New Novel-

Walk With Me

Ian, the only man in the room who had a blank CV, stood up and faced the flashing cameras.

  Astonishment filtered through his torso as disappointment settled into his brain. Many times before his mouth would go dry as he stood before so many human beings, not today, however.

 Physical silence. He knew the watchers were clinging onto his every move, waiting for what he planned to announce.

  Could this be the beginning of a new society? Had he been successful in changing the world?

 Ian knew it was time to find out.

  The first word he boomed was ‘walking’ and the last was ‘humanity’.

As the reporters jumped around frantically, pleading for someone to answer their questions, Ian swept from the room. He had his backpack ready behind the reception at the front of the courthouse.

  Ian had no idea if his words would have an impact on anyone at all. He did, however, know his face would be all over the news at this moment, for the hundredth time. He wondered how many followers would react to his proposition.

  Little did he know of the lovers as he prepared for the haters.

Two Months prior…

John Mayer’ s Why Georgia played from his speakers where his phone was plugged, flashing 8.00 AM on the flat screen.

  Acquiring a smart phone wasn’t tough, Ian though. A bit of average credit and ding-dong, there’s a man at your front door holding a little brown package with your name stamped on.

  As usual, Ian let his favourite song play in full as he pulled the sheets back, revealing his 6ft 2 naked body, and threw a pair of un-ironed jeans and a crumpled t-shirt over his walking-toned skin. No need for underwear- For Ian it was just more, unnecessary, washing.

 

  Now, Ian though, what to do today.

Images flashed through his noggin as if they were channels on a Television.

Mates house, go see mum and dad, go to the launderette, Ian laughed and flicked past the image of coins and tumble driers. Library? Ian wondered. He liked reading, none of those bloody fictional novels, rather the factual types such as ‘dream routes of the world’.

Un-plugging his phone, swiping a can of pop out of the fridge, slipping a pair of black pumps onto his unwashed feet and hooking his car keys around his thumb, Ian slipped shut the front door and climbed into his black Mini Cooper S.

  The sun was out, the skies were blue and picking up where he left off, Ian clicked the play button on the CD player where John Mayer’s where the light is album, having never been re moved, filled the car.

  Ian’s fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he drove into the centre of Chester was his only thought. No prayers to God, only an honest thought for breakfast.

  Before his mind could distinguish the difference between the milky cup of tea and bacon baguette in his head, to the hauling school bus that seemed to take a left turn into two, overtaking, small business cars and a brick wall, it was too late to even gasp.

  Ian didn’t see the accident as being much of a disaster as the bus crushed only the exterior of the small vehicles and as all of the school children were still bucked tightly into their seat. Until, however, a frontier sport 4x4 behind him seemed to mix up the intentions of brake and accelerate.

 So, as Ian slowed his Mini and eventually came to a halt, expecting the following cars to copy, he saw the wild expression of a screaming lady, in his rear view mirror, as she crashed into the back of his car, forcing his into an innocent pedestrian that had been attempting to aid the school children.

 Ian’s whole body jolted forward into the airbag from his steering wheel.

And it didn’t stop there. A massive dominos effect took over the lanes, as, one by one, the front and back of each car or vehicle was bumped and broken.

  Horns blowing and people shouting took over. Everything stopped.

Ian gasped in air, clearing his head for a half a moment and then he flung himself out of the car and checked that the short man he took-out was okay.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m perfectly alright’ the short man stuttered to a group of people that came to help in union.

Ian pulled him out of the way of the, ever-so-slightly, jolting Mini and apologized, ‘Mate, I’m so sorry!’ brushing his hands over the man’s shoulders as if to sweep the dust off.

‘Accidents happen’ the short man replied, sorting his square specs out.

   He’s fine, Ian though. As soon as the thought popped into his brain, he was already sprinting over to the main crash. First he checked on the small cars.

Only a driver in each car. No passengers.

  After turning both engines off and asking each driver to stay calm and stay put for the ambulance it occurred to Ian to actually call for help.

  People began to multiply as they watched the drama.

‘Someone call 999!’ Ian shouted to the crowd.

He could have laughed at the amount of people that revealed their phones in a frenzy to be the reporter of such an excitement.

  And, of course, it was an excitement, Ian shook his head. For all they cared, nobody was hurt; it was just another story to tell.

  Next was the bus. He banged on the glass door.

Ian’s heart sank as he saw, what he only hoped, was just an unconscious bus driver.

  He banged on the window again and again. No movement. A small boy with tear streaked cheeks watched him with wide eyes on the closest seat. He sat alone.

  Taking a deep breath, Ian willed for the boy to hear him through the glass barrier.

 Ian pointed to him and shouted, ‘Are you okay?’ He smiled to comfort the boy, who nodded.

  A man joined Ian.

‘The bus driver’s not responding?’ He asked Ian.

‘No’ Ian replied as he found what he was looking for. Laughing in relief, he pointed to the boy again and shouted, as clear as he could, ‘I need your help!’

Again, the boy nodded feverishly.

‘Could you help me open this door?’ Ian tried.

Another nod as the boy jumped up and almost tripped to the door. He pushed against it.

 ‘No!’ Ian said to him, ‘that yellow lever, pull it!’ He pointed the boy to the emergency exit sign.

  The boy jumped up onto a seat and pulled the handle as hard as his thin little arms would allow.

 Ian pushed the man, at his side, back as the door flung open.

 Both entered the bus.

‘Check his pulse’ Ian told the man as he searched each child’s face. All he saw were fearful wide open eyes and a few open lunch boxes sprawled on the bus floor.

  ‘I need you all to stay put. Everything’s okay’

It seemed a little odd to try and talk to the children as Ian wasn’t exactly the parental type, yet it seemed the appropriate thing to say.

  Turning his attention back to the bus driver Ian was relieved to hear sirens.

‘He’s alive’ the man said.

‘Talk to him. Ask him his name’ Ian proposed.

‘He’s not awake’

‘He can probably hear you, though.’

Three ambulances turned up from the unblocked roads and police began to cordon off the crash and push the bystanders away.

  The last thing Ian did, before the paramedics pilled onto the bus, was pull the keys out of the ignition.

  May I ask your name, sir’ a police woman asked, pen to pad, waiting for Ian to respond.

By this point Ian was tired, frustrated and generally just hungry. Paramedics had checked him over twice, the crazy lady who had damaged his car had winged her apologies and insurance details at him, thankful parents of children had shook his hand, the, now conscience, bus driver had also thanked him, the helpful man had proposed they make some money out of a ‘local hero’s’ story and now a Police woman wanted to bother him.

‘Why d’ya need my name?’ he asked, half listening as he watched the News crew’s set up base with big vans, fearless camera men and professional news reporters.

‘Just for precautionary purposes, sir’

‘No.’ Ian replied.

‘Excuse me?’ The police Lady asked, taken aback. ‘Look, sir, I know you’re in shock, but I’m here to help-’

‘No’ Ian cut her off, trying to sound calm and polite, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. Therefore, you have no reason to take, keep and file my name. My I go home now, please?’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ A police officer, large and intimidating and very male asked, as he stood extremely close, too close, to Ian.

‘Not at all, sir.’ Ian said, ‘Good day, to you both’ and he moved quickly in the direction of the Camera crew, assuming police wouldn’t want to make a fuss on live news channels.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘I’m only twenty two. Would people stop calling me sir!’ Ian snapped as he turned to face a news reporter.

‘I do apologize-’ the woman went to say.

‘And don’t ask my name, either’ Ian shot, ‘I just want to get out of here and get some bloody breakfast’

‘But it’s already noon’ she went to laugh at him, thinking better of it as he glared at her.

‘So you understand now, how hungry I am!’

‘So much for a Local Hero, hey.’ The camera man muttered to another.

Ian stopped, turned and marched towards the crew.

‘I’m not a local hero. I’m a twenty two year old man that’s just had his car done in by a stupid woman who couldn’t drive in the first place! Which brings me to the point; who the hell passed her and that bus driver in a driving test, in the first place? Let me guess; People who want to make as much money as they possibly can, they’ll go and hire a lunatic to haul innocent children from one place to another, which brings me to my seconds point of why, in Gods name, are parents trusting pot belly, middle aged men driving a ton of metal with the lives of their children?

  ‘I know! Because people want to make as much fucking money as they possibly can. So we haul our children to school to programme them in whatever makes the most money, so we can go out and earn the most money to buy pretty cars that don’t even fucking work and pass stupid rich woman who cant drive, who stick their poor kids on a bus with a fat man who nearly kills the entire school, two other drivers and himself because he was probably daydreaming about Budweiser and Burger king!

 ‘But does it stop there? Of course not, because here you are, making money and reporting exciting news on the traumatic lives of others all because one daft idiot passed that FUCKING SUICIAL BUS DRIVER!’

  Ian gasped for a short breath, turned on his heels and headed for the train station.

  ‘There’re gonna love this’ He heard the same camera man chuckle behind him.

 If felt odd for Ian not to have his car keys. He’d safely handed them over to the AA man who had promised to take his car to the nearest garage who would get in touch by the end of the day.

  The train was relaxing, however. A light steady vibration, the world passing by in blurs, too fast to worry.

 By the time Ian walked the 3.2 miles back to his parents house from the Bebbington train station, he found the calm set in to his chest. He’d picked up a meal deal at the one-stop while waiting for his train. A triple sandwich, pack of crisps and fizzy pop bottle. £3 for happiness. Or full stomach at least. Same thing.

  Phone buzzing as he approached the front door, Ian saw his mums picture flash on the screen. He answered briefly.

‘Mum, I’m outside’ and then hit the red button. He saw his mother peek out of the window, shout his fathers name and run to the door, flinging it open.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ian’s mum frantically hurried to him, pulling him into the house.

 ‘You okay, mate?’ His dad asked, appearing, ‘You were in that crash’

‘How d’ya know about that?’ Ian asked in surprise.

‘You’re on telly, love’

‘You what?!’ Ian boomed, pushing past his mum and dad and into the living room.

‘How’s your car?’ his dad asked.

‘Dad, shush a minute, will ya’

  Ian faces appeared on the 42inch television screen.

‘-BEEEP- SUICIDAL BUS DRIVER!’ played over the screen. Ian’s face one of fury.  The channel flicked to the news correspondent.

 ‘Well, I hope somebody is taking care of Ian James’ the blonde lady pretended to say compassionately.

 ‘Yes. I’d suppose one would need a good cup of tea or two after experiencing a traumatic accident as such.’ The pompous man, replied, ‘And onto other news tonight-’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Ian’s mothers muttered, ‘I’m surprised they didn’t show the whole thing again. It’s been on for over an hour. Every fifteen minutes.’

 Ian didn’t ask. He knew she meant the whole vent he had to the camera crew. Stupid to think it hadn’t been recorded. Of course it would have.

And what a great story, too. Poor Ian James…

 ‘Wait,’ Ian said, ‘how did they get my name?’

‘Get anything they want, cant they’ His dad said, matter-of-factly.

After some dinner and, ironically, a couple pots of good tea, it was time to go home.

  His dad drove him back to Chester and Ian ripped the clothes of his body, without even bothering to brush his teeth and fell into his un-made bed. In exactly the same position that he woke up, Ian James, fell asleep.