Chapter 8
The Pelvis on the 38 Bus
Compiled from anonymous TFL driver logs and CCTV fragments, Hackney Central to Victoria
On an overcast Wednesday in May, a disarticulated human pelvis boarded the 38 bus at Dalston Junction, Oyster-ready.
The driver reported nothing unusual. “I thought it was medical students mucking about,” he said. “Until it sat down. And didn’t fall.”
The pelvis rested upright on a window seat. No tether. No rig. It adjusted slightly at corners. It appeared to watch the city go by — calmly, knowingly.
Other passengers pretended not to notice. One took a picture but the image corrupted mid-upload. A child pointed and whispered, “That’s where I’ll grow from.”
By Angel, the bus grew heavy. Not physically — but gravitationally. Phones glitched. Shoulder joints ached. Nobody disembarked.
At Islington Green, the pelvis gently tapped its ilium against the bell button. The sound was like flint on enamel. It hovered briefly, then rolled off the bus and into traffic, which parted respectfully.
The 38 continued. All passengers forgot their destination. The driver kept driving until the tank ran dry in Victoria Coach Station.
TFL found no physical record. The CCTV showed only static and faint echoes of bone. Yet everyone on board that day now dreams in red cartilage tones and reports heightened pelvic empathy.
Moral:
- Some journeys begin when the route is already ending.
- Pelvic presence indicates ancestral movement.
- If your transport trembles, check the seat beside you. The osseous never travel alone.