The hidden threat from the jailer....

The Last Bus to Trimsaran.

They are having fun by the bucketful;

 those hordes  having heaps of jolly japes,

joining in the songs, the wrong words are

streaming out from those red-glossed lips,

shaking those black velvet hips, sipping cheap wine,

their minds befuddled by Black Russians, Bulmers and Baileys.

Billy Bunter bosses, belching out boozy breath like jovial Welsh dragons,

exuding happy hospitality; benevolence personified.

The Christmas Night Out at the gastro pub .

Yee hah!

Inhibitions are left at the door, the paper hats worn with

carefree abandon, they all reckon it is so bloody funny!

Hysterically humorous, in fact.

Managers mingle lasciviously with teenage temps

who are totally exempt

from paying their way tonight. But they know the score.

Keep smiling and giggling at the fat old bore and he will cough up more and more

and buy them drinks galore.....

A Cosmopolitan?

A glamorous cocktail for the gorgeous girls.

Fabuloso!

The cold rain outside makes no impression on the seasonal cheer,

whisky-filled eyes, shop-bought mince pies and Blackberry lies

of the office staff.

Unaware of the housewife waiting, hating the freezing wet sting

of the December downpour, willing the last bus to Trimsaran to appear,

fearing his angry words should she be late.

Her shoes let in water,

her one-life plastic bag starts to give way under the

heavy weight of the Christmas presents,

the Asda quarter-pounders

of processed chicken carcass and Simply Value cards.

Her heart sinks. The bus is coming.

Two monstrous eyes light up the sticky wet road, the mean green carriage

slowly stops just for her. Only her.

Lonely Llinos climbs aboard, unable to afford the whole

fare home.

She pays until Caegrawn Farm, will walk from there;

avoids the searching stare

 of the driver. He knows, it shows.

The pity in his eyes comes from his soul. He won’t stop, he’ll carry on

to her desired destination. To his intense frustration

she avoids his glance.

 Just one look would do; imagine the last dance

with this waif of the night, his arms around her fragile form, making her safe,

protecting, connecting with her frightened mind.

She sits and sighs. Looks out through the filthy window into the

 dirty, black night.

Watching the comfortable world all warm and bright.

Yellow windows with fairy lights

deny her access, leave her guessing at the happiness

within.

Leaving the semi’s behind, the steep climb to the woods snakes up and up...

into the dark and serious trees, no light to relieve

the sinister gloom; the bus begins to weave

its serpentine way around the treacherous bends;

like a white beacon of hope, the Tafarn y Coed shines pale

in the mist of the moody night.

But Llinos journeys on, mind on the evening to come,

the work to be done,  Attila the Hun and his shotgun

behind the pantry door.

Just for rabbits, that’s all. Her mind closes down, she’s not home yet.

Her Oxfam coat is warm enough, a five pound bargain in hot fuschia, but her thoughts are as

cold as the bleak countryside.

In the driver’s mirror, her small white face stares heart-shaped back. So sad.

He wants her so much, wishes to drive non-stop to the Rock,

 back to Mynyddygarreg, and carry her into his big, white bed

and soothe her sadness away.

What would she say, he wonders....

Her fingers twitch and she picks at the scab on her wrist,

 remembering his fist

from this morning,

 his forced kiss, and the realisation dawning

that nothing will change.

The bus passes the farm, does not stop; calmly she sits and waits.

Waits and dreads the moment of arrival.

The hazy lights of the village draw closer, hostile and mocking.

Her dark eyes close, just for a moment, cancelling all thought, blocking the terror

of the angry man in the blue-doored council house, on the forgotten estate where

no-one talks anymore....

The knot inside her tightens, she is frightened,

for tonight he may kill her.