GOING FULL SPEED

In the bus directly opposite there’s Hannah. Her bus has stopped at the traffic light, which is on red not for long. I begin to pound the window and shout, “Hannah! Hannah!” She cannot hear me. We are in separate worlds. Stop reading Hannah. Look. Look out of the window. Look at me. Oh God.

Around me the passengers stop talking. In the bus opposite no one seems to notice. I keep pounding the window. At any moment her bus or mine could move off and somehow leave behind stuck on the tarmac his instep.

A man sitting behind her realizes I got hooked on the window pane and the commotion that has arisen. He looks mystified but not alarmed. I gesticulate and point desperately – and with great hesitation, he taps Hannah on the shoulder and points at me.

Hannah looks at me, her eyes opening wide in what? Astonishment? Dismay? Recognition? I must look wild: my red face, my eyes filled with tears, my fists still clenches, I’m a decade older.

I rummage around in my satchel for a pen and a piece of paper, write my telephone number in large digits and hold it against the glass. She looks at it, then back at me, her eyes full of perplexity. Simultaneously both buses begin to move. My eyes follow her. And hers stare at mine.

I look for the number that’s on the back of the bus. It’s 94. I get to the stairs. I’m given a wide berth. The conductor is coming up the stairs. I can’t get past him. I’m losing time... Finally I get down, push my way past a couple of people, and jump off the moving bus. Weaving across the traffic, I get to the other side. I have lost too much time. Her bus has moved away. I try to push through the crowd, but it’s too thick. I’ll never catch up.

A taxi lets out a passenger. A young woman, her hands are packed with shopping, is about to grab it, when I interpose myself. “Please,” I say. “Please.” She takes a step back and stares at me. I get into the cab. To the taxi-driver I say: “I want to catch up with the Number Ninety-Four in front.” We move forward. The lights turn yellow against us. He stops.

“Couldn’t you go through?” I plead. “It’s not red yet.”

“I’ll get my licence taken away,” he says, annoyed. “What’s the hurry anyway? You won’t save much time.”

“It’s not that,” I blurt out. “There’s someone on that bus I haven’t seen for years. I’ve got to catch it.”

“Take it easy, mate,” says the driver. But he tries his best.

After one more tricky feat of overtaking the driver says: “Look mate, I’m nearer but, to be quite honest, I won’t make it. Your best bet now is to get out and run for it.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“That’s two pounds sixty.”

I only have a five-pound note in my wallet. I tell him to keep it and grab my satchel. I know I have no chance against the crowds on the pavement. My one hope is to run between the opposing streams of traffic. Sweating, diesel-gassed, unable to see clearly through my most inconvenient tears, I run and gasp. I catch up with the bus a little before Myrrfield Road. I try to run up the stairs on all fours but I can’t, I’m sweating blood, so I walk up slowly, in hope and in dread. Hannah is not there. I go to the very front and look back at every face. I go downstairs, I look at every face. She’s not there but somewhere, I’ve lost track of her, without trace she’s vanished.