“Cassie had a stroke - jeezus,” Bolder exclaimed, his face whitening.
As Loydell watched, Bolder seemed to crumple. He sat down abruptly in the chair and put his face in his hands. Loydell suddenly realized that there were a lot of things about Miss Arbogast that he didn't know.
“Are you all right?” he asked pointlessly. Of course the man wasn't all right. “What is it?” he continued. “Were... Are you and Cassie - close?”
“She's my sister,” Bolder said suddenly.
Suddenly the jigsaw fitted together perfectly. Cassie Arbogast and Trevor Bolder - of no apparent connection, were in fact brother and sister. Sister organized once-a-year school-funded media trips to a recording studio, run by brother. Studio was running at a loss, due to stupid outback location. No family business sense. Money generated from school by sister organizing school visits kept it open at least once a year. Money went towards keeping brother in lifestyle to which he was accustomed. Once a year he had to have studio up and running for school visitors. The studio existed for school visits only. It had no other function! Now sister was in hospital. Brother was devastated. Would she get better in time for next year's school visit?
Loydell was suddenly sick of the whole thing. “Is it insured?” he asked.
“What?”
“This studio.”
“Of course it is,” Bolder said indignantly. “There's some very valuable-”
“No!” Loydell said, with a hint of steel in his voice. “Is it insured?”
Bolder paused, looked into Loydell's eyes, then shook his head.
“No. It's not worth insuring. Most of the stuff was left here by the previous owners. The computer's mine, but that's all.”
“What happens after we've gone?”
Bolder shrugged. “I close the place up.”
“As a scam, it's not a very good one.” Loydell said pointedly.
“I have other businesses as well,” Bolder stated grandly. “Thanks to Cassie, I do all right. I make more a year than you do. We all get what we want. Everyone's happy. No need for anyone to rock the boat.”
Loydell turned abruptly and walked out of the office. He crossed the studio and went outside into the sunlight.
“You're either on the bus or off the bus,” he quoted, as he took a few deep breaths of clear afternoon air.
He then walked over to the bus, climbed in and started the engine. He put it in gear and slowly turned the bus in a huge circle, driving around and around furiously. Finally, he turned the wheel and pressed down on the accelerator.
The bus shot forward across the lot. It hit the side of the recording studio and ploughed through the flimsy breeze block and plywood wall. It ran into the studio, crushing antique equipment and battered furniture. Students dived out of the way of the roaring machine. The bus careened through the building and hit the far wall. It smashed through it easily.
Loydell suddenly found himself bouncing up and down in his seat as the bus raced across the hot desert. He looked at the fuel gauge. Enough for fifty kilometers.
He drove towards the sun.
