The
carriage is almost full; just one seat half unoccupied. I make my decision. The
large, ginger haired woman it is then. Ignore the aggressive glare and try to
avoid physical contact. I grope awkwardly in my 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 him with beady
eyes. Je vous accuse.
“What’s
that bruise on your head?”
I
blink. Is she talking to me? Is my small
lump that obvious? What’s that awful smell? I want to tell the others it
isn’t me.
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,” I mumble.
Sarky little runt. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that.
What train?”
Bad breath, BO,
flatulence. I glance round desperately,
for salvation.
“…The
one before this,” I reply, 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 me strength.
I wish there was. I’d have made sure I was on the bloody thing.
Copyright Harry Hunt 2014
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