Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

‘I’ll look into that for you and tell the council what I think about it.’ What was left of the flimsy wooden fence that separated the cluster of prefabs from the derelict road was richly overgrown, the gaps full of builder’s waste, fly-tipped rubbish and rubble. It wouldn’t keep out anyone. Even to her it looked like the council had deliberately let the area become run down to make staying there less attractive. Fairfield had the heavy feeling CID would sooner or later be down here again, perhaps sorting out worse than plain house-breaking. Sorbie was right, she thought, these people should have moved away. Only now did she notice that Sorbie was no longer standing behind her. ‘Mr Cooke, you wouldn’t by any chance have noticed where DS Sorbie has got to?’

‘I would. He’s down there, throwing up against the back of number twenty-two.’

Witek Setkievich could already see the end of his shift. Getting there was another matter. He only had three punters left on top, the others had got off at the science museum, but passenger numbers hardly mattered. Getting back to the starting point at Broad Quay and handing over at the end of his shift was all that mattered. The ancient red Routemaster open-top bus may have been fitted with a low-emission engine but it was still as big as a house and nearly as hard to drive. In this traffic it could take ten minutes to cover the last five hundred yards to the harbourside stop. This was where the company’s touts hunted for tourists, trying to entice them to take the ‘hop-on hop-off’ tour of the city. A few hundred yards away near the Hippodrome the company kept a draughty little ground-floor office.

As was usual at lunchtime the roundabout was clogged with idiots not knowing where they were going and all getting in each other’s way. But Witek didn’t really mind. He liked driving the bus. Getting a licence was the best thing he had ever done. It had fed him since coming to this country. And driving the city tour bus was much, much better than driving a regular bus around the city which he had done for a year before landing this job. Tourists were much more polite than the passengers on ordinary buses. Especially foreign tourists. They hardly ever wanted to beat him up, did not call him stupid Polack, didn’t tell him to ‘go back home to Moscow’ and didn’t spit at the security screen. Tourists never pissed between the seats and didn’t throw up so much.

Traffic moved on for a few car lengths and he could at last cross the junction. The road system in this city was madness, of course. Three times they had changed the layout, reversed the one-way systems, and nothing they tried worked properly. Some people wanted tourist buses banned to lighten the traffic but looking at this chaos that would be a drop in the ocean. It did worry him though. Driving was all he had ever been good at and he liked this job. He liked the bus.

Witek strained to see who was doing the afternoon shift handing leaflets to the tourists. He recognized Ben and yes, there she was, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight: Emma.

Witek liked Emma. He liked her so much he could not bring himself to shorten her name to Emm like everyone else did. Of course he had no chance. Emma was nice and polite with him but that’s all it was. She was on her gap year and would go travelling to Asia and Australia soon, something he could never do. Afterwards she would go to university. And he would still be driving a bus.

When at last Witek swung the Routemaster into the reserved bay by the harbour Emma was talking to Ben and neither of them even turned their heads to see which driver was pulling in. Dave, who would relieve him and drive the next shift, was slouching by the railings. He gave a slow wave and carried on smoking.

Witek announced the end of the tour over the microphone and added a reminder. ‘Everyone please be sure to take belongings with you.’ He opened the doors and waited for the three single passengers to alight. Each one said thank you as they left, so polite. The last thing he had to do was check that the vehicle was reasonably clean and pick up any rubbish and anything accidentally left behind. He checked first downstairs then the upper deck, collecting a few chocolate wrappers and a plastic sandwich carton. Right on the last seat lay a small pink lady’s umbrella. He picked it up. It looked cheap. Nobody would call for it at the office, they’d simply go out and buy a new one. But it was company policy to keep all found items for a couple of weeks before letting the staff take them home if they wanted to.

Dave was downstairs leaning in the open door, lighting a last cigarette before the start of his shift. Witek checked his watch. Dave’s shift started in one minute but he would hang around for another five in plain view of the office, something he himself wouldn’t dare to do.

‘What you got, pink brollie? They never leave anything useful like a carton of fags or a hundred quid. What’s traffic like?’

‘Is crap. Always is by now.’ Witek smiled over Dave’s shoulder at Emma who was looking in his direction without registering him.

‘Yeah, I don’t know why I keep signing up for the afternoon shifts, they’re so much worse than the morning ones. I just can’t hack the early start, know what I mean? Not that I couldn’t drive this heap in my sleep. Watch this.’ After one last drag from his cigarette he flicked the butt at a council rubbish bin and missed.

Witek’s voice was heavy with the tragedy of it. ‘Every day you miss, Dave. Never get better. Always miss rubbish bin.’

‘Tomorrow, Witek, my son. Now excuse me while I drive this rubbish bin.’

Emma had moved and was busy working on a tourist couple who were already holding a leaflet each. She was standing on the wrong side of the parking bay for him to walk past casually, perhaps exchange a few words, ask how she was. The office, where he had to sign out, lay in the opposite direction. Now she moved even further away. Witek sighed. He’d sign out and somehow contrive to walk past her afterwards. It would mean taking quite a detour around the roundabout since home was in the opposite direction but it would be worth it. Witek smiled to himself as he walked quickly towards the office. Emma was very pretty even though she was English. Polish girls were famously pretty, much prettier than the English. But Emma was very beautiful in a very English way. Hard to explain. Different pretty.

Sally, the office girl who almost single-handedly did all the admin jobs for the company, comically waggled her head while chewing down the cheese sandwich she had just dispatched. This one was not pretty. Sal was nice, though definitely not pretty. But she was always so cheerful, so perhaps she didn’t mind.

‘Hello, Witty, another day done? S’all right for some. Driving round in circles, calling it work, then knocking off early. I’ve got another four hours to go.’ She handed him the relevant clipboard holding the form for the drivers to tick and sign. Witek gave her the umbrella in exchange. ‘Oh, cute, can I have it if no one comes for it?’

‘Is not my colour, Sal. I don’t think is your colour too. You can have it, of course.’

Sally made a note of the date then bent down to the cupboard where left items lingered among till rolls and boxes of rubber bands. As she found room for the umbrella her eyes fell on a plain white carrier. ‘Oh yeah, the egg, Witty, the egg! That’s one of yours and it’s been here more than two weeks now.’ She slipped it from the carrier and placed it on the counter between them. The heavy papier mache Easter egg rocked gently between them. Its varnished shell was brightly decorated with Easter bunny motifs and a paper banderole around its waist promised fine dark, milk and white chocolate treats inside.