Night Train

You’re sitting in the end carriage of the Inter-City train, stomach already burning from the second cup of black coffee, the first bought at Bristol Temple Meads and the second from the buffet car, just getting juiced up for the night.

The book is interesting but not enough to stop you noting the girl a few seats down tapping things into one of those electronic diaries, looking occasionally puzzled and writing something into a ledger. You can only see her between the head rests of the seats in front, but the view is enough.

“I’m not getting on a bus”’ you suddenly hear from the Welsh-Lass in the corner. The train’s going to Paddington you see, and you know as you hear the odd word, ‘Camberwell’, that she’s meeting someone that night in London.

You guess judging by the look: late teens, centre-parted-straight-down-to-the-shoulder-blades, blonde hair that she’s either meeting her mum or a bloke. Of course, being male yourself you bet it’s the boyfriend, and you play over in your mind what her night in London will be like. No, not the sex, but the arguments, the recriminations… she’ll be angry at him for dragging her up there. But you.....