The Passenger in the Margin

The county vehicle’s passenger door stood open behind us. Beyond the depot glass, the coach waited with its destination blind fixed on CLUAIN RIACH.

Declan looked from one to the other. “I’m not getting back in that thing.”

“Then we take the bus,” Rachel said.

I studied the depot threshold. The pale powder crossed it in a clean line, elderflower and bone ash, laid thick enough to show against the worn stone. We had no way to tell whether it guarded the room from the route or the route from whatever waited outside. The coach was already within it.

“Could be another stop in the same chain,” I said.

Declan pushed open the depot door. “Everything’s another stop.”

The powder line stayed unbroken as we stepped over it. Inside, the depot smelled of damp paper and old upholstery. The coach’s engine was off. No driver sat behind the wheel. A narrow staircase led up to the passenger door, which had opened while we watched.

Rachel waited for me to go first. I didn’t want to. I went anyway.

The route sheet was still pinned beneath the timetable. From inside, the writing was legible. SLOANE, DECLAN appeared in a column headed ORIGIN. The destination column held DUNMOR. Beside his name, the status read ROUTE OPEN.

There was a second line beneath it. ALDER, MARK. The destination box had been left empty. Someone had pressed a blunt instrument into the paper under my name, leaving a shallow groove that ran off the edge of the sheet.

“Don’t touch it,” Rachel said.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were looking at it like you were going to.”

She was right. I pulled my hand back.

Declan read his entry twice. “So it’s me they want.”

“It’s your route they’ve written down,” I said. “That may not be the same thing.”

He gave me a tired look. “You can keep saying that if it helps.”

The coach door remained open. I checked the steps and the floor for wires, a pressure plate, anything that could explain how it had opened. There was only a rubber tread worn smooth at the center. The interior lights were on, though I could see no cable running from the depot wall to the bus.

Rachel climbed aboard. “Together,” she said, and kept one hand on the rail while she waited for us.

The seats were upholstered in a faded green cloth. The windows had been cleaned recently; I could see dust on the sill but not on the glass. I chose a seat near the front, close enough to reach the driver’s controls. Declan sat behind me. Rachel stayed across the aisle, facing us.