A Lapse of Judgment

Harold was starting to suspect that the bus wasn’t coming at all. It was a still night, breezeless and pleasantly chilly, but he would still much rather be indoors than waiting on the backless bench he’d been perched on for the last 40 minutes. He shuffled his heavy shopping bags between his feet, and sighed loudly for his own benefit. Interminable. He hadn’t even brought a book out with him, and his phone was dead. His faith, or what was left of it, had to be placed entirely in the reliability of the rural transport network. Perhaps it was time for a drink. That was one thing he had come prepared for, at least.

            Not a single car had passed in the entire time he’d been at the roadside. Having only travelled this route during the day before, he was finding the lack of familiar markers unnerving. Aside from two streetlamps, one next to him at the stop and one flickering on the other side of the road, he was surrounded by thick countryside darkness. Beyond the imperfect circular boundary of each pool of light it was so impervious that it sucked out all form and permanence – for all Harold could tell, there was nothing left out there anymore. The extent of the world all within the confines of a lightbulb’s cold glow. An owl hooted loud enough for him to jump off of the seat, knocking over one of his bags and sending a litre-and-a-half bottle of gin skittering out loudly onto the pavement. At least he wasn’t entirely alone. He’d managed not to spill a drop of the warm supermarket own-brand ale he’d opened either. It was a skill, honed by years of practice. He placed it out of harm’s way and repacked the shopping. He could’ve sworn there’d been more food in there before – this bag was mainly cans and bottles. Maybe he’d put all of it in the other one.

            The sign on the shelter, defaced with graffiti but still legible, said that the bus on this route now came hourly. Had he just missed the previous one? Harold wasn’t sure, but he was starting to worry. What if that had been the last one? There wouldn’t be another until the next day, and it was so quiet now that he could only hear his own heavy, whistling breathing and the steady flow of blood pumping in his head. God, not being able to drive was such a nonsense. He was grateful he was at least old enough to ride the bus for free: to be forced onto impractical public services was indignity enough, but paying for the pleasure too? He snorted, and picked out another can. Just keep counting down the months. He popped the tab, and the sound echoed like a gunshot. Somewhere in the gloom, a fox shrieked a mangled yelp. He couldn’t tell if it was five metres away or five hundred. Was that what foxes sounded like? Get a grip Harold, he thought. Half an hour from now you’ll be at home. It was only bloody Gloucestershire. He took a long, gulping sip, grimacing a little at the flat warmth. That said, it would be a very long half hour if he didn’t take care of something first. 

The bladder of a man in his mid-sixties could not be ignored. Harold froze briefly, debating whether to take the bags with him, then rolled his eyes at his own cautiousness and ventured warily into the black. Shuffling with one hand outstretched in front, grasping at vast nothing with bulbous fingers, he walked until he was certain there was grass underfoot and hastily unzipped. He wondered mid-flow what vestigial civility had stopped him from just relieving himself against the thin, warped wood of the shelter. It was only shame, he supposed. That shame could outweigh fear felt like a uniquely English notion. No, he wasn’t afraid, he was being ridiculous. He was so unafraid, in fact, that he zipped up again before the flow was entirely finished and marked his trousers with a coward’s dribble. 

            When he turned back to the light, he wasn’t alone anymore. On the other side of the road, a man was now stood under the streetlamp. At least Harold assumed that the figure was a man: they were drenched in shadow, completely featureless standing in front of the weak flicker, but had a muscular, masculine profile and stood over six-foot tall judging by the height of the lamppost. The figure was wearing a baseball cap and said nothing, but raised a hand in greeting. Harold wasn’t sure how they could see him. He walked back to the road and waved in return.

            “Evening!”

            The figure said nothing. Harold wasn’t especially in the mood for conversation, but was also a slave to etiquette and needed a reply. 

            “I, ah, don’t know if you’ve been waiting long, but it’s quite deserted out here.”

            The figure slowly looked both ways down the empty road, and shrugged. 

            “That’s ok. I’m not in a rush.”

            The voice was deep, with a tinge of West Country to it. It was male, Harold thought, and youthful. Quite a warm voice. Friendly. 

            “That’s good then. At least 45 minutes I’ve been waiting, if you can believe it. Ridiculous! Can never trust the bloody buses, can you?”

            The man tilted his head to one side. “I suppose not. Can’t trust most drivers, either.”

            Harold laughed, unconvincingly. “Well, you might be right. Not a driver yourself then?”

            “Haven’t been for a while, no.” The silence hung there for a moment like a low fog. Gesturing at the shelter after a moment, the man asked “so how long are you out of action? Mechanic or suspension?”

            Harold recoiled like he’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

            The man raised his palms apologetically. “No offence meant, sir, just a guess. If you’re out here this time of night you’re either without a car or without a license. No judgment.”

            “Right. I’m not able to drive at the moment. Let’s leave it at that.” Harold wasn’t actually offended: an ice-cold twinge of déjà vu was too busy seeping out from his stomach and into the base of his spine. It could have been a simple lucky guess from context clues, and nothing more. But there was something about the man. Not something sinister. Just familiar. 

            “I am sorry,” said the man, and he did sound it. “Always putting my foot in it. I hope your bus comes soon, have a good night.” He put his hands in his pockets, and took a few bashful steps back.

            Normally, Harold would’ve been happy to leave it there. A little awkward, but nothing two or three gin and tonics in front of the fire back at home couldn’t erase. He didn’t chat at the shops, or make friends in queues or in pubs or godforsaken middle-of-nowhere bus stops. But he wanted to make amends – not out of benevolence or camaraderie, but to satisfy the nagging prod in the recesses of his mind that had to find out what this stranger looked like. He decided to get the man over to his side of the road in a way that he knew would have worked on him. Harold reached into his shopping bags again and pulled out the third can of the evening. He stuck his arm out in the stranger’s direction, wiggled the ale enticingly and suggested: “beer?”

            The man stood impassive for a moment, head tilted again, then silently strode out into the road. He didn’t check if it was safe this time. It could just have been the dark, but it seemed to Harold that every time the light on that side flickered out, the man flickered out with it. Every time the bulb reilluminated, there was a fraction of a second where the man lagged behind it, as if the switch that brought him back into being was on a slight delay. Harold reasoned that this was a direct effect of the weather and the supermarket swill he was drinking. The man appeared next to him, and nodded, smiling, as he took the warm can and popped it open. “Much obliged. Haven’t tried this before but I’ll keep an open mind!”

            He was young, probably in his early twenties. He was dressed casually, wearing faded jeans and a patchy informal shirt over a t-shirt with a band logo on it that Harold didn’t recognise. He wasn’t skinny, but not out of shape either; his t-shirt was stretched over a slight gut but he had slim arms and a thin, thoughtful face. He had sporadic, tufty clusters of beard but Harold could see thick, dark-brown hair curling out from underneath his cap. His eyes, green and wide, were looking at him with amiable interest, but Harold was fixated on a spot just to the left of the young man’s nose – two moles, so close together that they were almost overlapping. He knew he’d seen that before. 

            “I’m Toby,” said the stranger, gracefully ignoring Harold’s staring and extending his free hand. Harold responded in kind and took it, inhaling sharply when their skin touched. He was ice-cold to the touch, cold enough that it stung. Toby pulled back, laughing. “Sorry, I’ve been out here a while. Not really dressed for it.” He gestured towards the bags. “Been shopping?”

            Harold felt a surge of self-consciousness about the assorted bottles on show and made a show of rearranging the groceries. “Oh, yes, you know, just the weekly run! Nothing special. Just looking forward to getting home. What about you?”

            Toby shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Bit of an aimless day, really. Not that I mind those.” He smiled, showing slightly stained but neat teeth. “Have you lived around here long?”

            “A few years,” Harold replied. “What about you? Not much to do for fun, I bet.”

            The young man smiled, but it didn’t reach the corners of his mouth and there was a brief flash of something across his face that Harold couldn’t pick up on in time. “No, no. I haven’t ever lived here. I did grow up in a similar area, though. Scattered villages and all that. My friends and I, we used to just drive around for fun.” He looked off out into the night. “What about you? Does a man of your age still like to take a nighttime drive once in a while?”

            Harold took another deep drink from his can, throat suddenly very dry. “I, um, like I said, I can’t drive at the moment. For a few more months anyway.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’m ashamed to say, I was, ah, a little over the limit coming back from the pub and got pulled over. No harm done, but, you know.” He tailed off, wishing he’d been less honest. He felt like the man had already known, somehow, so what was the use in hiding it. The air felt even more still and quiet than it had before company arrived. 

            “Sorry to hear that. First time?” When Harold dragged his gaze back up from the ground he found Toby’s big green eyes meeting his with an intensity that he could feel in his temples. Where had he seen those moles before? Everything about this man was starting to feel more familiar, as if he was gradually turning the focus ring on a camera. 

            “Yes. Absolutely, yes. I was mortified, of course,” Harold babbled. “Very embarrassing and such a pain. Wouldn’t be out here this time of night if I didn’t have to be!” He chuckled drily in way that clogged his throat and didn’t contain an ounce of mirth. 

            Toby leaned in closer, and winked conspiratorially. He was still jovial, but there was a new edge in the flare of his nostrils and the tenseness of his shoulders. “Are you sure about that?”

            “Have we…have we met before?” Harold’s tongue felt so thick that it could barely curl around the words. 

            “Oh, come on,” Toby said, with mock hurt. “I would’ve hoped I was a bit more memorable than that! Nothing? Nothing at all?” 

            Harold tried to back up and stumbled over his own feet, grabbing on to the side of the shelter for stability. He hadn’t noticed before that while he was sending out plumes of steam with every breath, the young man’s breathing didn’t show up at all, even against the streetlamp. “We’ve never met before in my life. I’d rather you just, uh, please, please just go wait on the other side of the road again. I shan’t ask again.”

            Toby stepped towards him, seeming to flicker out of visibility for a split second again with the bulb opposite. “Careful, Harold, nearly took a tumble! Then, spatial awareness is a bit of an issue for you. Might’ve had a little too much to drink again?” He took a swig of the warm ale, and a brown stream of it trickled out of his nose and ears. “Tastes like piss. Is this what you’d normally have?”

            Harold gaped, mouth opening and closing like a caught fish. “Who…who”

            Toby moved closer, millimetres between them. “Oh come on, you’ve been out here so long that you’re joining in with the owls! What can I do to jog your memory?” He playfully drummed his fingers on his chin, brow furrowed in mock-thought. “How about this?” He dropped the can and thrust his left arm out to the side before violently snapping it downwards at the elbow with a nauseating pop, leaving the entire forearm swinging back and forth limply like a marionette. Harold shrieked and scurried into the back corner of the shelter, hands waving desperately. 

            “No, no no no, I don’t know you, I want you to leave!”

Toby advanced. “Maybe the sound of me choking on my own blood might help?” He gripped Harold’s shoulders and spoke again, this time in a wet, panicked gurgle with a thick dark river trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “Please don’t leave me here alone I can’t be alone please help me!”

Harold’s eyes bulged out of his skull. “Don’t…I didn’t”

Toby bent down, snarling now, and heaved the bottle of gin out of the shopping bag, pressing it against Harold’s cheek in one smooth motion. “Do you need a drink? For old time’s sake? Bottoms up, Harold, no harm done!”

He grabbed Harold’s chin, pressing his fingers into the soft tissue of his cheeks, and forced his face around. 

“It’s bad luck to get caught, isn’t it, but you only got caught the once! You can be lucky lots of times, but I can only be unlucky once! Still don’t remember me?”

Harold started to weep, his face turning redder and redder. Through sobs he tried to speak. “I’m sorr…I can’t. I’m so…”

“Speak up!” Toby yelled. “Now we’re getting somewhere! We didn’t spend much time together, but I can see it flooding back. You might not have stuck around but I can promise you, I stuck around for at least an hour after you left. Can you even imagine?”

As he spoke, Toby’s body shifted with every flicker of the dying bulb. His right knee cracked backwards and caved in on itself, shattering. The bones in his face shifted and sloughed downwards like ice cream melting down a cheap cone. Teeth popped out one by one and bounced off the pavement. Cracked ribs bulged and pushed out of his t-shirt all down his right-hand side. 

“Another one couldn’t hurt, could it!” he laughed, spraying flecks of crimson down Harold’s nose. “No harm done!”

            Harold could barely hear the sound of the horn over his own pounding heart and unrestrained wails. Toby reared up, grinning, and looked down the road. He pushed Harold firmly against the shelter wall and backed slowly into the meridian, not breaking eye contact. Two beams, weak but growing stronger, were visible on his torn and bloody jeans. Toby sighed, and tipped his cap, revealing a flap of scalp hanging loosely over visibly dented skull. The horn was louder now, blaring in prolonged, angry bursts. 

“Time to go, Harold,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your bus is here.”