The Lost Ticket, page 12
“Excuse me.”
Libby heard a quiet voice behind her, and she and Dylan both turned round to see a young man sitting in the row behind them, dressed in a suit and tie, his dark hair neatly combed to one side.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry to disturb you,” he said with a slight stutter. “I did not mean to be rude. I just couldn’t help noticing what you are holding.”
“What, these?” Dylan said, holding up his poster drumsticks.
The man nodded. “Yes. I have seen them around London, and I have been wondering about them.”
“We’re trying to help a friend of ours find a woman he met on this bus a long time ago,” Libby explained.
The man nodded again, more vigorously this time. “Yes, and that is what I was wondering about. Is this man called Frank, please?”
Libby looked at Dylan in astonishment, then back to the man. “Yes. How did you know that?”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “It is him! I thought it must be. It is a most unusual story, after all.”
“How do you know Frank?” Dylan said. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not a friend, as such. But he did show me great kindness once, and I am forever in his debt.”
The young man hesitated, and Libby waited, intrigued.
“I’m Libby and this is Dylan,” she said, hoping that might encourage him.
“I am Sunil, but everyone calls me Sunny.”
“And how did you meet Frank?”
“I met him here, on the 88 bus.”
Libby laughed. “Frank does like to chat to strangers on the bus. That’s how I met him too.”
“He is a very good man.” Sunny looked up at them both. “May I tell you about my encounter with Frank? I would like you to know what he did for me.”
“We’d love that,” Libby said, and she turned round fully in her seat to face him.
Sunny brushed an invisible speck of dust off his suit sleeve before he started. “This must have been 2014, so the year after I first came to England. I am from India, but I came here to study a master’s in computer science at King’s College London. Very prestigious course; my parents were very proud.
“For my first year, I was happy. I worked hard and I lived in a shared house with other international students. But then, at the start of my second year, my father died. It was such a shock; he was still young.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Libby said.
Sunny blinked at her. “Thank you—that is very kind. I wanted to go home to support my mother and younger siblings, but my family wanted me to stay here and finish my studies. They said it is what my father would have wanted.”
He looked out of the window before he spoke again.
“I vowed I would work even harder to graduate and get a good job, but it was difficult. I had a cleaning job but the rules are very strict on student visas. You can only work twenty hours a week, and I sent most of that money back home to my family. I cut down on all my expenses, even food, but it was still too much. By that Christmas, I could not pay my rent and my housemates asked me to move out.”
For a moment, Sunny watched the city spooling past the bus window, and Libby waited for him to continue.
“That was a very difficult time,” he said, his voice so quiet she could barely hear him. “London is a wonderful city, but not for a young Indian man with no money or place to stay. And I was too ashamed to tell my friends or worry my mother.”
He stopped again, smoothing his hair with one hand.
“Is that when you met Frank?” Dylan asked gently.
Sunny nodded and looked back to them. “It was February or March, and I was staying in a homeless shelter run by the church. They provided a bed in the hall, but it was only open from nine o’clock at night until seven in the morning. I was okay during the week, when I could go to my lectures or the university buildings. But the weekends were much harder. I had nowhere warm or dry to go, except the library or the bus. I was so close to giving up and letting my father down.”
Libby nodded as she listened. She’d seen a couple of people sleeping on the bus over the past month, their bags clutched tightly to their chests, and wondered about their stories.
“I was on the 88 that day, thinking about sending an e-mail to my mother telling her I was coming home, when Frank sat down across the aisle from me,” Sunny said. “When he started talking to me, I was suspicious. Not everyone has good intentions, you see.”
“I can imagine,” Libby said.
“But Frank was so kind.” Sunny smiled for the first time since the start of his story. “He asked me about India. No one had asked me about home in a long time, and it was wonderful to speak about my family. And he told me a little about his life too: his career as a great British actor, how he once worked with Laurence Olivier.”
Libby smiled, remembering the bowler hat Frank had shown her.
“When we got to Clapham Common, I said good-bye, but Frank invited me to join him for lunch. I was so hungry, I couldn’t say no, and he bought me a meal. While I ate, he told me his story about the woman on the 88 bus and how he was trying to find her. It reminded me of my father. He loved my mother very much. I think he would have done the same thing for her too.”
“It is an extraordinarily romantic story,” Libby said.
Sunny tilted his head to one side. “I think only a person with a good heart would still be looking for his love after all this time, no? To not give up is a very brave thing.”
“It is,” Libby said, feeling a dull ache in her chest. Despite all the posters they’d put up and the “Rush Hour Crush” advert, there was still no lead on finding the woman. She or Dylan checked the e-mail inbox every day, but there was never anything aside from junk mail, and hardly anyone was using the hashtag. And all the time, the clock was ticking for Frank.
“So, what happened with you and Frank after lunch?” Dylan said. “Did you see him again?”
Sunny shook his head. “We said good-bye and went our separate ways. But my time spent with him had deeply affected me. Frank had talked to me like a real human being, not some homeless person to be ignored or disapproved of. He had treated me with respect and kindness, like no one else had for months.”
“That sounds just like him,” Libby said.
“Riding back on the bus that afternoon, I decided not to e-mail my mother just yet. I had six months of my course left, and I would not give up on my dream, like Frank had not given up on his. So I stayed, and I graduated top of my class.”
“That’s wonderful,” Libby said, grinning at him. “Are you a computer scientist now?”
“I am,” Sunny said, nodding proudly. “I work for a company here in London. I met my wonderful wife there too, and we are expecting our first baby this summer. I am on my way to meet her for an ultrasound scan now.”
“Oh my goodness, Frank will be so happy to hear this!”
“I’m sure he will not remember me,” Sunny said shyly. “But I am so happy to be able to tell you my story, because for all these years I have thought about Frank and wondered how he is.”
“He’s very well,” Libby said. “And he’s still being kind to strangers on the bus, so nothing’s changed there.”
Sunny’s face turned serious again. “Libby, Dylan, I must ask of you a favor, if I may?”
“Sure, what is it?” Dylan said.
Sunny nodded toward the posters in Dylan’s hands. “I would like to help Frank, like he helped me. Perhaps I might be allowed to put up some posters for you?”
“Oh, that’s very kind but we’re almost finished,” Libby said. “We only have a short stretch to do, and then we’ve covered the whole route.”
“Oh, okay. I understand.” Sunny looked down at his lap.
“Of course you can help,” Dylan said, giving Libby a discreet nudge. “Here, why don’t you take half of these?”
“Really?” Sunny looked up at the pile of posters Dylan was offering him.
“We’re going to put them up around Stockwell today, but maybe you could replace some missing ones along the route?”
“Of course, I will be most diligent,” Sunny said, putting the posters carefully in his bag. “I will go out tomorrow with the posters and tape, and I will fill in missing spaces.”
“If you’re sure you have time?”
“It will be my absolute pleasure,” Sunny said. “For a long time I have wished I could repay my debt of kindness to Frank. Now, in a small way, I can.”
* * *
• • •
“WHAT an incredible story,” Libby said when she and Dylan had said good-bye to Sunny and disembarked at Stockwell Station.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all,” Dylan said. “Frank’s made friends with half the passengers on the 88 over the years. And he’s always loved helping people.”
“Which makes it all the more important that we help him now while there’s still time.”
Dylan didn’t reply and just reached into his bag to get out a poster.
“What is it?” Libby said.
“Frank had another episode yesterday, the longest one yet. I had to call Clara.”
“Oh, no, what did she say?”
“She’s keen to get him assessed soon, for obvious reasons. But Frank is still refusing to go through with it, won’t even hear the words ‘care home.’ ”
“Poor Frank,” Libby said. “I can’t imagine what he’ll do if he can’t ride the bus.”
“I know. His routines riding the 88 and walking up Parliament Hill are so important for his mental health, he’s going to be lost without them. But there’s no denying his dementia symptoms are getting worse.”
“I wish there was more we could do to help,” Libby said as she pulled off a piece of tape.
“I don’t think there’s much more we can do, aside from carrying on being his friend.”
Dylan held the poster up against the side of the bus stop shelter and Libby attached the first strip of tape. As she did, he moved his thumb out of the way so she didn’t stick that down too. They had their routine down to a fine art now, their hands moving round each other like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet. But as Libby was attaching the last piece of tape, her hand brushed against Dylan’s, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. Dylan must have felt it too, because for a moment he didn’t move, his body so close behind her that Libby could almost feel his heart beating against her back. For a brief second she imagined turning round so she was facing Dylan, lifting her face up to his, and—
“Excuse me. What are you two doing?”
They swung round in unison at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Two police officers were standing behind them.
“Is that poster yours?” the female officer said, pointing at the yellow sheet that Libby was very clearly taping to the bus stop.
What the hell should she say? “I’m so s—”
“No comment,” Dylan interrupted, putting his hand on Libby’s arm.
The police officer eyed Dylan up and down. “Are you aware that fly-posting is illegal?”
Shit. Libby had had no idea they were breaking the law. Dylan didn’t say anything, staring back at the officer with his arms folded.
“Unless you have permission from the owners of this bus stop, then you’re breaking the law and liable for a fine,” the officer continued.
“I’m so sorry,” Libby said. “We had no idea. We’ll—”
“No comment,” Dylan said again.
The police officer let out an audible sigh. “I’m going to have to ask you to remove this poster and any others you’ve put up.”
Libby looked at Dylan to see if he’d agree, but he didn’t move.
“Sir, did you hear what I said? What you’re doing is illegal.”
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Dylan said, and it was the voice she remembered from the first time they met, laced with rage.
“Dylan, it’s all right,” Libby muttered.
“No, it’s not.” He glared at the two officers. “Are you telling me that every time someone puts up a poster for a missing cat, you stop them too? Or are you just harassing us today because of the way I look?”
The male officer stepped forward. “Look, mate, one or two posters we can turn a blind eye to, but yours are pasted up over half of Lambeth. It’s remarkable the council haven’t slapped a fine on you already.”
“I’m not your mate.” Dylan’s arms were still folded, and Libby could sense him pulling his body up to its full, intimidating height.
“I’m going to ask you again, please remove all your posters,” the first officer said.
“No. They’re not doing any harm; we’re just trying to help a friend.”
What was Dylan doing? At this rate he was going to get them both arrested.
The officers exchanged a glance. “Do you really want to get yourself fined over this, sir? Because if you continue to refuse our request, then we have the power to authorize a—”
But Libby didn’t hear the rest of what the officer said, because at that moment Dylan grabbed her hand and yelled, “Run!”
CHAPTER
20
In the split second it took for Libby to work out what was going on, Dylan had started pulling her along the pavement, away from the police officers. She almost tripped over her feet, but his strong arm held her and she started to sprint alongside him. What the hell were they doing, running away from the police? They were bound to get arrested for this, and with the fly-posting offense as well, maybe they’d even be prosecuted. Libby picked up her pace. Dylan was still holding her hand, and he suddenly swerved out into the busy road. Libby squealed as they dodged through traffic until they reached the far pavement. She had no idea if the police were following them, but she didn’t want to slow down to look back.
“I need to stop. I’ve got a stitch,” she panted as she felt a stab of pain in her right-hand side.
“Over here,” Dylan said, and he pulled her right into a small alleyway between some shops, lined with industrial-sized green bins. At once they stopped running and released hands, and Libby bent forward, gasping for air.
“Oh . . my . . god,” she wheezed.
Beside her, Dylan was leaning against one of the wheelie bins, his body convulsing, and it occurred to Libby he might be having some sort of fit. “Are you okay? Should I call a . . .”
Dylan looked up and Libby could see that his whole body was shaking with laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” she shrieked.
“ ’Cos that was fun!”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Come on, you must have run away from the police before.”
“What? No! I’ve never even been stopped by the police, let alone run away from them.”
“Seriously? Not even when you were a teenager getting drunk with your mates?”
“Never! I swear, until today I’d never even been in trouble with a teacher at school, much less broken the law.”
Dylan shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone like you, Libby.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you either.”
As she said this, Libby glanced up and caught Dylan looking at her. He didn’t look away, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Libby’s heart was hammering, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t from the running anymore.
“I really need to start doing some proper exercise,” she said, pushing her hair out of her hot face.
“Do you want me to get you some water?”
“No, I’ll be fine in a minute. Do you think the police will still be looking for us?”
“I doubt they even followed us in the first place; we’re hardly Bonnie and Clyde. But we can stay here for a bit if you like, to be safe. Let me find you somewhere to sit.” Dylan looked around, but the only objects in the alleyway were the bins and some abandoned crates. He picked up two crates and carried them over. “Your throne, madam.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” She sat down and Dylan took a seat next to her. After the excitement of their getaway, the alley suddenly seemed very quiet.
“What was going on back there with the police?” Libby asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You seemed so angry.”
Dylan stretched his long legs out in front of them. “I dunno, I always get that way around the cops. They’ve given me so much trouble over the years, stopping and searching me and my mates just ’cos of the way we dress. I guess it’s made me pretty suspicious of them.”
“But those two seemed all right. I mean, it turns out we were breaking the law and all they asked was for us to take the posters down.”
“But it’s wrong. You know the only reason we can’t post things is ’cos the big corporations don’t want us covering their precious adverts, which con people into spending money they don’t have on crap they don’t need. And yet you and me, who are actually trying to do something good, are treated like the baddies. It’s bollocks.” He leaned back against the wall and sighed.
Libby stretched her legs out next to his, their shoes almost touching. “Do you reckon they’ll rip all our posters down?”
“Maybe, but I can come back and replace them tomorrow.”
“This could go on forever, you realize. You and me riding the 88, replacing posters that get pulled down.”
