Stanley stood rigid at the curb, Doris by his side, her hand brushing his. Down the hill, the driverless bus thundered toward them, metal beast on wheels, scraping inches past where they waited. Inside, a tempest roiled.
Passengers brawled, voices cracking like broken glass. Village faces peered anxiously, jaws tight, eyes wide.
Theresa sat just behind the empty driver’s seat, fingers stuffed in her ears, lost to the storm. Opposite her, Jeremy covered his eyes, peeking through his fingers at the vacant wheel, whispering a prayer—hope and defiance tangled on his breath.
Behind them, Nigel’s long finger jabbed accusingly at the last few who’d boarded. “Sabotage!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
A small mob spat curses—at one another and at the chaos itself. The bus jolted over bumps, and Ariaf’s grip slipped. A vanilla shake splattered over Tommy’s new school uniform. He wailed, clutching Bernard, his pet snail, now hidden away in a cardboard box. “How’m I gonna tell Mum?” he sobbed, finger already pointing.
Vince bounced up and down, desperate for notice after being banished for helping David—the driver—to escape through the emergency hatch.
Nearby, self-styled ideologues debated, trading grudging praise for the 1939 Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, their eyes glittering with twisted admiration.
Caroline sat alone, calm and patient, knitting a jumper stitch by stitch, waiting.
As the looming brick wall hurtled closer, Chuka, Anna, and Heidi linked hands with others, raising their voices in ancient hymns.
Nicola shouted for a show of hands—any brave souls willing to climb to the roof. Ariene screamed, “No surrender!” as the wall grew impossibly close.
Meanwhile, the nation sat glued to radios, Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday on eternal repeat, young faces exchanging helpless, desperate looks.
Stanley caught Doris’s eye, his voice soft but certain. “Ah Doris, Brexit means Brexit.”
She licked her melting ice cream, then turned to the pelican crossing button. The sharp beeping sliced the chaos, halting cars. Hand in hand, they stepped off the curb, away from the madness, crossing to the bus station as if nothing had changed.
Irregular Frequencies 