Pack Animals (5 page)

Cefn Welch listened to the growl of the Scania’s nine-litre engine as it jumped to second and into traffic. There was a clear stretch now before the next stop and, so long as he negotiated the road works carefully, he could make up for earlier delays and get back on schedule. In the rear-view mirror, he caught a glimpse of someone bouncing down the aisle. It was that fat woman who’d struggled to find the right change. Hurry up and find something, love, he thought. Sixty seats and room for twice that many standing, what are you waiting for?

Unlike his mates at the depot, Cefn loved these new articulated buses. He imagined them rippling through the urban jungle of Cardiff like predators, sleek and purposeful. He loved the positions of the controls in the instrument cluster, his commanding view through the huge single-piece windscreen, the throaty roar of the nine-litre engine. And the smell of new upholstery was a definite improvement on the piss-and-dust stink of those old coaches. Gotta move with the times, he’d told Ronald when the old guy was grumbling about all the changes in the DragonLine bus fleet. And with this thought in mind, Cefn smoothly steered the sinuous creature through the traffic lights as the engine kicked into third.

Daniel Pugh lifted his briefcase onto his lap, so that the fat woman could move down the aisle. The rear section of the bendy bus, beyond the concertina joint, was already standing-room only. Daniel pondered whether to offer up his place. Or would that imply he thought she was pregnant? She might take offence. That had happened before. He’d told Sheila about it that time, but his wife had laughed scornfully at him. ‘If you’re old enough to take early retirement, Dan, then you’re probably entitled to a seat on the bus. It’s the young kids who should be surrendering their seats. Give them a nudge.’ Like those teenagers – no, probably older than that – playing cards across the aisle. Daniel could see that it wasn’t a regular pack of diamonds and spades and whatnot, but a much larger format, more like portrait photographs. Each was garishly illustrated with ugly creatures and had complicated annotations. The backs of the cards said ‘MonstaQuest’, whatever that was.

‘A bit old for that kind of thing, aren’t you lads?’ he joked.

They smiled back in good humour. ‘There’s a tournament at the mall today,’ they said. ‘It’s not all chess and bridge, y’know.’

Another tall lad sat behind them, the green-and-white scarf marking him out as a student. This lad caught his eye. Daniel gave him a ‘what can you do?’ smile and looked away out of the window. He saw his own reflection in the dust-streaked glass. Still a full head of white hair, he thought, and drummed his fingers on his briefcase.

Herold Schoonhoven tugged his brown duffel coat closer and tucked the scarf into the neck. He was reading a book on international commerce, because he had a paper due on Monday. Part of his taught post-grad course in Maritime Studies and Transportation. He’d be able to concentrate better at the library, without the bustle of the bus and the noise of the undergrads in the nearby seats playing with their MonstaQuest card set.

Herold usually cycled in to the university library, a ritual he’d adopted during his undergraduate studies in Amsterdam, but he didn’t trust the throng of Cardiff’s Saturday traffic. So this morning he’d promised his new girlfriend that he’d take more care. Last month, the pretty Indian girl in the Amphora Bar thought he’d somehow guessed her name. Actually he’d been talking about his course, and kicking himself for his inability to make small talk. The confusion and her gentle laughter had done the trick, and he’d been dating Marine Kalhora since the beginning of term. If he got this paper finished in the uni library this morning, they could both get to the cinema this afternoon. The woman on the bench seat next to him jostled his leg and muttered an apology as she struggled clumsily for something in her coat.

Shona Bolton checked her watch. God, it was 10.30 already, she was going to be so late. As if to make the point, her mobile phone was going off, buzzing and vibrating and demanding her attention like some creature trapped in her pocket. She fumbled for it, guiltily aware that she was poking the guy next to her with her elbow.

Shona had been running late from the moment she woke up. Tom had brought her usual cup of coffee, just like her weekday alarm call, and reminded her that she was meeting their daughter Jenny in town. She’d struggled out of the duvet, into the shower, and through her blinding headache. Constantly nagged by Tom that she’d be late, she’d be really late, yes all right, she’d heard him the first twenty bloody times he’d told her. She left in a rush without drying her hair properly.

As she’d staggered down the road to the bus stop, Tom had chased after her. He’d looked like a goon in his fluffy slippers, frantically waving her mobile phone. ‘You forgot it again!’ he’d told her breathlessly. ‘Give her a call. Tell her you’re late.’ Shona had shoved the phone into her coat pocket and given Tom another earful for nagging her, but mostly because she didn’t like to say she hated the damn thing. Tom had bought two phones – one for Shona, and another for her to give Jenny as a birthday present. So she wasn’t going to tell him she could barely work out which buttons to press. Not like Jenny, who loved nothing better than to send her mum videos of places she’d been, people she’d met and, on one embarrassing occasion, a boyfriend she’d been… well, never mind that now.

The photo on the mobile’s shiny silver fascia flickered at her – Jenny, taken by her dad on the day he’d bought their phones. Trust her daughter to phone and nag her as well. Jenny would be waiting impatiently, and Shona still had to change at the terminus for the connecting service to Pendefig Mall.

It was a video message. Jenny hesitated about whether to put the phone to her ear or look at it in her palm. She pressed a couple of buttons hopefully. The screen got lighter. And lighter. Until it was impossibly, burningly bright. Within the brilliance, a dark shape materialised from nowhere.

Idelle Gethin had given up hope of reaching the spare seat without taking a tumble. She arranged her bags around her feet, and clutched at a standing pole as she tried to remain upright. Beside her, a woman with messy hair was staring at her mobile phone. Idelle thought the brightness was early morning sun at first. Then there was hot, rank breath in her face. A mouthful of savage teeth snapped towards her. Maddened eyes popped wildly beneath a leathery, furrowed brow. The last thing Idelle thought of was the hyperthyroid woman as this nightmare creature tore at her throat.

Herold Schoonhoven was engrossed in an article on transport performance metrics when the commotion began. Someone was trying to push past the fat woman with the pile of bags. A spray of something squirted across the bus. For a second, Herold thought it was a can fizzing open. But it was a gasp of breath and the spurt of arterial blood splashing over his paper. The undergrads in the nearby seat were yelling in horror. Herold reeled back, his mind struggling to process what he saw. Some sort of wild creature had savaged the fat woman, who dropped to the floor with a final gurgling exhalation. But where had it come from, and who would dress a creature like that?

A rush of foul air ran through the bus. The creature lunged forward, its eyes rolling in its dreadful face. It clawed and scraped its way through into the front section of the bus, raking at everything with sharp talons. Passengers shrank back in terror, unable to press themselves far enough against the cold glass of the windows, trapped in their upholstered bucket seats.

Cefn Welch heard the shouts from behind him. Bloody students arsing around again, he thought. They think that raising money for charity gives them a licence to behave how they want. Well, not on his bus. He’d get past this stretch of road works, pull over, and throw them off. The van in the opposite lane was flashing him, so he pressed down the accelerator and the Scania powered into the gap.

So he wasn’t expecting the attack. A hot, sour smell assailed him first. Like the sick-and-shit breath of tramps on the night bus. Then a sharp pain in his left arm. Scorching needles raked his shoulder and throat. He caught his breath in surprise, and was more surprised to find he couldn’t breathe. He fell against the emergency exit door, his whole body shaking. A hideous, deformed face leered at him.

The van driver was hooting his horn. Cefn snapped his head up, feeling fresh pain in his neck. Through the huge front windscreen, the road works loomed. Cefn wrenched at the wheel, but the Scania was already careering through the barrier and up a mound of earth. The view through the windscreen angled wildly. The bus powered up the mound, twisting to the right like a rearing animal. The engine continued to roar as though Cefn was still pressing down on the accelerator, but he could no longer feel his left leg.

Daniel Pugh tumbled off his bench and pitched into the aisle. The bus corkscrewed onto its side and slammed down onto the roadway with a splintering crash. The side window crazed as it struck the opposite kerb and scraped along with a rending cry of protest that rivalled any of the screaming inside the vehicle. The connecting axle groaned and sheared as the rear carriage of the bus reluctantly twisted to follow the front section, hurling passengers from their seats with dull thuds as they struck hard surfaces.

When the vehicle finally came to a stop, Shona lay dazed against a smashed window. The fat woman was a dead weight across her, and Shona didn’t know whose blood was blurring her vision. The engine continued to rev fruitlessly. The hissing sound of escaping air mingled with the weeping of survivors.

Shona still clutched at her phone. The sounds were getting woollier, more distant. She tried to focus on the little screen. She pressed feebly at the phone, but her fingers felt numb against the fiddly little buttons. Panic was setting in – was that Emergency or Redial or Return Call?

The shrieking roar of a maddened, wounded creature filled the bus. Shona stopped being worried about being late for her daughter, and started worrying about whether she was going to die.

FIVE

The washing up mocked Rhys from across the room. A tottering pile of stacked plates and cups leered at him, like a crockery monster that had taken up residence in the sink. If it was a real alien – and God knows, the things Gwen now told him about, he could almost believe it – his fiancée would no doubt finish it off with her Torchwood handgun. Unfortunately, Rhys was the one who’d promised to finish it off, first thing this morning when he’d kissed Gwen goodbye on her way out. His neck prickled with guilty realisation: another broken promise.

He flicked the receiver on the counter to BBC Radio Wales as background noise, and got stuck in. He caught the end of a news report about an attack by vandals in a shopping mall – that would explain the fire alarm at Pendefig, then. Next it was the sort of ‘human interest’ stuff that drove him bonkers. David Brigstocke made a report about two Plaid members who’d demanded an inquiry into subsidence at the Assembly building. ‘Don’t dig too deep,’ Rhys shouted at the radio. A cub scout group had dressed up in Halloween gear for a charity clean-up of litter-strewn beaches. A woman was suing a tanning salon because she got severe burns after they allowed her to make four visits in one day. Rhys changed channels with soapy fingers once he realised how loudly he was bellowing at the radio. Maybe he’d catch the Harwood’s jingle during an ad break. He was singing ‘Who can you trust to wash up your plates?’ to himself when the front door clicked and he heard Gwen walk in.

She threw her leather jacket across the arm of the sofa. ‘Was that you ranting?’ she tutted. ‘I could hear you out on the landing.’

‘That’s no way to talk about my singing.’

Gwen gave a good-humoured yell, and waved away his sudsy embrace. Rhys approached her for a kiss, waggling bubbles at her. ‘Weren’t you supposed to do that first thing? And where’s my lunch on the table, eh?’ She watched him dry his hands. ‘Not the tea towel, use a proper towel!’

‘That’s your mother’s voice,’ teased Rhys. He enveloped her in a big hug, snuggling into her neck. ‘Mmm. You’re wearing your sexy red top. I love you in that. But I love you more out of it…’

She wriggled with delight. ‘This is your excuse for not cooking lunch?’

‘I’d have done it sooner, love,’ Rhys said, ‘but the shops were
mental
.’

He felt her stiffen in his embrace. ‘I popped out for a few bits and bobs,’ he explained warily. ‘Oh, there was a classic I overheard. This woman outside Leckworth’s said to her friend, “So, she kept his bus pass because he wouldn’t be needing it where he’s gone,” and her mate said, “What, heaven?” And she said, “No, Carmarthen”.’

Gwen disengaged herself and folded her arms. ‘Leckworth’s?’

‘And Banana said, “That there, Rhys, is the true voice of Cowbridge Road”…’ He faltered under her glare.

‘That would be Leckworth’s in Pendefig Mall?’ Gwen was using her mother’s tone of reprimand. Rhys decided not to mention that just at the moment. ‘You
promised
me, Rhys.’

‘I didn’t go near the dress shop.’

‘And you took God’s gift to Welsh women with you, too! I might have known.’

Rhys made a placating gesture, then grabbed the MonstaQuest cards off the counter. ‘Banana wasn’t there for long,’ he lied. He offered the large deck of cards to her, half apology, half peace offering. ‘I got these for him as a joke. Might be good for the day, don’t you think?’

She practically snatched them out of his twitching fingers. ‘Never mind Banana Boat,’ she hissed. ‘He’d still be stuck in Lanzarote if Torchwood hadn’t pulled some strings with the Spanish.’

Rhys scowled. ‘Well, thank you Torchwood, as usual.’

‘Who d’you think got him through Arrecife Airport? I should have told Ianto to arrange him a full-cavity search at Customs. See how many DVDs he was smuggling.’

‘CDs,’ corrected Rhys, and immediately winced with regret.

Gwen flung the MonstaQuest deck at Rhys, skimming it like a Frisbee past his head. It hit the radio, detuning it in the middle of a jaunty ad jingle. The cellophane cover on the card deck split, spilling multicoloured cards over the counter and onto the tiled floor.