The Busconductor Hines (36 page)

Is that right?

Aye it's fucking right, ask anybody.

I'm no asking anybody I'm asking you ya orange bastard ye.

No point asking me, I'm no involved, I just give out the descriptions; that's the conductor's job, get the witnesses and say what is the what.

Keech.

Is it fuck keech. And I'll tell you an even better one. My first week in the job and I'm on with a cunt who shall remain anonymous for the simple reason he's still in the garage. We gets to fucking Argyle Street – 3 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon and the place is mobbed man really mobbed; we stops at Jamaica Street traffic lights. I'd been late to get on the bus and it was so fucking busy I'd no even had a chance to see who was driving never mind the state he was in so anyway, the bus, stopped, for fucking ages, and all the punters're beginning to fidget and look about, but I'm so fucking new at the game I dont know anything's up – I'm rushing round getting the fares in quick, having a wee kind of inner competition to see if I can clear the topdeck before the lights change or something. I didnt even notice they'd been at green and back to red and back to fucking
green again, till I starts hearing all the beep beeps, and then I looks out the window, and all the traffic, rows and rows, all jamming up, all beeping their horns and fucking

I know who it was.

What?

Who you're talking about, I know who it is.

Naw you dont.

Reilly snorted.

You dont.

Aye I fucking do.

I must've told you then.

How?

Cause you wouldnt fucking know unless, that's how.

Reilly shrugged and then he smiled. Okay, what happened?

Hh.

Naw, tell me.

What d'you mean tell me! if you already know what's the fucking point.

Reilly shrugged.

Hines swivelled on the seat and raised his boots onto the back of the seat in front; he closed his eyelids.

I'll tell you one, said Reilly.

Drivers or conductors?

The latter.

The latter! hh. Am I involved?

Naw.

I dont want to fucking hear it then. Does it concern irate punters at Bridgeton Cross? a certain Old Firm game on New Year's Day? because if so, if so . . .

If so what?

If so fuck all ya fenian bastard ye; I dont want to hear it.

Aye well you're going to fucking hear it cause this bus isnt moving for another ten minutes.

Ten minutes! Ten minutes! what d'you mean ten minutes ya cunt ye it was ten minutes a half a fucking hour ago!

Rubbish.

It's no rubbish.

Aye it is: rubbish, rubbish rubbish rubbish.

Aw give us peace for christ sake Reilly.

I'm giving you fuck all peace.

Come on, get the bus moving.

Too early.

It's no too early at all man I mean the . . . Hines sniffed, and after a moment he sat up, brought out his tin and prised off the lid. When he was tapping the tobacco down the length of the cigarette paper Reilly took out a packet of tipped cigarettes and extracted one. He waited for Hines to finish rolling his before striking a light. Then Hines said, How was the game on Saturday?

Murder; no opposition – we could've put out the fucking reserves . . . He yawned and got up from the seat; he sat down again.

Hines shifted his position, he wiped the condensation from the back window and looked out.