I find the bus station this time.
It’s still dark.
A cluster of men and women wait on the red plastic seats.
The lit up timetable says N9 …. 4 mins.
See a man smoking.
An older guy.
Looks like an old London gangster.
You got a spare fag?
Buy yer fuken own.
He gives me one anyway.
I spose you wanna fuken light as well.
Thanks, I goes.
Light me cigarette off his lighter.
Homeless are ya ?
Yeh, I goes. I gotta get back to the West End.
Just jump on the N9, he goes.
I ain’t gotta ticket. You need an Oyster card or sommink.
That’s the actor in me, going into London dialect, imitating him.
Don’t need one. Not from here. This is a free zone. All round Heathrow. Just get on and stay on into town.
Is that allowed?
You don’t tell em, do ya!
I drag on me cigarette.
I sit downstairs at the back, that’s where its warmest.
He blows into his hands, to warm them up.
What’s your name, son?
I get a strange feeling he’s part of the movie. He’s very handsome. I’m sure he’s an actor. Maybe he’s my M.
James, I goes. But I prefer Jim. Whats yours?
What are you ol’ fuken bill?
I smile. I know he’s joking. Got that cheeky chirpy cockney gangster thing going on, like Del Boy but older.
Here it is, he goes.
The N9 pulls up.
Sit at the back. Warmest there.
We both take a last drag then trample our fags out on the ground.
I follow my new friend to the back of the bus.
Dave, he goes as he sits down.
Dave holds his hand out.
I shake it.
Jim, I goes.
I already fuken know that, don’t I. You told me already ya daft cunt. Sit there. That’s it. We can have a chat on the way back.
No way. He’s definitely part of it. Part of the movie.
Definitely my M.
Right, Mr. Fox?