Sam was hung-over.
Not mild headache, bleary eyed hung-over. Not at all. This was a nihilistic Blitzkrieg on his senses, his stomach, his thought processes. He barely recalled the shuffling ramble through the streets of Dublin, eyes staring hard at his feet and stoically refraining from vomiting into the Liffey.
Lying across two of the hard metallic seats in Bus Aras depot, he waited for the Derry bus to arrive. Brief moments of last night’s events fumbled unsuccessfully with the memory nerve endings in his brain. He had acted like a prick, that much was for sure. He always acted like a dick. Always drank too much. Drink. Couldn’t think of that word.
Burping quietly, Sam took several deep breaths. Thoughts crowded over each other, screaming unintelligibly to be heard over his headache. They almost sounded like someone was speaking to him in person. Then his stomach swirled violently again and his headache was momentarily forgotten. A woman sitting opposite him frowned disapprovingly. He had kicked her bag over when moving into a new position, but couldn’t find the strength to evoke words of apology.
It was a bright, beautifully sunny day through the stained windows of the bus station. It had taken Sam 45 minutes to walk from Colty’s house and had only noticed the weather on account of the unpleasant impact it had on an already sore head. Minutes passed with Sam’s body sagging inwards. He prayed that the bus would arrive early. Prayed that he would feel better. Hesitating after that last, he checked to see how he felt. Not good.
Miraculously, the bus to Derry pulled in. It was an Ulsterbus, one of the old ones that smelt permanently of dust and something sick. Sam groaned. This was exactly not the bus he wanted; but he didn’t think about it. Thinking about it would have meant action through inaction and that was more than his brain could handle right now.
Joining the line of people at the automatic doors, Sam stood in place and leant forward slightly, holding his stomach. The old man in front of him was wearing a woolly cardigan, like his grandmother used to make. Sam focused hard on it, as step by step he neared the bus. It took a long time. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe. Focus.
Head clouded over for a moment and he was at the driver.
“Ticket there mate?” Sam hadn’t it ready. His brain strained at being given an order it had to comply with. Fumbling with shaking hands through his pockets, he fished out some torn tissues. He could feel the driver staring at him, the people behind him pressing forward with their minds. Finally, he pulled the crinkled little blue sheet out of his wallet – when he looked there it wasn’t hard to find. The only paper in the damned thing.
Traipsing onto a seat about six rows back, he ignored the world around him. He thought he heard someone talk to him at one stage but he couldn’t hear their words, and even if he could, wasn’t sure he wanted to. Something about the bleary fuzz in his brain detested the thought of human contact right then. Partly out of loathing for its inevitable condescension, partly out of shame and partly out of a simple recognition that more than five words with someone might prove too great a strain on his ability to not throw up.
Pressing his head against the cool window of the bus, Sam tried to forget about the sensations ripping through his body. Tried to forget about the unpleasant dusty smell of the bus. It was then that hazy memories of last night began to trip and stumble back into his mind. There’d been silly talk about past drunken times and about sex. Then there’d been the serious stuff; family problems, abuse, bitching. That type of stuff. Sam tried to forget, to focus on the hangover, but the persistent feeling of utter dread made him unconsciously try to recall what exactly it was he didn’t want to remember. The bus shuddered and began to move – and Sam remembered. His mind screaming in horror and confusion, he fell asleep.
****
The taste in Sam’s mouth as consciousness returned was not a pleasant one. It was warm now and he was sweating slightly. It was a sick sort of sweat, uncomfortably sliding over his body. His left arm was tingling horribly and his head throbbed. Outside the bus passed a sign reading ‘Emyvale 4’.
Sam tried to rally himself – Emyvale meant the bus was near Omagh which meant he could get off for fresh air and water. If he could move; that prospect was still seriously questionable. Right then though, if anything could spur him into movement, it was the idea of fresh air.
The stale smell of the bus seemed to be getting worse. Reclining back into the seat, he reached up and put on the air conditioner, in the hope that would improve his state somewhat. It did not.
A half hearted wisp of warm air landed gently with that stale smell. He turned it off again quickly, pressed his face against the cold off the window for some miniscule placebo.
Seen a sign.
‘Emyvale 4’.
The headache got slightly worse. It seemed like the bus had been driving for at least ten minutes since he’d seen the previous sign. He struggled to recount – it surely had been ten minutes. Fucking signs. His hands were tingling. The left arm in particular felt like a nervous centre of drunken electrical currents. It felt horrible. Sam’s body wasn’t hungover; it was sick.
‘Emyvale 4’.
Sam blinked. Felt his heart beat faster. There was no Goddamn way that happened… He tried to make sense of it, to take in the surroundings to see what had changed.
The same farmhouse with the long black barn. He’d seen that twice now. Maybe this was the third time? His head pounded harder, it was difficult to tell. He pushed himself into a position where he was leant forward.
All Sam wanted was to get off this bus. Anger began to seep through him. He focused on the outside, staring as carefully as he could force himself to, at the landscape passing by the bus. A house with worn yellow paint and a sizeable garage. Fields, the grass dark and long, then short and in patterns. A man walking his dog along the road. Sam began to relax; let out a breath like a decompression pump.
‘Emyvale 4’.
Sam flinched violently away from the window.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?” Fear seeped into his mind. Grabbing his hand, Sam pinched the skin hard. It hurt. His breath started coming in short gasps.
Then someone grabbed him from the seat next to him. He threw himself back against the window – he couldn’t see anyone. He stood up and looked up and down the bus. Sam himself had sat near the middle; the nearest people all seemed far away, either at the very front of the bus or at the very back.
Get control of yourself. Breathe. There’s an explanation here, you haven’t stumbled into the Twilight Zone. He sat back down slowly.
His whole body was shaking, his head felt faint from fear and toxins, still running free from the previous night. The bus seemed utterly silent except for his laboured breathing. He didn’t want to look out the window. Leaning forward and covering his eyes, he rocked slowly back and forward. His heart was palpitating unpleasantly. His back was sticky with sweat and his head was in utter turmoil.
He couldn’t focus long enough to calm himself down, couldn’t force his brain to reason out what was happening. Slowly, shaking, he turned his head to the right. There it was. The sign passed by again. Then the farmhouse with the black barn. The yellow house. Fields. They went past it again. The bus seemed to be moving faster now.
Tears formed in Sam’s eyes. What is going on? Black barn. Yellow house. ‘Emyvale 4’.
“Can someone help me?” His voice was quiet, his mind lost in a whirlwind of toxins and horror. “Anybody?” His voice was louder. It seemed the only thing he could do. “Somebody please fucking help me!” The sign was rolling past constantly now outside. As soon as it passed out of sight of the window, it came back in the other side. And again. Crash the bus. I need to crash this fucking bus.
Almost delirious now, Sam pushed himself up and started for the driver. Something caught his leg and held him. He pulled violently against it, ignoring it – eyes set on the front of the bus. It seemed much closer now than it had before. Had he been sitting in the middle or near the front? The thing held on, apparently determined to make him live this hell over and over again. Well Sam didn’t want to. Without looking back, Sam threw a fist as hard as he could and connected with something solid. It released its grip, but did so with a cry of pain. Sam hesitated and finally turned around. Outside the signs were still flying past. In the seat that had seemed to be holding him was Ciara. Has she been there all that time?
“Ciara, what…? Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” His voice was high pitched and cracked as he realised what he’d done. She had a sizeable red mark on the side of her head, was holding it with a look of disbelief. There were no tears though. ‘
“Sam, sit down. It’s okay.”
“I… I don’t know what the fuck is happening.” He slumped down, Ciara moving to the window seat. She took him in her arms and held him as he cried.
“It’s okay, we’re almost there. Just hold on.” The pain in his head seemed to roll back. He fell asleep.
****
The elderly man sitting two seats back on the other side of the bus watched the young couple. It was difficult not to after the boy had started yelling to himself, but he was asleep now by the looks of things. So was the girl. The way he’d been acting hadn’t made any sense; talking to himself, muttering about Emyvale. Poor Emyvale had done nothing to him to warrant such abuse. He had been genuinely frightened though. The boy had seemed delusional, genuinely unstable. He didn’t try to understand him – people like that were, in this man’s esteemed opinion, beyond understanding. Idiots and cretins.
As if hearing his thoughts, the young man sat up. His girlfriend – if that’s what she was – still lay sleeping. The boy looked at her for a few seconds, then kissed her on the cheek gently. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. The boy then slowly, as if not to wake her, edged backwards and stood in the aisle. He started toward the front of the bus. Towards the driver maybe? The old man turned away. It wasn’t for him to worry about.