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Tea First

Norm Hudson

    “Bus Manager Stabbed!”
    Stan stopped drinking his fourth cup of tea and stared at the giant headline on the front of the local morning paper.
    God, I hope it’s no one I know, he thought.
    He knew almost everyone at the bus station. How could he not when he’d worked there for twenty years? He’d never even thought of leaving. Why would he when he and Jim had the whole place stitched up. He drove the buses and Jim controlled the buses. It was a nice little set up.
    “See story page three.”
    He turned to page three.
    Jim’s photo glared out at him,
    Oh, God, he thought. Some wacko has killed Jim.
    He’d seen Jim only the night before. Stan had arrived at the station an hour early like he always did. He didn’t like to hurry himself. He’d strolled around the adjacent mall, disappearing into a few shops to waste some time and avoid any passengers. He was an expert at wasting time. Why do more than you have to had always been his mantra. His bus to Edinburgh was not due to depart till 11 p.m. He looked at his watch. Quarter to. He looked for the Gents sign. He could waste five minutes in there.
    At 10.55p.m. Stan strolled round to the bus. The rain was pouring down and there was a long line of battered, bedraggled boarders queued up outside the door of the bus. His approach caused some movement. Excitement, you might say. Stan liked that feudal feeling. They were his vassals to command. He opened the door of the bus.
    An old lady, with a walking stick, at the head of the queue moved towards the open door.
    What’s that old dear doing travelling this time of night? thought Stan. She must be about eighty. Doesn’t she know it’s not safe? She must have been here at least thirty minutes ago to be at the head of the queue. Yes, thirty minutes judging by the wetness of her coat. The stupid old cow should have stayed inside, thought Stan. He glanced into the waiting room. All of the six seats were occupied. The old dear was almost at the door of the bus. He’d have to stop her.
    He needn’t have worried. Right on cue, Jim appeared. He and Jim had it timed to a tee.
    “No, no, dear,” said Jim, in a tyrannical voice. “The driver’s got to have his tea!”
    Stan climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door of the bus securely.
    That lot could wait.
    He pulled his flask of tea out of his jacket pocket, removed the lid and poured the tea into it. The rain battered against the roof of the bus.
    Yes, there was nothing like a nice cup of tea in the warmth and solitude of his bus cab.
    He ignored the strident voice of a young girl outside.
    “Do you mean to tell me we have to wait out here in the rain while that ass-hole has his tea?” she said to Jim’s disappearing back. “Why couldn’t he have had it in the mall earlier and let us all on to the bus out of the rain?”
    But Jim was a fast mover. He didn’t hang about listening to whines. He was already heading home via the car park to have a nice cup of tea with his wife, knowing he and Stan had everything stitched up.
    “This bloody bus station is a disgrace,” said the girl to a guy behind her. It’s not even a bus station. It’s a corner of the shopping mall. Every other city has got a proper bus station with plenty indoor seats for waiting passengers and working monitors with information as to which gate to go through. Here, you don’t know which bus is going where and where to queue up. There are no working monitors and nobody knows anything. And it looks like nobody cares,” she added, eying Jim’s already departing back and Stan sipping his tea in the seclusion of his stance.
    “I know what you mean,” said the middle-aged, well-dressed guy. “I don’t even know if I’m in the right queue for the Dundee bus.”
    “No, this is the Edinburgh bus,” said the young girl.
    “Well, I think I’d better go and see if I can find out where the Dundee bus is and when and if it’s coming,” said the guy.
    “Good luck!” said the girl.
    Stan lingered as long as he could over his tea. He hoped he wasn’t going to have trouble with that girl. He wanted an easy night. An easy life. Wasn’t that what it was all about? He thought of Jim taking it easy with his wife in front of the telly. In a few years he’d aspire to be like Jim. Cocky. Confident. Controlling. Meanwhile he guessed he’d have to let all this rabble on to his bus.
    The bus door hissed as it opened.
    “Speed it up, dear” said Stan as the old dear with the walking stick faffed about with her fare. “We can’t be late!”
    “That’s choice coming from you!” said the young girl. “If you’d let us on to the bus earlier, we’d already be seated and on our way!”
    “There’s no need for that attitude!” said Stan, “and don’t drip that damn umbrella all over my bus!”
    The girl glared at him and was about to move on when a thought seemed to cross her mind.
    “Does this bus stop at Dundee?” she said, thinking of the middle-aged, well-dressed man she’d spoken to.
    “No, we don’t stop there,” said Stan. “We’re straight through to Edinburgh.”
    “But there’s a man who was waiting for the Dundee bus and it hasn’t turned up,” protested the girl. “What’s he going to do?” added the girl. “Suppose he’s got no money and no accommodation?”
    “That’s not my problem,” said Stan. “Move along the bus, please!” forcing the young girl to go to the back of the bus.
    That would keep her well away from him. And he could have a trouble free two and a half hour drive.
    “I thought you said you didn’t stop in Dundee!” said the girl, as she was getting off the bus in Edinburgh.
    Thank God she’s getting off the bus, thought Stan. Talk about a troublesome type
    She was like a terrier with a bone.
    “You could have taken that man,” she said. “I think you intended to stop at Dundee all along. You just didn’t want to wait for him!”
    Sure he had. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.
    Thank God he’d never see her again.
    He’d never see Jim either. The thought almost made him spill his fourth cup of tea.
    He started to read the newspaper. Somebody had followed Jim home and attacked him outside his house. The police were following the line it was a revenge killing.
    Why would anyone want to kill Jim?
    Stan laid down the newspaper. He’d phone Jim’s wife. But it was too early yet. He’d have another cup of tea to calm his nerves and open his mail lying forgotten on the table.
    But he didn’t get further than the first letter.
    “Dear Driver who dumped me,” it read. “I travel a lot in my job. Being a hit man makes it necessary. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s inefficiency. Or lack of information. Your manager and you suffer from both. He no longer. I saw to that. He wouldn’t wait to give me any information and neither would you. You should really do your job better, you know. Like I do mine. There’s no excuse for inefficiency. Know that you are next. Not now. Or maybe even tomorrow. But when you least expect it. I mean to make you wait. Like you made everyone else wait. With no thought for their well-being.”
    There was a tyrannical tone in the letter that made Stan tremble.
    It wasn’t a wacko that had killed Jim. It was that man the girl had been talking to.
    I’ll tell the police, thought Stan. I’ll get protection.
    But for how long?
    Jim hadn’t been able to protect himself. How could he?
    There was more. He read on.
    “While our work ethic is not the same, we do have one thing in common.”
    Jim stopped sipping his fourth cup of tea.
    Something in common? Something in common with a killer? No way!
    He read on.
    “I know you’re already shaking your head in denial. But see, you’re learning to wait already. Like I do. To see what it is. Look outside, Stan.”
    Stan dropped the letter. Was the killer watching him? He headed to the window. The early morning rain was already running down the window threatening to obscure everything. But even through the rivulets of rain, he could see a solitary, well-dressed man standing at the bus stop across the road.
    He threw his mobile phone in his pocket and, running through the hall, flung open the front door. He’d phone the police as soon as he was outside.
    He ran across the road.
    But there was no one at the bus stop.
    He turned and headed back to the door of his house, putting his hand on the handle.
    It wouldn’t turn. The door appeared locked. He rattled the handle crazily and put his shoulder against the door. The battering rain was already making him feel bedraggled.
    That was when his phone rang.
    “No, no,” said the voice. “I told you we had something in common.”
    A chill ran down Stan’s spine.
    Where was the killer?
    A dreadful thought crossed his mind.
    Surely he wasn’t in his house?
    The killer’s next words only confirmed it.
    “No, no,” he repeated in a tyrannical voice. “You have to wait.”
    Stan heard the strange sound of liquid being poured.
    “You see the killer has to have his tea first.”

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