A Short Story, but true.

Late last year, when the evenings were still cool and came relatively early, I left my office in Admiralty and went down to catch the bus home. The Admiralty Bus Station is not a user friendly place, harsh lights, noise and the smell of urine, left to linger each day by the guys who assemble the morning papers.

I stood, a one man queue, waiting for the bus to steam in, when another would-be passenger appeared. Overdressed in a bright yellow down jacket, he paused and eyed me for a moment. He scrutinised me with the frankness of a child. He was probably in his late thirties and Chinese, but he approached and asked in excellent English, “Excuse me, but are you waiting for this Bus?” Pointing to the sign for the 90B.

“Yes”, was the sum total of my reply. I like to read a book on the way home and so do not encourage conversation.

“Are you a Christian?”

Whoa! Now that is always going to get your attention. You can either deny it, tell them you’re an Atheist and that you don’t want any God today “Thank you” or, if you think ‘He’ might be listening in, you can ‘fess up, but stipulate that you are not a card carrying member because you think most of the church mumbo-jumbo is just that. The problem nowadays, is that you never quite know who you are dealing with, but this guy didn’t have a plastic name tag giving his name as Brother Ezekiel Chan, he didn’t have a clipboard or a visible bible and somehow he just looked sort of, harmless. A gentle man. I risked a “Yes” without qualifications.

“Would you sit next to me, please?” Came the next, very polite, question.

“Why?”

“I’m not well”.

Instinctively, I exhaled and relaxed a bit. “Oh dear. What’s the matter?”

“It’s in here”, he said, and pointed to his head.

Tensing up again and fighting the urge to take a step backwards I said “Oh dear”, again. Trust me, I don’t think I’ve ever said that more than once in a week in my entire life. What was it about this guy that made me sound like my Mother? “What’s wrong, … in there?”

“I’m Autistic. My name’s Peter and I’m not well, in here” and he pointed again. “Will you sit next to me on the bus please?”

Okay, so that’s a grabber. What are you going to do? What can you do? ….. “Yeah … Sure”, as if I do this all the time. “Where are you going?”

“Aberdeen. Will you hold my hand please?”

“WHAT?!”

“Please! Hold my hand. Hold my hand please” and he held out his hand.

I’m bemused, somewhat reluctant, obviously, but Peter does look a little bit lost so, after a momentary pause, during which I take several deep breaths and process a gazillion gigabytes of possibilities, I take his hand and hold it.

“Thank you” said Peter, quietly. “Now please put your arm around me”.

“WHAT?!!!! Again, but with rather a bit more force this time. I’d dropped his hand, but he quickly reached back for mine.

“Please, please, please. Just put your hand on my shoulder here.” And something in his voice, an intensity, something in my stored childhood memories, something, … I’m not quite sure what and … I put my arm round his shoulders and he snuggled in and, for a moment there, when I saw the look of serenity on his face, I knew he wasn’t taking the piss and it felt like the right thing to do.

But here I am, a grown man in my steel capped work boots, my rucksack with my empty lunch box on my back. My left arm round a completely strange (You’re not kidding) Chinese man and my right hand holding his. In a bus station. In the late evening rush home. And suddenly, it just felt right. Giving of yourself, is like standing on top of a mountain. The air is pure, crisp and untainted. Standing amongst the solidifying diesel fumes, helping another frightened human being, a breath of fresh air gusted through my being and I beamed at the world anew.

And then, just as suddenly, the fumes re-engulfed me and I felt a right pillock. I analysed the other queues. Why was I the only Gweilo? Why were we the only two person queue? I noticed the other people taking notice of us. The quizzical glances, the occasional smirk or giggle. I started to search the huge air conditioning ducts that they’ve been installing for about a year. This is all a bit suspicious. Is there a camera hidden somewhere? Am I going to be displayed on some Japanese reality show, complete with fake laugh track? Am I being taken for a complete berk? With guilt and surreptitious movements, I surveyed my surroundings and I also checked to make sure my wallet was still in place.

“Look here,” I say and disentangle myself. It’s not easy, Peter doesn’t want to let go. “Come on. We can’t stand here like this ‘till the bus comes. You’ve got to be strong. You must have had to take a bus before. Come on now, let go. Look, just stand here, next to me. See? That’s better. Look, I’m not going anywhere. You’re perfectly safe. I’ll sit next to you when the bus comes. But I want to read my book. Look, I’m getting my book out. Now, just wait with me okay?”

“Hold my hand. Hold my hand Hold my hand.”

“No! I won’t hold you’re hand. Just stand here and wait”.

But Peter can’t just stand there and wait. He really is Autistic, or so I’m trying to convince myself. I try to read my book. To look dependable, staunch, sensible. But I can’t concentrate. Peter is nervous, hopping from foot to foot. Flitting about in the corner of my vision, He’s trying to engage other people in other bus queues. But no-one will give him the time of day. Occasionally he gets a promising start but, when he asks them to hold his hand, they back off, flustered, brushing away the hand that is searching for the comfort that they will not , or cannot, give.

Then he falls out of my field of vision, re-appears momentarily and then is lost again. I tell myself that he has found someone, that he is going to be okay. I scan the station, but I can’t see him. Once again, I am the only one-person queue.

A growing rumble, then a roar as the 90B hurtles into view. It squeals to a stop and spills the last few dregs of incoming passengers. I climb on and swipe my card. By the time I reach the stairs, we are off and I ricochete up and onto the top deck. I swing to my seat and, as I crash down, a bright yellow jacket in the crowd below catches my eye. And there is Peter, slowly reaching up towards me. His lips silently form the words, “Hold my hand”.

The look of hurt, of loss, on his face, is frozen inside my chest. He’s missed the bus. It hurtles on and Peter is left behind, stranded in a sea of strangers who wont hold his hand.

The bus is empty. The air is frigid and stale. I wish I had someone to sit next to.

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