Passenger Confessions - Friday

The driver inspects Elsie. ‘Your coat’s not right, love,’ he says.

She’s buttoned it up wrong. Elsie pulls the plastic handbag across her front to hide her faux pas.

The passengers who hear the driver either ignore her or offer tight, embarrassed smiles.

When she gets to a seat her arthritic fingers refasten the worn buttons. Not that the coat holds any warmth. It’s as thin as a shower curtain.

Momentarily embarrassed, Elsie is distracted by a young woman wearing high heels and a short skirt who takes the seat next to her.

‘You look nice,’ Elsie says, though what she really means is cheap.

‘I’m meeting someone. We found each other online. His name is Harrison. I hope he looks like Harrison Ford. I love his acting. Have you seen his films?’ Tracy says.

‘That’s exciting, you’re meeting someone new? Indiana Jones. Yes, he’s very good,’ Elsie says. But she’s already distracted by the man in front of her. He’s on his phone.

He has a brown envelope, unopened, in his hand. The contents obvious. Another bill.

‘Yes, as soon as I get paid. I didn’t know it would take this long. I promise, yes.’ He ends the call, and stares at the envelope. Anxiety bleeds from him, slow, sour, unstoppable.

Tracy applies her lipstick with the hunger of someone who needs to be needed.

‘That colour suits you,’ Elsie says.

‘Thanks, it cost a fortune. Chanel. Nearly fifty quid… I’m worth it,’ Tracy says, trying to convince herself.

Elsie imagines sitting at home alone this weekend. Her cat, Cooking Fat, the only source of heat… While her husband’s ghost speaks. Just turn the bloody heating on if you’re cold.

It’s all right for you, John. I bet you’re nice and warm where you are. Wherever that is.

Elsie stares out of the window, despising the comfort she takes in answering a ghost.

Tracy sprays perfume liberally on herself and floods the bus with a sweet cloying tang.

‘Your perfume smells expensive. Chanel again?’ Elsie says.

Tracy gets up to leave. ‘Nice speaking with you,’ she says.

‘Have a good time, hope it goes well,’ says Elsie.

Tracy totters to the front of the bus. Her skirt riding higher with each step and her doubts racing faster than a pedigree Whippet.