his forehead. His hair is thinning and has receded into a horseshoe shape around his head. He is dressed in a white shirt and pale grey trousers, with a matching blazer resting on the neighbouring seat by his briefcase. He looks up and their eyes lock.
She watches the man trying to find a memory to fit her face.
He remembers.
She had remembered instantly.
They stare at each other with mutual surprise.
The last time they saw each other was that night, at the scene of the heinous, bloody crime. Brooke and Louise had left him there, promising to get help. Now, his eyes reveal his hunger for answers.
Terrified, she walks quickly past him towards the end of the carriage. Her case knocks violently against passing seats. She presses the button to allow access to the next carriage. When she turns to check on the man, she sees him grab his blazer and briefcase and begin following her.
Her heart begins to race. She rushes down the next carriage, not daring to look back. She slips between two men standing in the aisle talking to one anotherand accidentally spills some coffee on one of the men’s shoes.
‘Jesus, watch where you’re bloody going!’ he exclaims, kicking his foot from side to side. Brooke presses the button for the doors to whoosh open, ignoring the man. He grabs her bag strap.
‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’
‘Fuck off, you perv! Don’t touch me!’
The man instantly lets go; he raises his hands with open palms and looks at his friend with wide, bewildered eyes.
‘I touched her bag, not her arse,’ he retorts, just loud enough for Brooke to hear as she races down the next carriage.
Her suitcase continues to topple from side to side with her pace and eventually overturns. She drags it along on its back, while it hisses against the carpet and fights her attempts to flip it back onto its wheels. The suitcase hits a woman on the shin as she passes.
Brooke slips through into the next carriage; her fast pace and anxious countenance attracts stares from other passengers.
Each time she reaches the end of a carriage, there is a second’s delay while the doors open into the next one. The man following her reaches the doors in time to stop them shutting, gaining an extra second on her with each carriage. Whenever she turns to look at him, he is nearer than before.
Brooke panics, and increases her pace, dropping the flapjack to the floor. Her feet slam down on the floor of the carriage and her shoulders jostle against the passengers getting up to exit at the next stop.
There aren’t many carriages left. Soon he will have me trapped at the end of the train and he will be able to ask questions. He will be able to call the police
. Brooke looks behind her. He is running too.
A recorded voice announces that the train is about to stop at Reading Station.
Do I stay on the train? Do I get off? Can I hide under some seats without the man finding me? Lock myself in the toilet until my stop? Should I get off and hope he doesn’t follow?
She stops near a crowd of passengers waiting for the carriage doors to open. She watches the man enter the carriage. His eyes are set on hers.
‘Oi, Miss, don’t run on trains,’ a middle-aged ticket master barks as he approaches. ‘This ain’t a playground.’
She ignores him and tries to follow the crowd of people out of the doors and onto the platform.
‘Let me see your ticket,’ he demands.
‘What? No, I’m getting off here.’
The man is only a few feet away. The passengers slowly begin to pour out of the doors.
‘You trying to run off without paying? That it? Let me see your ticket or I’ll give you a fine for bunking.’
‘
Leave me alone!
’ Brooke yells frantically, as the man approaches her with his hand out to grab her wrist and pull her aside.
She throws her coffee down the ticket master’s shirt and pushes him into the opposite set of doors. His hat falls off his head and the jolt makes his gut jiggle. The force of the shove against a man
She watches the man trying to find a memory to fit her face.
He remembers.
She had remembered instantly.
They stare at each other with mutual surprise.
The last time they saw each other was that night, at the scene of the heinous, bloody crime. Brooke and Louise had left him there, promising to get help. Now, his eyes reveal his hunger for answers.
Terrified, she walks quickly past him towards the end of the carriage. Her case knocks violently against passing seats. She presses the button to allow access to the next carriage. When she turns to check on the man, she sees him grab his blazer and briefcase and begin following her.
Her heart begins to race. She rushes down the next carriage, not daring to look back. She slips between two men standing in the aisle talking to one anotherand accidentally spills some coffee on one of the men’s shoes.
‘Jesus, watch where you’re bloody going!’ he exclaims, kicking his foot from side to side. Brooke presses the button for the doors to whoosh open, ignoring the man. He grabs her bag strap.
‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’
‘Fuck off, you perv! Don’t touch me!’
The man instantly lets go; he raises his hands with open palms and looks at his friend with wide, bewildered eyes.
‘I touched her bag, not her arse,’ he retorts, just loud enough for Brooke to hear as she races down the next carriage.
Her suitcase continues to topple from side to side with her pace and eventually overturns. She drags it along on its back, while it hisses against the carpet and fights her attempts to flip it back onto its wheels. The suitcase hits a woman on the shin as she passes.
Brooke slips through into the next carriage; her fast pace and anxious countenance attracts stares from other passengers.
Each time she reaches the end of a carriage, there is a second’s delay while the doors open into the next one. The man following her reaches the doors in time to stop them shutting, gaining an extra second on her with each carriage. Whenever she turns to look at him, he is nearer than before.
Brooke panics, and increases her pace, dropping the flapjack to the floor. Her feet slam down on the floor of the carriage and her shoulders jostle against the passengers getting up to exit at the next stop.
There aren’t many carriages left. Soon he will have me trapped at the end of the train and he will be able to ask questions. He will be able to call the police
. Brooke looks behind her. He is running too.
A recorded voice announces that the train is about to stop at Reading Station.
Do I stay on the train? Do I get off? Can I hide under some seats without the man finding me? Lock myself in the toilet until my stop? Should I get off and hope he doesn’t follow?
She stops near a crowd of passengers waiting for the carriage doors to open. She watches the man enter the carriage. His eyes are set on hers.
‘Oi, Miss, don’t run on trains,’ a middle-aged ticket master barks as he approaches. ‘This ain’t a playground.’
She ignores him and tries to follow the crowd of people out of the doors and onto the platform.
‘Let me see your ticket,’ he demands.
‘What? No, I’m getting off here.’
The man is only a few feet away. The passengers slowly begin to pour out of the doors.
‘You trying to run off without paying? That it? Let me see your ticket or I’ll give you a fine for bunking.’
‘
Leave me alone!
’ Brooke yells frantically, as the man approaches her with his hand out to grab her wrist and pull her aside.
She throws her coffee down the ticket master’s shirt and pushes him into the opposite set of doors. His hat falls off his head and the jolt makes his gut jiggle. The force of the shove against a man
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