MYSTERY BUS (a true story)

The otherworldliness of their appearance tricked many of us into misplaced excitement initially. But it didn’t take long for the positivity to fade.

They’ve been here for about a month; circling around menacingly, acknowledging no one and contributing nothing of value to village life. They are a mystery. Not an intriguing, pleasant kind of mystery, but the kind of mystery that almost certainly shrouds something despicable.

Anyway, though I’m not keen to paint myself as some kind of human Scooby-Doo, I have decided to get to the bottom of it. That’s why I’ve been sat in my car, in the pitch black, for two hours, clutching a video camera, and torch and a normal camera.

But before we get on with the actual nitty-gritty of the detective work, I may as well fill you in properly about what you’ve agreed to get involved with.

Our enemies take the guise of two (or maybe three, I’m not sure) 1930s American-looking buses. I think there are two green and cream-coloured ones and one that is probably best described as deep-but-dirty-burgundy (and cream). Apart from the difference in colour, all three (let’s say there’s three) are exactly the same in appearance.

Each one boasts the same blacked out windows, the same faceless driver and the same ornate styling. To the front of each bus is fixed a spare wheel, annoyingly small and incredibly shiny. The wheel sits on the point at which the buses’ elaborate side panels meet. Like waves encircling the bus they bulge their way along each side, forming an unnecessary peak that protrudes out beneath the driver’s cabin, which is made of weird angles.   

One the rear of each bus it reads ‘Oketon Prison’ – needless to say there is no Oketon Prison around here. And, despite my best attempts, I have managed to locate no Oketon Prison anywhere in the country. I’m not sure whether this is a clue, or an intentional distraction. I’m tempted to suggest the latter.

You’ll have to forgive any incoherence in my explanation here, as I am focusing my concentration into my rear view mirror. I cannot miss the opportunity to discover the truth.

Apart from the blacked-out windows and the fake prison motifs, the thing that is causing me most consternation at present is the route these buses take. I usually see them heading east to west along Park Road, they then loop round the roundabout, up past the shops, straight on past our house and then right down Phurst Street, where it disappears from my sight (cos I usually watch them from out of the living room window). I can only speculate as to where they go from there, as I thought it was a dead end. That is one of the things that has been driving me mad. It doesn’t make sense.

Sometimes, though this is rarer, they emerge south of Park Road, come up through the park, and then follow the same route once they hit the roundabout. Where they come from before they reach the park is anyone’s guess. They loop round and round and round. Sometimes you’ll see the same one twice, or even thrice, an hour. It is infuriating.

What else can I tell you? Though they operate most frequently during the day at weekends, they are also around during the week and at night. I think they run all the way through the night, actually. They never stop to allow anyone on or off. They loop around and around. Their purpose is entirely unknown. Once I thought the drivers were holographic. But I think that might be a bit far fetched.

We must discover where these buses come from, who operates them and what their purpose is. I think they are evil and creepy.

We don't have to sleep

My mate Rikh recently told me that going to sleep is opt-in/opt-out. At first I didn’t believe her but she showed me the evidence and, I can tell you, there’s no doubt about it: humans don’t actually have to go to sleep.

“Although going to bed can be a pleasurable experience and dreams are certainly sometimes exciting,” she said, “just listen to what I’ve been doing while you’ve been slobbing out in bed, like a dumb dog, with your stupid eyes shut...”

Unfortunately she swore me to secrecy; therefore I can’t divulge any of the amazing things he’s been up to. But she’s had some right times...

Timothy Leader (maverick pigeon feeder)

Timothy Leader keeps sacks of breadcrumbs in his pockets and bags. He never leaves home without them. And that’s because he’s one of those people you see, who often wear threadbare coats and weird shoes, hanging around the public squares in your city, feeding pigeons.

It’s a singular kind of person that decides to go down the route of public pigeon feeding. They are generally extremely thoughtful and honest individuals; the kind of person with whom most right-thinking people would happily share a scotch egg and half an ale of a Thursday and/or Wednesday afternoon in summer. Public pigeon feeders (PPFs) are also usually among society’s most stable characters. It’s a little known fact that a staggering 67 point three % of them are almost entirely debt free.

These ‘average’ PPFs, however, do not represent Timothy. He is an entirely different – some would say maverick – breed of PPF. For starters he operates, in net weight terms, with an 4:1 breadcrumb to seed ratio. Timothy goes to the trouble of weighing out a selection of poppy, pumpkin and sesame seeds and expertly blending them with the breadcrumbs, simply because that’s his vibe. He can’t really be sure the pigeons notice. But he’s seen other PPFs furtively glancing at his product from time to time (though the less said about that the better).

Timothy Leader does not only differ from your run of the mill pigeon feeder in relation to the composite mixture of his feed though. He is taller, and significantly richer, than most of the others too. He works in a bank, where he has got a secretary, and he shoulders the burden of immensely stressful decisions. Sometimes it’s like make or break, and megadeals. Your average PPF lacks the mental strength to handle such intense pressure.

Ironically, it’s questionable whether Timothy would be able to handle the pressure himself were it not for his love of feeding the pigeons. It was after a particularly stressful meeting, which went badly, that he first threw a few crusty scraps of his mid-range Pret a Manger sandwich at a group of pigeons. After seeing the selfish glints in those birds’ eyes when they startled to gobble he was hooked, and started feeding them on a daily basis.

All that now remains for me to explain is the incredible level of hatred Timothy Leader holds for pigeons. He despises their horrible legs and their stupid faces. Bile rises in his throat when he sees them scratching around outside his window. He wishes them ill. This is why Timothy includes secret ingredients called poison and bits of glass in his breadseedfeed mix.