us!’ the youth guffawed, puffing out his thin chest and beating it before rising from his seat to sit next to her. She edged herself towards the window, sliding away from him, but he followed, cramming himself alongside her until their hips touched and she was crushed against the side of the bus. He turned to face her and his breath stank of alcohol and tobacco. But, close up, he was no more than a boy.
‘Ye no’ fancy me then, hen?’
Exhausted as she was, she prodded her brain into action. If she said that she did fancy him, then God alone knew what he would be up to next. On the other hand, if she said that she did not, then he might take offence, get angry, become more abusive or whatever. And she had not enough energy left to administer the tongue-lashing he deserved. So, in a voice that sounded as weary as she felt, she said softly, ‘You’re just fine, son. But ah’m auld enough tae be yer maw.’
Her companion pretended to look angry and the other youth, now hunkered down on the seat in front but facing her, grinned and started to wag a finger at his friend. The dark-haired boy looked at the woman again, experimenting with another furious expression, his teeth clenched and his jaw jutting out aggressively.
‘D’ye think ah fancied ye or somethin’, ye auld dug!’ he shouted in her face.
Something else would have to be said, something to calm him down and end this exchange, otherwise she would have to leave the bus to escape their attentions, with three stops still to go and a mile or more to walk.
‘Naw, son,’ she replied soothingly, ‘naw, I ken fine ye dinnae.’ And no wonder, she thought to herself, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dark glass. She looked haggard, more like her mother than herself.
The vehicle’s brakes screeched noisily as it drew to a halt, and the dark-haired boy stood up and swung himself back into his original seat, slumping down beside his companion. Julie Neilson sighed and rubbed her tired eyes, then looked hard in the driver’s direction in the hope that someone else would get on the bus, and she would not be alone with the two youths for any longer. Her prayers were answered, and a teenage girl, with dirty blonde hair scraped tight into a ponytail and thick black mascara under her eyes, stepped aboard and then sashayed up the aisle to lounge across the back seat. As soon as she was seated she lit up ostentatiously, looking around her neighbours and daring anyone to object.
‘Whit ye oan the bus fer?’ the fair-haired boy enquired of her, a salacious grin on his face and his eyes resting on her long bare legs.
‘Nae fer a ride wi’ either o’ yous, ye wee tossers,’ she spat back, flicking her cigarette-ash towards him contemptuously as she spoke. And watching them blush, reduced to children again, Julie Neilson felt almost sorry for them.
Once inside her flat she opened the door to her daughters’ room and tiptoed inside, picking up a primary school skirt and blouse from the floor and hanging them over the back of the chair, for use the next day. Two pairs of miniscule tights had been discarded, one draped over the toy-box and the other suspended from a mobile. She folded them up and put them in the dirty washing box, removing a doll from it at the same time.
In the light falling from the hallway the girls’ faces could be clearly seen; one pale with long upturned lashes, her unruly auburn hair spread behind her on the pillow like a lion’s mane, and the other a redhead too, but with short, curly locks. Julie Neilson knelt between her children’s beds, listening with pleasure for a few seconds as they breathed in and out, before, tenderly, brushing a ringlet from the younger one’s brow with her fingers. Gazing at their perfection she felt at peace, blessed even, their presence reminding her that, whatever had gone wrong in her life, something had gone right, something good had come out of it all.
How lucky she had been, how lucky she still was! And might be for a couple of years longer, because ignorance was bliss, and their innocence protected her from herself as well as from the rest of the world. One day they might be ashamed of her, even wish that she was not their mother, but not today or tomorrow. And perhaps, by then, everything would have changed and she would change too, find a job as a shelf-stacker or something. In the meantime they had enough money for school trips, dancing lessons and everything else. Man or no man.
She crept out of their room and into the kitchenette, starting to brew a cup of hot chocolate, trying Muriel’s phone number again while waiting for the milk to boil. As before, she got a ring tone but no answer and, glancing at her watch anxiously, saw that it was past half eleven. If Muriel did not get in contact within the next hour then she would have to call the police, that was the arrangement. No doubt all would be well, her lateness being down to some minor accident or oversight, but with things as they were, or had been, she could take no chances. Not with a life at stake.
Her legs folded beneath her, she nestled into the settee to watch the TV, burning her lips on the boiling cocoa and nearly tipping it onto her lap. Her eyes rested on the screen, but she knew she was taking in nothing, preoccupied, unable to follow the simplest plot. In her head she was busy rehearsing what she should say on the phone, the exact words she would use in describing the punter, and trying her best to remember everything about the man. Screwing up her eyes with the effort, she attempted to create a picture of him, visualise the figure she had seen, but little came. He was big, bulky even, wearing some kind of flapping waterproof with a broad brimmed hat on his head. That was all there was, no name, nothing to identify him or distinguish him from half a million other Johns.