Drive

Walter boarded the 6:18 with a paper bag of chips folded under his arm. The driver knew him well enough to lift two fingers from the wheel, but not well enough to ask why he always chose the left side after the depot.

At the third stop, a yellow sign sent the bus away from the river.

“Diversion,” the driver said. “Bridge Road’s shut.”

Walter stood up so quickly that the chips slid off his knees. A girl in a school jumper caught the bag before it reached the aisle.

“Thanks,” he said.

She looked out at the roadworks. “Was that your stop?”

“Not exactly.”

The bus turned through a street of garages and discount carpet shops. Walter watched the river vanish behind rows of flats. At 6:31 he pressed the bell.

The girl pressed the bell too.

“This isn’t near anything,” she said.

“It is near the footbridge.”

“I need the 32 from the petrol station.”

They got off together, though neither waited for the other. The girl carried the violin case across the wet pavement. Walter walked behind her past a shuttered laundrette and an alley full of bins. She kicked a crushed can ahead of her until it lodged beneath a parked van. Walter stopped once to look through the gap between two warehouses, but all he could see was the back of a billboard.

“What’s on the bridge?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She waited.

“The lamps come on one at a time,” he said. “From the far end.”

“Every day?”

“Tuesdays.”

At the petrol station, the 32 came around the corner with its wipers working furiously. The girl picked up the violin case and ran for it. Walter crossed toward the river.

By the time he reached the bridge, all twelve lamps were on. A delivery cyclist rode between them, swearing at the wind. Walter opened the chips. They had gone cold and soft.