The Girl at the Bus-Stop Read Online Free Page B
Author: Sam Aubigny
house.
Rudge examined the envelope in the hall again and noticed that it was addressed to a publisher he’d never heard of. He spotted a Post-It note stuck on the back of the front door and peeled it off. In a spidery version of his own handwriting the note stated, ‘Get it posted first thing this morning, without fail.’
He checked the time on the clock on the living room mantelpiece, before gathering up his strewn clothing and dressing quickly. Putting on his anorak, he picked up the envelope and his keys and rushed out of the house.
The post box was on the corner of his road, and there was just one collection at the weekend at seven o’clock that morning. This gave him just five minutes to catch it, so he took a shortcut across the recreation ground. He’d just managed to force the bulky A4 envelope through the narrow slit in the post box, as the postman’s van pulled up.
Rudge walked home at a much slower pace, following his usual route and smiling contentedly. He had no idea why because he didn’t even know what he’d just sent off. Perhaps during the course of the previous evening he’d found a publisher on the Net who welcomed unsolicited submissions, and had not already rejected Wife on Mars .
All seemed quiet at the builder’s house as Rudge hurried past, the BMW standing proudly on the drive and shining like a new pin.
‘He’s probably still in bed shagging his wife,’ said Rudge with a sneer, ‘then they’ll have a leisurely shower together before she lovingly cooks him a slap-up breakfast. They’ll go out in the car later, probably to visit some of the many good-looking friends they’re bound to have and enjoy a thoroughly delightful weekend, the bastards.’
Rudge cast an admiring glance at the new close-boarded oak fence panels bordering Mr Potter’s drive. He looked up and saw Potter standing near the top of a ladder, dropping handfuls of soggy brown foliage into his immaculate wheel barrow. He waved a rubber-gloved hand at Rudge.
‘The guttering is blocked with leaves,’ he said unnecessarily.
‘That’s autumn for you,’ replied Rudge, with an inane grin.
Despite his head throbbing like a blind cobbler’s thumbs, Rudge’s early morning stroll in the fresh air had made him feel slightly more alive. As soon as he got home he raced upstairs and ran the bath, pouring in a generous measure of his wife’s cinnamon-fragranced bubble-bath.
As he lowered himself in, he winced as the hot water made contact with his knees. Closer examination revealed that they were both badly grazed, but he couldn’t remember how. After the stinging sensation had eased slightly, a feeling of total well-being engulfed him as the relaxing bath did its best to ease his aching bones.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sort of bathroom he’d have when he became a best selling science-fiction writer. The bath itself would be shaped like an inter-galactic battle-cruiser, with gold plated taps in the shape of ray guns from a 1950s Dan Dare movie. The ringing of the telephone interrupted Rudge’s fantasy. He swore as he hauled himself out, grabbed a towel and ran downstairs.
‘
Is this Mr Sludge?’ a voice from the Indian sub-continent enquired.
‘It’s Rudge.’
‘Are you completely happy with the amount you are paying for your mortgage, Mr Sludge?’ the voice said chirpily. ‘Have you considered the savings you could make by switching prow-iders?’
‘Fuck off.’
Chapter 3 – Once in a Lifetime
Three weeks later, Rudge returned home from work feeling tired and fed-up as usual. He picked up two letters and several new hand-delivered takeaway menus, lying on the floor of the porch. Once inside the hall he removed his jacket and handed the post to his wife, who was en route to the kitchen make a cup of tea.
She handed one of the letters back to him stating that it had been wrongly
Rudge examined the envelope in the hall again and noticed that it was addressed to a publisher he’d never heard of. He spotted a Post-It note stuck on the back of the front door and peeled it off. In a spidery version of his own handwriting the note stated, ‘Get it posted first thing this morning, without fail.’
He checked the time on the clock on the living room mantelpiece, before gathering up his strewn clothing and dressing quickly. Putting on his anorak, he picked up the envelope and his keys and rushed out of the house.
The post box was on the corner of his road, and there was just one collection at the weekend at seven o’clock that morning. This gave him just five minutes to catch it, so he took a shortcut across the recreation ground. He’d just managed to force the bulky A4 envelope through the narrow slit in the post box, as the postman’s van pulled up.
Rudge walked home at a much slower pace, following his usual route and smiling contentedly. He had no idea why because he didn’t even know what he’d just sent off. Perhaps during the course of the previous evening he’d found a publisher on the Net who welcomed unsolicited submissions, and had not already rejected Wife on Mars .
All seemed quiet at the builder’s house as Rudge hurried past, the BMW standing proudly on the drive and shining like a new pin.
‘He’s probably still in bed shagging his wife,’ said Rudge with a sneer, ‘then they’ll have a leisurely shower together before she lovingly cooks him a slap-up breakfast. They’ll go out in the car later, probably to visit some of the many good-looking friends they’re bound to have and enjoy a thoroughly delightful weekend, the bastards.’
Rudge cast an admiring glance at the new close-boarded oak fence panels bordering Mr Potter’s drive. He looked up and saw Potter standing near the top of a ladder, dropping handfuls of soggy brown foliage into his immaculate wheel barrow. He waved a rubber-gloved hand at Rudge.
‘The guttering is blocked with leaves,’ he said unnecessarily.
‘That’s autumn for you,’ replied Rudge, with an inane grin.
Despite his head throbbing like a blind cobbler’s thumbs, Rudge’s early morning stroll in the fresh air had made him feel slightly more alive. As soon as he got home he raced upstairs and ran the bath, pouring in a generous measure of his wife’s cinnamon-fragranced bubble-bath.
As he lowered himself in, he winced as the hot water made contact with his knees. Closer examination revealed that they were both badly grazed, but he couldn’t remember how. After the stinging sensation had eased slightly, a feeling of total well-being engulfed him as the relaxing bath did its best to ease his aching bones.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sort of bathroom he’d have when he became a best selling science-fiction writer. The bath itself would be shaped like an inter-galactic battle-cruiser, with gold plated taps in the shape of ray guns from a 1950s Dan Dare movie. The ringing of the telephone interrupted Rudge’s fantasy. He swore as he hauled himself out, grabbed a towel and ran downstairs.
‘
Is this Mr Sludge?’ a voice from the Indian sub-continent enquired.
‘It’s Rudge.’
‘Are you completely happy with the amount you are paying for your mortgage, Mr Sludge?’ the voice said chirpily. ‘Have you considered the savings you could make by switching prow-iders?’
‘Fuck off.’
Chapter 3 – Once in a Lifetime
Three weeks later, Rudge returned home from work feeling tired and fed-up as usual. He picked up two letters and several new hand-delivered takeaway menus, lying on the floor of the porch. Once inside the hall he removed his jacket and handed the post to his wife, who was en route to the kitchen make a cup of tea.
She handed one of the letters back to him stating that it had been wrongly
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