The No. 8 Bus.

The prompt was a Bus ride, and A Stranger

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Everyone who rode the number 8 bus in the evenings knew the man with the holdall, though few knew his real name. Arthur.

Each weekday, like clockwork, he boarded at Victoria Station at precisely 6:32 p.m., always getting off at the Dog and Duck Pub in Clifton. He was a fixture: same seat, same posture, clutching his holdall tightly, eyes fixed ahead, never acknowledging a soul.

But on Monday, June 7th, something changed. The seat where Arthur always sat was empty. The absence was so unusual that even the regulars, those who boarded at Deansgate, Bridge Street, and Chapel Street, couldn’t help but notice. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I should rewind. As the number 8 pulled away from Victoria Station, a ripple of surprise passed through the bus. Where was the Holdall Man?

The Blonde, commonly known as "Blue Rucksack Girl," who typically sat just behind Arthur, turned to address the student known as "Headphone Girl" and nodded her head to the empty seat. "Any idea where the Holdall man is?" she inquired.

The young woman wearing headphones shrugged, appearing fully absorbed in the rhythm of her music.

Blue Rucksack Girl often found herself preoccupied with various thoughts, her anxiety hitting a high, her mind was working overtime, such as her daily schedule, evening plans, dinner choices, and whether she should contact her mother or wait for her mother to call. Currently, she was considering Arthur and wondering if he was well or if something had happened to him.

Unable to let it go, she turned to the man with the wig, who had boarded earlier, possibly at Shudehill. “Any idea what happened to him?”

“I heard he was a drug dealer, running county lines from Cheshire,” Wig Man replied, with a smirk on his face.

Red Gilet Man laughed. “Don’t be daft. They use kids for that stuff, not old blokes. Kids fly under the radar.”

“Yeah, but who’d suspect an old geezer like him?” Wig Man insisted.

At the back, the woman in the business suit snickered. Red Gilet Man turned to her, “You got any ideas where he is?”

As the bus progresses along its route, the discussion about Arthur becomes increasingly lively. The girl with the blue rucksack, still displaying signs of unease, gazes out the window as the vehicle nears the Dog and Duck Pub. Arthur’s usual stop. On this occasion, the scene is altered: two police vehicles are stationed outside, their blue lights illuminating the dusk.

The bus slows to let passengers off. Red Gilet Man stands up, craning his neck to see what’s happening. “Looks like something’s going down at the pub,” he mutters.

Wig Man, never one to miss drama, presses his face to the glass. “Bet you anything it’s about the Holdall Man,” he whispers.

As the doors open, a hush falls over the bus. Through the pub’s windows, the regulars spot Arthur sitting at a table, his holdall on his lap. “He must have got an earlier Bus,” said Wig Man.

Two officers approach him, bodycam lights flashing. The pub staff look on nervously.

The bus driver applies the handbrake to see the outcome. Moments later, Arthur is led outside, his holdall clutched tightly in his hand. An officer takes it from him, places it on the bonnet of his car and unzips the bag, revealing its contents to the stunned crowd: dozens of small, neatly wrapped packages.

The bus regulars watch in disbelief as Arthur is handcuffed and placed in the back of the police car. The rumours, it seems, were true all along.

As the bus pulls away, the passengers are silent, each processing the shock in their own way. The number 8 will never feel quite the same again.