City Bus Driver

Last late shift of the year. Hogmanay. The city already half-dressed for celebration and half-undressed by road closures. Main streets sealed off like a crime scene, cones breeding overnight, and diversion notices fluttering about as if they’d only just been agreed over a pint. Typical. I had three trips left in me, all different routes, each one with its own bespoke “tweak” designed to keep things lively. Or confusing. Or both. First trip: a diversion. Second trip: a different diversion. Third trip: a diversion of a diversion, just to keep a bus driver humble. Then, as if the city felt things were going a little too straightforward, a road traffic collision arrived to really pull the threads loose. So now it wasn’t just Plan B, but Plan C, D, and a bit of freestyle navigation thrown in for character. Diversions on diversions. The sort of night where your indicators get more exercise than your right foot. Still, that’s Hogmanay for you. Controlled chaos with a hint of civic optimism...

At night, power comes in small, unremarkable shapes. A raised voice. A clenched fist. Or a button that decides who gets to leave. By the end of a late shift, the city starts to loosen its grip on itself. The air turns damp and metallic. Neon bleeds into puddles. People move with purpose, or not at all. I was on the final stretch to my changeover, enjoying that brief, fragile calm when you start to believe nothing else is going to happen. That’s when I pulled in at the shelter. I pressed the button. The doors began to open and the night forced its way in. A woman launched through the gap like she was escaping gravity itself, clutching a poke of chips with the intensity normally reserved for hostage negotiators. Behind her, the shelter erupted. Half a dozen scallywags burst into noise all at once, shouting, swearing, accusing, the kind of collective anger that doesn’t want resolution, only witnesses. Money. Drugs. Betrayal. A deal gone wrong and now being renegotiated in public. She ...