The Girl at the Bus-Stop (5 page)

The young woman with the bright pinky-red dyed hair, red leather jacket and short tartan skirt was the last to arrive again. She yawned before lighting a cigarette and swigging from a can of Red Bull. Rudge looked disapprovingly at the silver studs in her nostril and eyebrows, which made her look like the victim of an air-rifle firing-squad. Her hair reminded him of a circus clown’s wig, and had she applied even more bright-red lipstick, all she’d need to complete the picture would be a red plastic nose. He wondered how anyone so pretty could go to such lengths to make herself look like a vandalised work of art.

Along with Rudge she was probably the longest-serving passenger since the bus-stop had moved to its current location, some four years before. In all that time he’d never even said as much as “Good morning” to her.

The return journey reached the same stop at twenty past five, and she and Rudge were the only passengers to alight. She walked ahead of him, stopping momentarily to light a cigarette. Rudge found himself following closely behind, as she clumped along the pavement in her tall, heavy heeled boots.

Instead of heading home down Pine Avenue, or Devilgate Drive as he‘d recently re-named it, Rudge continued walking behind the young woman. She stopped suddenly and swung around to confront him, causing him to halt in his tracks.

‘You some sort of perve?’ she asked, glaring at him.

Rudge stood still, looking at her with an inane grin on his face desperately tried to think of something to say. The young woman made a gesture with one finger, before turning and walking away at a brisk pace.

Rudge stared after her for a few moments, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder.

‘Tosser,’ she shouted, flicking her cigarette away into the gutter.

Rudge felt embarrassed, and headed in the opposite direction to make his sorry way home.

To avoid seeing her at the bus-stop the next morning, Rudge arrived half an hour early to catch the seven-fifty. To his surprise and embarrassment, she was already there waiting for the same bus. After an uncomfortable silence, Rudge blurted out an apology for any misunderstanding, and offered her a cigarette. She accepted, and they chatted uncomfortably about the weather and buses as they smoked.

Rudge felt a little more relaxed, and plucked up the courage to ask her if she wanted to earn some extra money. She slapped him hard across the face, and grabbing him by the shoulders she brought her knee firmly up into his groin. He shrieked and fell forwards into a shop doorway, just moments before the bus pulled up. As he lay writhing on the ground , the young lady stepped on board and it pulled away again.

That evening Rudge and the young woman got off the bus at the usual time together and Rudge scurried quickly away. She soon caught him up and apologised for her violent conduct.

‘You can’t blame me for the way I reacted,’ she said with a cheeky grin, ‘but you don’t look like the usual perve.’

‘I’m not,’ replied Rudge, sounding hurt, ‘I mean, I’m not any type of ‘perve’ I’m just a normal sort of chap.’

‘Well why were you following me home last night then?’ she asked.

‘Well, you see……”

‘And why did you proposition me at the bus-stop this morning?’

‘Come on I’ll buy you a coffee and tell you all about it,’ he replied, ‘it’s a nice evening and we can sit at a pavement table. You can run off if I try to molest you.’

They sat down with their drinks and she introduced herself as Becky Waters, a clerk at Schopenhaur & Beavoir Motor Factors. Rudge shook her hand and told her his name, and explained that he worked at her employer’s biggest rival, Einstein & Unger. After lighting cigarettes Becky looked at him for a few moments before speaking.

‘Well come on then, I’m waiting,’ she said, ‘you said you wanted me to help you out with something for some extra cash.’

‘Yes of course,’ he replied, looking totally lost, ‘but I’m just trying to figure out a way of explaining it to you. It’s perfectly innocent and above board, but I don’t want you to think I’m completely off my rocker.’

‘Just tell me.’

Rudge thought for a few moments, and took a deep breath.

 
‘I’ve written a book, a novel and a publisher wants to publish it,’ he said slowly, ‘but I didn’t use my real name.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ she replied, ‘A lot of authors use nom de plumes, or is it noms de plume?’

‘Well, yes, but I’ve written the book under a woman’s name.’

‘Again, I don’t see anything wrong with that. A lot of authors use pen names of a different gender, especially women writers. At one time, pretending to be a bloke was the only way they could get their work taken seriously.’

‘Yes, I realise that but…..’

‘Then you have authors who are known for one type of novel, and write on a subject totally different under another name.’

Rudge looked flustered and sipped eagerly at his coffee before taking a draw on the cigarette.

‘Be that as it may, here’s the deal,’ he said, sounding more business-like, ‘I’ve got an appointment with the publisher this coming Thursday in London, and I need you to be me.’

‘But why?’ she said. ‘You needn’t feel embarrassed about writing under a woman’s name.’

‘You haven’t read the book yet,’ he replied, looking sheepish, ‘and if they find out it’s a middle-aged duffer like me who’s written it, well, they’ll throw me out on my ear and I’ll never get published. At my age, Rebecca, I’m talking last chance saloon here.’

‘Becky, pah-lease,’ she insisted, ‘I never liked being christened after the name of a Hitchcock movie.’

‘It was a book first.’

‘Was it?’

‘Of course,’ said Rudge, smiling, ‘it was one of Daphne du
Maurier’s
most famous.’

‘I’ve heard of her but I never knew she’d written a book called
Rebecca
, I’ll have to read it sometime. I watched some of the film on one of those free newspaper DVDs, but I didn’t like it much.’

‘I haven’t seen it for yonks, but I always thought it was very good. What didn’t you like about it?’

‘Well for a start it was in black and white, they sat in a car with filmed scenery moving in the background which looked pathetic, and they all talked funny. English, but not as we know it.’

 
‘Oh, so Olivier didn’t utter things like, “pah-lease”, “wot-evah” or even “layt-erze” whilst tear-arsing around the Riviera with Joan Fontaine in a Ferrari.’

‘Are you taking the piss, Mr Rudge?’

‘Slightly, yes,’ he replied, ‘ I do apologise.
 
I just find it annoying to the extreme that young people dismiss old films. Especially when it’s purely on the grounds that they’re technically inferior to the over-hyped CGI-infested 3D cinematic codswallop of today.’

‘You need to get out more, but maybe not to the cinema, eh?’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get so worked up over things.’

‘What about this novel of yours, what would I have to do?’

‘Well, for a start you’ll need to book Thursday off work,’ replied Rudge, ‘and we’ll both travel up to London on the train.
 
I can brief you properly on the way, and in the meeting I’ll try and be in there with you in case of any awkward questions.’

‘I see, and what sort of money are we talking about?’ she asked, ‘Not for your book, for me I mean.’

‘I’ll pay all the travel expenses, meals and incidentals of course. On top of that I suppose I could run to say, three hundred quid?’

‘Blimey,’ she said with a smile, ‘it’s a shame you want me just for the one day, I could get used to that sort of money.’

‘It’s all I’ve got saved-up in my two pound coin collection,’ he replied, ‘but it may not be just be for one day. If it all goes smoothly they may want to see me again, I mean, you.

‘So it could work out to be a nice little earner for me?’

‘I’d better tell about the book’s content first, Becky. You may not want to go through with it for any amount of money.’

Rudge explained to her about the circumstances which led him to write the book, but kept the title of it back for the time being. He gave her a brief overview, deliberately omitting details about various characters’ sexual preferences, and the implements used in satisfying their complex needs.

‘Somehow I can’t imagine you writing a smutty novel, Mr Rudge,’ she said smiling, ‘behind that humble safe looking exterior, you’re just a dirty old man really.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, ‘I was so drunk I don’t even remember writing the damned thing. I just sent it off and now they want to publish it. What am I supposed to do, tell them not to bother?’

‘No need to get shirty,’ she replied coldly, ‘I’m just saying that you don’t look the type that’s all.’

‘Which is exactly why I need you, Becky.’

‘That’s charming that is,’ she said angrily ‘so you think I look the type is that it, some slapper with a whip?’

‘No, you don’t understand, that’s not what I meant. Look, as you quite rightly said I don’t look the type, and you don’t either for that matter. But because you are a young attractive woman then at least you have some credibility. People could believe that you could write
 
such a book, but with me they’d immediately think, as you did, “he’s just a dirty old man”.’

‘Where did the name come from?’ she asked, ‘I mean, “Raspberry Caine” is a bit unusual to say the least, it’s not even a proper person’s name.’

‘I think the “Raspberry” bit came from the homemade wine I was drinking when I wrote it. I found the empty bottle on the floor of the shed
the other day, which where I do all my work. As for “Caine”, well I can only assume that because the book is about BDSM it’s a variation of “cane”, as in “bend over”.’

‘I’ll have to read this novel of yours sometime, Mr Rudge, it sounds like fun.’

‘Unfortunately I haven’t dared print another copy in case my wife finds it,’ Rudge replied with a frown, ‘she’d have kittens if she thought I was capable of writing something like that.’

They sat silently for a few minutes watching the world go by, and gazed with interest as a delivery van
from Bergson & Stich Motor Factors pulled up at the car spares shop across the main road.

‘Look at that,’ said Rudge, ‘it’s the competition. Shall we slash his tyres?’

‘Don’t mention work for goodness sake,’ she replied, ‘if I had the money I’d buy out my employer and demolish the place.’

 
‘I often feel that way as well,’ Rudge said looking thoughtful. ‘Ten years I’ve been at Einstein & Unger, and if I have to spend much longer there I think I’ll hang myself.’

‘Nothing can be that bad, surely.’

‘You obviously haven’t met my boss, Mr Dave Banstead, the overbearing bloated bully-boy.’

‘Dave Banstead, are you serious?’ she asked, her pencil thin eyebrows suddenly rising up.

‘Do you know him then?’

‘Not personally, but he was a sales manager at our company’s branch in Basingstoke, but he got the sack about three years ago,’ she replied with a wry grin. ‘The story was that the cleaners caught him in the Despatch Bay, shagging a roll of bubble-wrap.’