Fiction/Short Story
Destination Unknown
A poignant exploration of two contrasting lives
Introduction
Destination Unknown was one of ten shortlisted stories in the inaugural Liskeard Library Short Story Competition (2024).
The idea for the story came to me when riding a bus and observing the interaction between the driver and the passengers as they boarded and alighted. It was that ‘What if?’ moment which acts as a prompt and starts the creative flow.
Destination Unknown juxtaposes the lives of two men, Brian, a bus driver and Dean, a regular passenger, through their daily routines and inner thoughts, highlighting their starkly different perspectives and circumstances. The story contrasts their lives, emphasising their differing attitudes. Brian’s life is characterised by struggle, regret, and a sense of missed opportunities, while Dean’s life is structured, purposeful, and seemingly devoid of major challenges.
The settings play a crucial role in reflecting the characters’ inner lives. Brian’s bus route takes him through gritty, rundown areas that mirror his internal turmoil and past mistakes. In contrast, Dean’s surroundings — his leafy cul-de-sac, office building with polished floors — symbolise stability, success, and a structured life.
The narrative touches upon themes of identity, second chances, and the impact of personal choices. As Brian contemplates his past, and mulls over possible future decisions, the story builds towards a potential moment of revelation for him. It leaves the reader pondering the possibilities for Brian’s future and whether he can find redemption or peace.
Overall, the story is a poignant exploration of two contrasting lives, weaving together their daily routines and inner reflections to create a narrative that prompts reflection on themes of regret, redemption, and the quest for a meaningful life.
The story is below. I would very much appreciate it if you could read, enjoy, clap and leave feedback.
Destination Unknown
Brian dislikes working a split shift. He’s driving the last bus from town via the uni Halls of Residence. Thursday night is Student Night. The clever young people are heading home from the clubs and bars. The bus is noisy and full, the air stale from beer, cheap wine, chips and weed. A girl is sobbing, her friends are trying to console her. Two lads scrap over some ill perceived grievance. Brian stops the bus and orders them off. He leaves them on the side of the road. They give him the finger, yell insults.
The route back to the depot takes Brian through the seedy part of town past a parade of shops. A fast-food take-away. A newsagents. The charity shop where he bought his Arsenal mug (he’s not a supporter but it only cost 50p). The rest of the units are abandoned, boarded up. Brian drives past the prison where he served five years, and the industrial estate where he used to work as a machinist in one of the factories. Both bring back bad memories.
When he arrives at the bus depot it’s midnight. It’ll be another half an hour before he gets home. He’s knackered, and his alarm is set for 5 a.m. — another bastard early start.
When Dean steps out into the morning air, he has nothing on his mind other than to get to work on time. He’s been up since 6 a.m. He loves early mornings. At dawn the air is cool, and still, and clean. As the day breaks, he stands on his door-step, hand-on-hips, having shit, shaved and showered. He sniffs the fresh air. He breathes in deeply (through his nostrils) and out again (through his mouth), finishing with a stretch of his arms and a greatly exaggerated sigh.
At 7 a.m. Dean gathers up his things — jacket, briefcase, phone, and heads out into the day. It’s a ten-minute walk to the bus-stop on the corner of Mulberry Avenue. Dean doesn’t mind this at all. He enjoys walking down his leafy cul-de-sac. He’s proud of his detached, red-bricked, mock Georgian home. It doesn’t matter to Dean that all the houses in the street look the same. What matters is he owns one. His home, a symbol of his achievements, is so far removed from the one on the poor side of town in which he was raised by his late, work-worn, single mother.
When Dean reaches the bus-stop, depending on the traffic, he has about a ten-minute wait for the Number 65. He shuns the narrow grubby iron bench; prefers to stand — sitting is for old ladies, drunks, and louche teenage girls.
Dean chooses to catch the early bus. At 07:20 the vehicle is clean and he’s certain to be the only passenger. Every morning, when the bus pulls up and the doors flap open, the driver throws out a greeting, something like: “good morning mate”, or “nice day”, or “rain later”. Dean ignores him; doesn’t even glance in his direction. He has a plastic season ticket with a micro-chip, which he flashes in front of an electronic ticket machine, so no need for an exchange of money or banal small talk with a bus driver. Without acknowledgment, Dean waves his season ticket at the machine then moves to his favourite aisle seat in the middle of the bus.
The driver waits ’til he’s settled in his seat, then the bus rattles off. Dean arranges his things, takes out his phone and ear-buds. He selects a five-minute Tibetan Meditation from his Mindfulness app, closes his eyes and bathes in the tintinnabulation. It’s a twenty-minute bus ride into work so he spends the rest of the journey planning his day.
It’s 05:30, the harsh chainsaw buzz of Brian’s alarm’s invades his head. He hauls himself out of bed, rolls a fag, puts it in the corner of his mouth (unlit, he’s trying to give up). He draws back the curtains, it’s pitch black. Soon the clocks will go forward an hour, the mornings will slowly lighten.
When he’s not working Brian relishes a lie in. With nothing to do, he rises at mid-day, breakfast becomes dinner — beans on toast, or fried egg sandwich. He turns on the radio and listens to the football, or heads to the bookies for a wager. Brian walks the streets until the pub opens, nips into The Raven for a couple of beers (more if his horse comes in). He eats a burger, plays the machines, maybe a game of Pool, then heads home at closing. But, today is Friday, today he has to work again.
Brian shuffles his bare feet into his galley kitchen, takes the Arsenal mug out of the cupboard, fills the kettle, and watches it boil. He pours the steaming water onto a spoonful of Instant, adds a couple of sugar lumps, then retraces his steps back to his bed. There’s not much room in his bedsit. The bed serves as a couch as well as a cot. Brian gulps the hot coffee down in large, audible mouthfuls. He needs the caffeine to wake him up. His asbestos mouth is used to heat — curries, chilli, jalapeños, strong tobacco.
Brian hates mornings. He hates the blackbird perched in the sycamore piping in the dawn. He hates the bus he drives. He hates his job. He hates his life — so many regrets. So many people hurt by his selfishness, his thoughtlessness, his many bad choices. He understands why he’s alone and lonely.
Brian wonders what his long-suffering mum would say if she were here now. Probably something nice. She was always optimistic, even when she was dying. She’d say: “Son, everyone deserves a second chance. It doesn’t matter what your circumstances, what job you do, whether you’re rich, whether you’re poor. If you’re kind, if you’re happy, your sky will always be blue.”
Brian’s life could’ve been different, he had his chances but fucked them up. Now guilt eats away at him. It’s too late to say sorry when people are dead. Now his sky is always grey … he’s come to understand how much he hurt those he loved, and who once loved him back … things need to … have to change.
Each morning, when Dean nears his destination, he presses the blue button on the bus handrail. The strident ‘ding’ alerts the driver to his Stop and the bus glides to a halt when it’s safe to do so. This is usually by the entrance to the park, right where the young man wants to be.
Dean waits for the double doors to flap open before rising from his seat. He gathers his things, and alights. He acknowledges the driver with an almost indiscernible nod of his blond, curly head. No eye contact. No ‘thank you driver’.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk across the park to his office. Dean’s always the first in. He pushes open the heavy glass swing-door, with its newly polished, finger-print free brass handle, and steps into the foyer. The faint lemony smell of disinfectant on the freshly mopped floor hangs in the air. Dean scampers up the marble staircase, two steps at a time, and strolls through the empty open-plan office to his desk by the window on the south side of the block. He switches on his computer to allow it time to warm up, then heads to the kitchen to engage with the all-singing-all-dancing coffee machine. He chooses a pod, and conjures up a dark-roast Classic Americano.
Dean drinks his coffee with his feet up on his desk, sipping the hot, nutty black liquid from a hand-crafted charcoal-grey porcelain Crate and Barrel mug (a gift in last year’s Secret Santa). Just before eight-thirty, Dean’s colleagues start to dribble in. The morning peace disturbed, work starts, money’s made.
Brian drains his coffee, drags his electric shaver over his stubble, pulls his uniform shirt over yesterday’s vest and heads, bleary-eyed, into the day. Brian walks to work. When he reaches the bus depot the cleaners are finishing up, standing around empty buckets, wringing out cloths and chatting. The ground’s wet from hoses, the buses glisten with water droplets, the smell of soapy water, oil and diesel, fill the air.
Brian ghosts into the staff room, checks the roster, and notes with a rare smile that he is still assigned to Route 65. It’s his favourite route through the posh side of town, he’s been driving it for the last six months and knows what to expect. Brian checks his watch.
It’s 06:45. His first stop is scheduled for 07.20, he needs to get a move on, it will take him a good twenty minutes to get across town, and he can expect a hold-up on the by-pass. He doesn’t want to get the day off to a bad start and get behind schedule.
Brian hopes the young man with the curly blond hair will be waiting at the bus stop on the corner of Mulberry Avenue as always. He remembers how he felt when he first set eyes on the good-looking lad — the surge of adrenaline that hit his belly. The boy must be thirty — a man really. He’s obviously done well for himself. Brian knows nothing about designer clothes, but he recognises an expensive down jacket when he sees one.
Brian’s watched the young chap through his rear-view mirror many times over the last six months. He’s noticed he follows the same routine every day. He arranges his things on the seat next to him, takes out his smart-phone, inserts those ear bud things, selects something to listen to, and closes his eyes. Brian wonders what could be so interesting at that time of the morning. The news headlines? The day’s racing schedule? The football results? Perhaps the lad’s favourite band, or an audio book? Probably not a book because after five minutes he removes the ear buds, places them in their case, and spends the rest of the journey mindlessly gazing through the window.
Brian knows where the young man gets off. He’s usually the only passenger. He doesn’t need to ring the bell but he does anyway — never says thank you.
Once the lad alights, Brian pauses for a moment or two and watches as he makes his way across the park, probably to one of the shiny offices he can glimpse through the trees. As Brian watches the receding back he looks forward to going through the same routine again the next day.
Today, the traffic isn’t as bad as expected for a Friday. Brian arrives at the Mulberry Avenue stop five minutes early. He’s relieved to see the young man’s already waiting. Brian pulls up to the Stop, hesitates for a moment, psyches himself up. Practises a smile. He decided this morning that this is going to be the day — the day he’s been putting off for six months.
Brian presses a button on the dashboard. Releases the bus doors. They swoosh open. He takes a deep breath. Today is the day he finds out if his sky is destined to be blue again. Today he’s going to look the young man in the eyes and say: Morning Dean. Don’t you recognise me? I’m your father …
The End
