TRAPPED
The
carriage is almost full; just one seat half unoccupied. Loveday makes his
decision. The large, ginger haired woman it is then. Ignore the aggressive glare
and try to avoid physical contact. He gropes awkwardly in his pocket. Damn! No paracetamol. Dirty, antiquated rolling stock, fit only for
midgets. What’s the country coming to?
Valkyrie
slowly turns a frog like head. Little
creep has nerve; thought she’d covered both seats. Hate little city slicker
types. Flabby buttocks gently vibrate. Get
a whiff of that mate. She wrinkles a podgy nose and regards Loveday with
beady eyes. Je vous accuse.
“What’s
that bruise on your head?”
Loveday
blinks. Is she talking to him? Is his
small lump that obvious? What’s that bloody awful smell? He wants to tell
the others it isn’t him.
What the hell’s it got to
do with her? You don’t just interrogate strangers on trains. Try to hold breath
and speak simultaneously.
“On the roof of a train; got hit by a low
bridge,” he mumbles.
Sarky little runt. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that.
What train?”
Bad breath, BO,
flatulence. Loveday squirms inwardly, glancing
round desperately, for salvation.
“…The
one before this,” he replies unconvincingly, feeling queasy.
“What…the
four thirty ?”
“Yes,
the four thirty .”
She
snorts triumphantly. “Now I know you’re lying. There isn’t a four
thirty .
I made it up.”
Dear God, give him
strength. Loveday wished there was. He’d have made sure he was on the bloody
thing.
