The Girl at the Bus-Stop (4 page)

BOOK: The Girl at the Bus-Stop
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Once she was happy with the fitting she pulled both zips closed. A few seconds later the man started to panic and jerk his head around. She patted his bottom gently before unfastening both zips, and he desperately sucked in air until his breathing calmed down. Both women then eased him into the trunk, where he lay down on his back. The fat woman leaned in to secure the mouth zip before closing the lid and locking it.

 


This is Michael
,’ the narrator explained, ‘
by day he’s the CEO of an international oil company, but after the boardroom he gets down to bawdy business in Mistress Alex’s boudoir. He comes here three evenings a week, and sometimes straight from the golf course at the weekend. As a powerful executive he’s the last person you’d expect to voluntarily go through this kinda ordeal, but this is only the half of it. We’re not allowed to show you what else Alex and her partner put him through, but I can tell you this much, you’ll never grate cheese over your home made pizza again without thinking about Michael.’

 

Rudge shook his head and smiled before slugging down the remainder of the Grant’s. He spotted a small bottle of Malibu lurking behind an unopened box of dates in the open sideboard, grabbed it and eagerly poured out a huge measure into the glass.

 

The next subject on the programme was ex-professional American football player, Chuck.
 
A beautiful young and naked Dominatrix was instructing him on how to clean her toilet bowl with his tongue. Off-camera his squeals of delight could be heard, and the narrator explained that Miss Ingrid was now defecating on Chuck’s face as he lay on the bathroom floor masturbating.

 

The final ‘star’ of the documentary was Kitty, a forty year old bank clerk. She saved a large portion of her modest salary for a special treat once a month. She would travel to the luxurious home of a young couple and pay them to scream abuse at her, as she cleaned their house naked. If she failed to meet their exacting standards of domestic cleanliness she was soundly spanked. Her initial shrieks of protest quickly gave way to moans of orgasm, as the couple took it in turns to slap her buttocks.

 

Rudge started to nod off, and soon entered the twilight world between hearing someone talking on the television and sleep kicking in. Momentarily he thought he was kneeling alongside Kitty, helping her to scrub the couple’s patio with a toothbrush. When the programme’s credits had finished rolling, the adverts came on at a greatly increased volume and jarred Rudge back into the land of the living.

 

After finishing the last of the Malibu, Rudge felt incredibly thirsty and staggered through to the kitchen. He made himself some tea, and retrieved a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. His wife had banned smoking inside the house on the day she’d given up the habit, so Rudge stepped outside and found sanctuary inside the shed, which had doubled as his study for years. He booted-up his laptop and lit a cigarette, sucking gratefully on the tip as if his life depended on it.

 

H
alf-heartedly Rudge tried to tidy up the a chapter of
Wife on Mars
, but in his intoxicated state he couldn’t concentrate. As he read his Martian character’s broken English dialogue back to himself, it sounded decidedly Geordie. In frustration he added ‘bonnie lass’ to the end of each sentence, before abandoning it and closing the file.

 

His stretched out in his chair, and his foot pushed against something on the floor underneath the flimsy wallpaper table he used as a desk. He reached down and picked up a dusty unopened bottle of something. The grubby hand-written label informed that it was homemade raspberry wine, and he vaguely remembered a neighbour bringing it along to a barbecue. That
 
was back in the days when Rudge and his wife hosted such social gatherings, many years ago.

 

He searched around the shed for a suitable substitute for a corkscrew, settling for a blunt chisel from his little-used toolbox. He pushed the cork right down into the bottle and poured out some of the wine into his empty tea mug. After testing it with a gentle sip, he took a large gulp before refilling the mug. Within ten minutes the bottle was back on the floor, only this time it was empty. Rudge had lit-up another cigarette and was typing frantically on his laptop keyboard singing
Babylon Zoo’s
old hit,
Spaceman
.

 

‘I can't get off the carousel, I can't get off the carousel,’ he wailed in a high pitched shriek, ‘I can't get off the carousel, because I’m pissed, and it won’t fucking stop.’

 

The next morning Rudge awoke naked on the hall carpet, feeling very cold. His body ached as if he’d been in a cross-country camel race, and had to use the bannister for support to haul himself to his feet. He lifted the large brown envelope he’d been using as a pillow, and noticed the pre-paid printed Royal Mail postage label stuck in the top right corner. He dropped it on to the hall stand, and stepped over his discarded clothing. He followed the trail of garments through to the kitchen and out of the back door, which was wide open.

 

Still naked, he retrieved his underpants from the weed-infested patio, and bent down to pick up his toothbrush which was lying next to a bucket of dirty grey water. The woman in the first floor flat backing-on to Rudge’s property gawped down at him from her kitchen window, and he darted back into the house.

 

Rudge examined the envelope in the hall again and noticed that it was addressed to a publisher he’d never heard of. He spotted a Post-It note stuck on the back of the front door and peeled it off. In a spidery version of his own handwriting the note stated,
‘Get it posted first thing this morning, without fail.’

 

He checked the time on the clock on the living room mantelpiece, before gathering up his strewn clothing and dressing quickly. Putting on his anorak, he picked up the envelope and his keys and rushed out of the house.

 

The post box was on the corner of his road, and there was just one collection at the weekend at seven o’clock that morning. This gave him just five minutes to catch it, so he took a shortcut across the recreation ground. He’d just managed to force the bulky A4 envelope through the narrow slit in the post box, as the postman’s van pulled up.

 

Rudge walked home at a much slower pace, following his usual route and smiling contentedly. He had no idea why because he didn’t even know what he’d just sent off. Perhaps during the course of the previous evening he’d found a publisher on the Net who welcomed unsolicited submissions, and had not already rejected
Wife on Mars
.

 

All seemed quiet at the builder’s house as Rudge hurried past, the BMW standing proudly on the drive and shining like a new pin.

 

‘He’s probably still in bed shagging his wife,’ said Rudge with a sneer, ‘then they’ll have a leisurely shower together before she lovingly cooks him a slap-up breakfast. They’ll go out in the car later, probably to visit some of the many good-looking friends they’re bound to have and enjoy a thoroughly delightful weekend, the bastards.’

 

Rudge cast an admiring glance at the new close-boarded oak fence panels bordering Mr Potter’s drive. He looked up and saw Potter standing near the top of a ladder, dropping handfuls of soggy brown foliage into his immaculate wheel barrow. He waved a rubber-gloved hand at Rudge.

 

‘The guttering is blocked with leaves,’ he said unnecessarily.

 

 
‘That’s autumn for you,’ replied Rudge, with an inane grin.

 

Despite his head throbbing like a blind cobbler’s thumbs, Rudge’s early morning stroll in the fresh air had made him feel slightly more alive. As soon as he got home he raced upstairs and ran the bath, pouring in a generous measure of his wife’s cinnamon-fragranced bubble-bath.

 

As he lowered himself in, he winced as the hot water made contact with his knees. Closer examination revealed that they were both badly grazed, but he couldn’t remember how. After the stinging sensation had eased slightly, a feeling of total well-being engulfed him as the relaxing bath did its best to ease his aching bones.

 

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sort of bathroom he’d have when he became a best selling science-fiction writer. The bath itself would be shaped like an inter-galactic battle-cruiser, with gold plated taps in the shape of ray guns from a 1950s
Dan Dare
movie. The ringing of the telephone interrupted Rudge’s fantasy. He swore as he hauled himself out, grabbed a towel and ran downstairs.

 

 

Is this Mr Sludge?’ a voice from the Indian sub-continent enquired.

 

‘It’s Rudge.’

 

‘Are you completely happy with the amount you are paying for your mortgage, Mr Sludge?’ the voice said chirpily. ‘Have you considered the savings you could make by switching prow-iders?’

 

 
‘Fuck off.’

 
 
 
Chapter 3 – Once in a Lifetime

 
Three weeks later, Rudge returned home from work feeling tired and fed-up as usual. He picked up two letters and several new hand-delivered takeaway menus, lying on the floor of the porch. Once inside the hall he removed his jacket and handed the post to his wife, who was en route to the kitchen make a cup of tea.
 

 

She handed one of the letters back to him stating that it had been wrongly addressed, and he followed her through to the kitchen. She swore when she discovered that the second letter was informing her about the non-payment of their Council Tax bill. The Direct Debit had been rejected due to lack of funds in their bank account, and payment was required forthwith.

 

She berated her husband over his inadequate salary, lack of ambition, his lowly status in the workplace and all the years he’d wasted on writing silly stories which no-one would ever read. Rudge waited patiently for her to finish shouting during her tea making routine, before preparing his own. Still clutching the incorrectly addressed letter, he left the house and sought sanctuary in the shed.

 

He sipped his tea and lit a cigarette, enjoying the absolute peace and quiet. He looked at the mystery envelope addressed to Ms Raspberry Caine at his address, before tossing it on his desk.

 

He re-read some chapters of
Wife on Mars
on his laptop, and decided to add a chunk of text he’d omitted from his last novel,
Murder on the A
urora
Borealis Express
. He searched his hard-drive looking for the unused document and spotting a file called
Disciplinary Attraction
,
he opened this instead.

 

The opening page stated that it had been written by Raspberry Caine, and he vaguely remembered coming across the name before. He read the opening few pages of chapter one, flushing with embarrassment. He chuckled at some of the spicier details before skimming through the rest of the manuscript.
 

 

It suddenly dawned on him that the letter he’d just received wasn’t wrongly addressed at all, it was for him. He rummaged through the paperwork littering the table, found the letter and hastily tore open the envelope. It was from a publishing company, albeit an obscure one, who wanted Raspberry Caine to visit its premises in London the following week to discuss a possible contract.

 

After a few moments of leaping around and punching the air with glee, he stopped and sat down again. How the hell could he, Reuben Rudge aged forty six but looking more like sixty four, pass himself off as someone called Raspberry Caine? If the publishing company found out it was a middle-aged man who’d written such a manuscript, they’d laugh their heads off before throwing him out and he’d never become a published author.

 

He’d have to continue working as a lowly clerk until he was either sacked, pensioned-off or simply dropped dead. With this thought in mind, Rudge immediately created a new e-mail account in the name of Raspberry Caine. He sent the publisher an immediate confirmation e-mail that he,
 
Raspberry Caine, would be able to attend the appointment at nine-thirty on the following Thursday.

 

Faced with a huge dilemma, Rudge spent most of the weekend trying to come up with a plan. In desperation he surfed the Net looking for sites specialising in transvestite clothing and shoes, and makeover beauty products for trans-sexuals.

 

On Monday morning he waited at the bus stop as usual to catch the eight ten to take him to that hell on earth, Einstein & Unger. The usual tired and sad-looking gathering of fellow passengers waited alongside him in the queue, not speaking, not making eye contact and hardly breathing.

BOOK: The Girl at the Bus-Stop
9.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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