Part 20 (1/2)

'It's not my responsibility.'

'Oh, responsibilities, is it? Well you drove the car. You set him free. What if he was better penned up in the zones? What if they kept him there because of how dangerous he is? Did you think of that?'

-'Not until now. Did you?'

'Not until now, no. We'd best go back.'

'We can't go back.'

'Of course we can. You can reason with him. He let us go without changing us into white mice. He likes you.

'We can't go back. See for yourself.'

Cornelius gestured back towards the house. To where the house had been, but wasn't any more.

There was just an overgrown plot of land, with an estate agent's sign up. MILCOM MOLOCH ESTATES.

DEVELOPMENT SITE FOR SALE.

Tuppe turned a bitter eye from the site and back to his friend. 'You knew that was going to happen, didn't you?'

'I began to suspect something a couple of minutes ago. When I realized how hungry I still was.'

Tuppe rubbed his stomach. 'Me too. And after we ate all that-'

'Did we?'

'Aw shoot!' Tuppe turned in a small circle. 'The car's gone and everything. This is well beyond me.'

'And me also. Shall we thumb for a lift?'

'Any particular direction you favour?'

'None whatever. You stand this side of the road and I will stand on the other. We'll let fate decide.'

Tuppe looked at Cornelius.And Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

'Let's do it,' said the small fellow.

17.

The bus was a single-decker British Leyland, circa 1958. To say that it had seen better days would not altogether be telling the whole truth. Unless you considered plying a regular and turgid trade between Hounslow bus station and the Staines depot for twenty-three long and thankless years to be your definition of 'better days'.

Not so the bus. For it, the better days were now. Because this was a liberated bus. A bus now free of its yoke. Gone were the rows of dreary seats. Gone the dull green paintwork. Gone the sweaty driver's b.u.m upon its forward throne. And gone, all gone, its number.

I am not a number. I am a free bus!

The free bus was now a bus apart. It had been lovingly repainted in many a rainbow hue. It housed two young families. And it was driven by a lady with a perfumed posterior. It was a happy bus.

It pulled up without even a squeak, although its brakes had long gone off to kingdom come. A young chap with curly black hair and a smiley face, swung open its doors. 'Want a lift?' he asked.

'Yes please,' said Cornelius Murphy.

'And your mate?'

'Please also.' Tuppe scampered across the road and clambered after Cornelius.

'Magic bus,' said the small one, taking it all in. 'You're not Ken Kesey, by any chance?'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' said the young chap.

'Excuse me. No offence meant.'

'None taken. That's my name. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'Is that Mr b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, or b.o.l.l.o.c.ks something?'

'It's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to everything.' The young chap smiled hugely. 'Shut the door and make yourselves at home.'

'Thanks, we will.' Cornelius ducked his head, they made buses smaller in those days. And he shut the door. 'Where are you heading?'

'To wherever the good times are.

'That's where we'd like to go,' said Tuppe.

'Then you're in good company.'

'Yes.' Cornelius gave the interior of the bus a thoughtful sensory scan. Bright-eyed children grinned at him from a hammock strung crossways between the windows. A guitar was being played with skill and a girl was singing. And delicious smells wafted from the cooking area. It was all rather blissful.

'Very good company indeed,' said Cornelius Murphy.

The lady at the wheel put the happy bus into gear and it rolled onwards.

'Want some eats?' asked b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

And Cornelius looked at Tuppe. 'Yes please,' they said.

They dined on pulses and brown rice and fresh veg-etables and strawberries and cream.

'OK?' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks asked.

'Not half.' Tuppe loosened a b.u.t.ton on his dunga-rees. 'Not half, thank you very much.'

'You guys employed?'

'Ah now.' Cornelius took off his cap and stroked his bandages. 'We were, sort of. But it didn't work out.'