So I got on the bus with a friend that morning around 8am. Now most people who know me will be surprised to hear me say I was on a bus as it’s not something they’d expect, and I will confess I haven’t been on a bus for quite a few years. But this was a while back, when I was 12 - I couldn’t yet drive and I was on my way to school.
I flashed my card at the conductor who was holding the card reader, but it didn’t register. I tried several more times, and the conductor was getting antsy.He asked me if I had cash, but of course I didn’t. Even back then, I was years ahead of my peers and had long given up on the concept of cash. While they had pockets bulging with coins - I had a card, and a nascent idea that maybe we could transact using algorithms. It appears I was not alone.
Anyway, he asked me to step aside - he was indeed a man - while he processed all the other students. My mate had been persuaded by my logical reasoning and indeed had exactly the same problem on this noteworthy journey.
Lastly, the conductor had another go at reading our cards but to no avail. He tapped the driver on the shoulder - she was a woman - and the bus set off.
A driver and a conductor? Yes, this journey was not short-staffed.
The conductor huffily mentioned that he’d sort this out when we arrived at the depo which was the final destination of this first journey, before the quick change and a short final leg to the school premises.
The rest of the 30 minute journey was uneventful if I remember rightly. We probably talked about music, TV, games, school - the usual - but we would have also talked about coding, because we were both budding computer coding geeks. This will become important later on - I’ll explain later.
So, eventually the bus pulled into the depo, and the conductor motioned us to hold back, while our colleagues exited. When the bus was empty we were told to follow him off the bus and into the depo. Meekly - we were only 12 - we followed him though a waiting room, through a door and into a corridor. Now I should mention that we were both slightly nervous. I don't know why, but you know how sometimes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, when you haven’t? It was that sort of situation, and the conductor was being rather authoritarian. He was quite big and quite fat - not that this is relevant at the point in the story - but it was a thing, and quite noticeable.
We turned some corners, went through several connecting rooms, and it felt like we were being led around an underground maze - there were no windows - just strip lights. Several times, I remember hesitantly trying to tell the conductor - I’m not sure my mate said anything - that we needed to get the next bus or we’d be late for school, but he didn’t seem to hear us.
He led us into a big warehouse type area where there seemed to be lots going on. We passed small groups of people either side, as we wound our way across the warehouse. Some groups appeared to be in animated conversation, working on interesting looking projects, whereas others stared vacantly in our direction. I didn’t notice many desks or chairs. I remember wondering at the fact that they were all wearing dusky, off-white clothing. Not overalls, but a variety of styles, some loose fitting, others tighter. It wasn’t exactly work-wear - more like vagrant-wear.
I was starting to feel anxious at this point. Indeed, you can imagine what I was going through. I was going to be late for school - which for me, was bad enough. But on top of that, I wasn’t quite sure where we were or how we were going to get out of this maze. Also, we still hadn’t resolved the little matter of paying for the bus fare - the conductor’s actions appeared to be suggesting that this was rather more of a big deal than we would have expected.
There was also something disconcerting about the fellow occupants of the warehouse. I felt vaguely threatened, and I could see my mate was also showing signs of alarm.
By this time, we’d reached the other side of the warehouse, and abruptly the conductor stopped and turned around to face us. We’d spent the last 10 minutes hurriedly trying to keep up with him, for although he was fat, he had quite long strides, and we were - well - you know - just 12.
We both looked at each other and then looked questioningly at the conductor, who stared back at us with a wry grimace and what seemed like a sigh of resignation.
“I’m sorry about this, kids, but I’ve had to bring you here for a reason. I don't need you,” he gestured at me, “but you’re here so we’ll make use of you.”
“It’s you we want,” as he looked at my friend, who was pretty close to breaking down at this point.
As I recall, we were both trying to say anything coherent, stammering over each other, as our unfully developed brains struggled to process what the conductor was getting at.
“You see,” he continued. “Your coding ability has come to our attention. That is exactly what we need here. We need people like you to assist with our experiments.”
I finally managed to blurt something out. “But what about school?”
“For you my friend, that is now over.”
My mate and I looked briefly at each other in what I guess would have appeared to be incredulously - to someone looking at us - which I guess would include the conductor.
The conductor grabbed hold of my friend’s collar - it did appear to me that I was clearly less important - and started dragging him toward a door.
I stood numbly for a couple of seconds, before I felt a wave of bravado wash over me - like a wave of seawater I guess, but not so wet.
I decided in a split second that I would have to - try at least - save my friend. The conductor was rather fat - as I’d mentioned - and although he had a brisk gait, I didn’t judge him to be particularly fit or strong.
How I judged that, I don't know. I ran at the conductor and gave him a hefty nudge - quite a strong one for a 12 year old. He let go of my friend - whose name was Steven at the time - and turned to face me, anger burning in his eyes, and causing his lips to crease a little.
All of a sudden, I noticed his hands had either turned into, or become gloved with a metal instrument of what I could only assume was designed for violence. One hand looked like the end of a thick flat bladed screwdriver - the other I don’t recall - I was in panic mode, or something resembling that.
As he came for me, I will confess I tried to run. In all honesty, I think you would too. I tripped over a pole of some sort, and as he leared over me - not in a sexual way, but more of an evil way - I grabbed the pole and stabbed it toward him.
Steven, who by this point had free movement of most of his limbs, picked up from the floor what looked like a collection of ski-poles loosely bound together. From behind, he clouted the conductor on the back of the head.
By this point I was not convinced he was a real conductor.
At the same time, I jabbed my longer pole toward his face.
Both weapons made sufficient contact, and the conductor went down - with a scratch on his face.
Now you can guess what we did next. My friend quite sensibly gave the conductor another whack to the head - just to be sure, and poles in hand, we legged it back across the warehouse, knocking over waiflike employees - or prisoners - and tripping over all sorts of weird equipment.
Now the story ends here, primarily because I can’t remember the specifics of how we got out of the building and back into the bus station proper. I could of course make up some more details to flesh out the story - but that’s really not my style.
I think I had taken a couple of knocks to the head by this point. Some of the inmates were not exactly waiflike - I hope I didn’t mislead you earlier - some were rather rotund and put up more of a resistance to the bulk of an average 12 year-old boy. It’s likely that some of the objects we tripped over also had sharp edges and inflexible sides, although I don’t recall having much time to look at them. Anyway, I would suggest that there are several possible explanations as to why some of these details have been forgotten.
As I said, we did make it out of the building alive and lived to the point we are now, which is a lot later.
We both became career coders in private enterprises. He is still better at coding than I am - or so he says.
We’ll never know what exactly was going on in that building. Was it MI6, or maybe some evil criminal organisation with child slaves?
We never talked about it again, but oddly enough, the next day, when we got on the bus, we both had a pocketful of coins.
