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Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Ken felt sweat break out on his temples as the word pulsed in his head.

He had a lump.

Down there.

He hadn’t felt it – hadn’t had the guts to do that. The balls, if you will. But he knew the lump was there, somewhere, swelling in his prostate or jostling his bladder. At night he got up three or four times to pass a stinging trickle. By day he went before and immediately after starting the school run, but there were still times – like right now – when the need to pee became desperate. The nearest public convenience was at Tarr Steps, and that was two miles away and not on his route. The children would be late home and he might be reported to the school board.

Ken looked in his mirror. There were only two children left on the bus – Kylie Martin and Maisie Cook, both from Withypool. They were about eight, he guessed. They sat facing each other across the aisle, swinging their bare legs and sandals, and giggling about God knew what. They were nice kids. Most of them were, he’d found – contrary to popular myth.

As he looked at the girls, the bus hit another rut, almost making him groan with the need to pee. His bladder was going to burst, he knew it – whatever experience had taught him about straining and waiting over the toilet bowl in the small hours.

He had to go. He couldn’t hold on any more.

As soon as he thought it, Ken steered the bus into a shallow layby at the top of a hill and stopped.

In the mirror, Maisie and Kylie looked up at him questioningly.

‘You girls wait here, OK? Don’t get off the bus. I just need to check something out.’

‘’K,’ said Maisie.

‘Promise me you won’t get off the bus, all right?’

‘Promise,’ said Kylie.

‘Promise, Mr Beard,’ said Maisie.

‘Good girls.’

Ken hurried down the steps, crossed the narrow strip of tarmac and set off down the hill towards a stand of gorse. The going was steep and uneven and his bladder almost let go twice more before he made it to the cover.

Ken Beard unzipped, then stood with his back to the road and enjoyed one of the most glorious views in Britain as he tried to pee.

Nothing.

His bladder felt like a beach ball and his penis tingled with anticipation, but it wasn’t happening. Now that it had permission to piss up a storm, his urinary tract had stalled like Middle Eastern peace talks.

The pain. The humiliation. The embarrassment. The edges of Ken’s own personal Exmoor blurred as tears sprung to his eyes. When had something as simple as pissing become so traumatic? Every time he couldn’t go, he imagined a doctor’s finger up his arse, probing his prostate. Probably with a crowd of medical students watching.

Nightmare.

He couldn’t mess about here; he didn’t have the time. He grimaced and squeezed the base of his penis – willing the urine to come forth, and not caring if it hurt.

He had to get back to the bus.

But he couldn’t until he’d peed, for God’s sake! Was it too much to ask? Ken glanced over his shoulder. He could just see the cream roof of his bus. He trusted the girls would stay put. They were good girls. Not like his Karen, who’d gone off the rails at sixteen and moved into a squat with a boyfriend who wore eye make-up. But you couldn’t be too careful, with those other children being taken. It wouldn’t happen to him, of course, but maybe he should have peed somewhere that actually had a view of Kylie and Maisie, just for peace of mind. Of course, that would have meant them having a view of him, too – and that would hardly have helped him relax enough to pass water.

They’d be fine. They were together. It was a bright summer afternoon and he was only fifty yards away.

He heard another car approach. A diesel, by the sound of the engine.

Come on!

A few more drops.

Above him, the car slowed and stopped. He looked up the hill but he couldn’t see it. The engine idled noisily.

Why? Ken frowned. He was sure he’d pulled over far enough for another car to pass. Maybe it was someone who’d stopped to see if the bus had broken down. People did things like that out here on the moor. Isolation brought out the best in people.

Most people.

Ken hoped it wasn’t someone who would report him for leaving the children alone while he took a piss. He reckoned cancer was a good enough excuse, but once it was voiced aloud and was out there in the ether, he’d have to go to the doctor and listen to him confirm that he had only months to live. Maybe weeks.

The distraction of his own mortality worked. A halting flow, and Ken started to feel the blessed relief in his bladder. It was going to be OK. He was going to make it. Maybe it wasn’t even cancer. Maybe he’d live to see Karen with an accountant, and a baby of her own—

Maisie screamed, high and reedy.

Or was it Kylie?

Ken Beard wasn’t sure, but he was suddenly scrambling back up the hill to the road, stones giving way beneath his Hush Puppies, knees hitting rocks, hands grasping clumps of brittle grass and thorny gorse.

Another short shriek.