How to Solve a Murder

The daily pilgrimage embarked upon by the modern day commuter is a long and lonely affair. But for those willing to scratch beneath the surface of their fellow travellers; amazing acts of honour and bravery, along with selfishness and deceit are often uncovered. However, once the lid is lifted to such an array of secrets, it may never be closed again (much like the unpacking of a suitcase).
This series of short stories offers a glimpse at some of the trials and turmoils undergone by the average commuter in modern society. Along with an expert commentary on the unwritten protocol of the commuter’s behavioural code and its application on and off the train.
All individuals depicted within the following story are true representations of my own perception of the person detailed. Any offence taken owing to similarities identified with real people or situations only go to show what an outstanding judge of character, I as the author, am. At times like these, perhaps a degree of self examination should be employed before blame is attributed to the independent observer.
As for the events, they may or may not have happened in the manner in which they are depicted in the following pages, it is solely in the hands of the reader to decide whether or not to accept the given accounts as they are detailed. But if the nature of entertainment is reliant on truth and plausibility alone then many soap operas would surely have called last orders a number of years ago.
I offer this advice that may both assist you in your progress along the tiresome journey of life, or at very least allow you to comprehend the factors within this story with a little more understanding.

There is always a secret option C. No matter what the question, there are never just two options answering in the affirmative and negative. The challenge is not necessarily identifying it, but rather employing it only at the appropriate times; for overuse can render the covert properties obsolete, and in doing so negate its function as the alternative to an otherwise impossible situation.

It was another cold start to the day - they have all been cold of late. I guess that is what should be expected at half past six on a dark, December morning in the south of England. I gazed in both directions, up and down the platform to see a number of other commuters, all dressed in a similar manner to myself; thick coats wrapped heavily around themselves and their frozen breaths emanating from their mouths like a row of individual miniature steam trains.
There were a number of faces I recognized from previous occasions, despite the lengthy platform. The same small group of people began to form around me, attempting to anticipate the precise location where the train door would come to a halt allowing the first person to embark, and in doing so have the widest choice of seating.
This is just one of the many dilemmas faced by the modern day commuter in order to make his/her journey into work all the more tolerable before begrudgingly commencing with the mundane direction of a Monday to Friday working life. There were certain seats that were more appealing than others, and it was the desire for these priority seating options which drove some people to arrive five to ten minutes early to take up their position on the platform.
Personally, I preferred to optimise my time more efficiently with the extra couple of minutes in bed being favoured over a prime platform spot. However, I had spent many occasions studying the platform as the train arrived for the optimal spot for accessing the door and had become adept at identifying the exact space where they would open allowing me access first.
I arrived at the station, collected a newspaper from the stand at the entrance and checked my watch confirming that I had an entire minute to spare. I spent that time as I always did, considering how I would best utilise the forty minutes available to me on my journey to London. Such a decision is not always so easily deciphered, and can depend on a number of variable factors.
For example, today is Friday, for some, one of the more eagerly anticipated days of the week being the last until the weekend, and for others it offers more opportunity for comfort as less people take the long commute on a Friday than any other day. However, for those of us seasoned travellers, it can also have its faults.
Over the past few years, I have undertaken a great many ways of utilising the lengthy journey to and from work, and in doing so examined each manner of time occupation in much detail. It has therefore been drawn to my attention that both the Sudoku and crossword puzzles on the back page of the free newspaper handed out at each respective train station on a Friday are in fact much easier than on other days in the week.
On Tuesdays, the Sudoku puzzle can quite often lead to moments of anguish when you uncover a quantity of hidden numbers early on, falsely believing that you have overcome the worst that the puzzle has to show; but much like marathon runners, you hit a wall, when there no longer appears to be any further logical options, and you just don’t see how you can continue. This frequently occurs on a Tuesday, and I shamefully admit at times to have spent much of the ensuing working day uncovering the remaining numbers by a process of elimination or trial and error, sometimes even reproducing the nine by nine square puzzle on additional pieces of paper, and determining the missing numerals by an accumulation of guess work and deduction.
Mondays are the equivalent in relation to the crossword puzzle. My own mind is much more atoned to numeracy as opposed to the literal, and as such can’t claim to have completed anywhere near as many as I would have people believe. But even so, I have frequently found Monday’s puzzle to be above all the most arduous of tasks. So much so, that I have often left the grid completely blank, knowing the one thing more embarrassing than to leave the entire puzzle untouched would be to leave a couple of words filled in, showing too well that I had tried and failed miserably.
A blank puzzle can simply be assumed of no interest to the reader, or that owing to my hectic schedule I had no time for such trivialities, and therefore more importantly, bares no reflection on my own intellectual capacity. This can not be said for a partially attempted puzzle, in which I had clearly given much thought to the challenge, but failed owing to a lack of intellectual capacity.
With all these considerations going through my head, I hadn’t noticed the significant increase in the small cluster of people that had developed around me. My success rate at identifying the correct location along the platform had clearly been acknowledged by done of the other passengers who now all sought to form a number of queues, each originating from the point where I waited.
Stood directly over my right shoulder was The Husband, the male half of The Married Couple who regularly embarked the same train as myself in the mornings. The word “Half” is not to be construed within strict mathematical parameters of the individual’s position in the relationship, but as a noun, a simple method of identification, distinguishing him from the other commuters. From my observations, the balance of power swung much more towards a 80/20 split in the man’s favour, and his domineering presence was again on show, as he stood within inches of my shoulder.
At times like these, the first line of attack is to briefly flirt with the boundaries of generally accepted commuting etiquettes, and the principle that I elected to breach in order to maintain some kind of distance between myself and my attacker was possibly the most sacred of all.

The principle of Eye Contact.

As all well travelled commuters know, by this I mean the principle against taking any such action unless in the most extreme of circumstances. If there were a written constitution of rules regarding commuting, or even a religious text dating back centuries; lost, found, translated through a number of incoherent developing languages before eventually finding its way crashing down on a publisher’s desk in Canterbury; this would certainly feature within the top ten commandments of the age. So with this in mind, I first glanced at my shoulder, from where his chin was practically taking refuge, before looking directly into his eyes.
The impact was instantaneous of course, he didn’t know what to make of it, and did the only thing he could do in such circumstances. With a crowd of people around. He took a step backward, once again re-establishing the correct distance between fellow commuters. With the next move, he placed his arm around the small of his wife’s back, and pulled her into him, clearly reasserting his masculinity over his submissive wife, having been forced to concede his position to a rival male.
I did not need to see anything more of this scenario, the natural order had been restored. Besides, the train had arrived and my finger was lurking within touching distance of the buttons to gain access to the carriage in pole position. Rookie mistake, I had been distracted by my encounter with The Married Couple behind me, and failed to peruse the interior of the carriage as it passed by to ascertain on entering whether to turn left or right.
Like the opening of the traps on a greyhound circuit, the doors parted and the travellers were released onto the course. Myself, being at the front, headed straight through the doors first and into the carriage, but at that point I paused. Big mistake. I felt the force of a number of people pushing me from behind, in the hopes of capitalizing on my hesitation.
There was no time to falter, I had to take a chance and hope for the best. I turned right, and holding my breath looked along the corridor to identify the first available seating area before it was taken by the marauding pack bursting to break past.
Looking down the carriage from the centre, on the left were three seating areas, each area contained four seats, with two facing in the direction of travel and the opposing two facing backwards. However, on the right, there were two sets of five seats similarly positioned to the fours, but in between these was a seating area consisting of six seats, three on either side and accommodating the largest number of passengers within the carriage.
There were just two suitable locations within the carriage that appealed to my prerequisite for good seating; the first set of four seats was at the far end of the carriage in a position generally advisable against, owing to the speed in which they would fill, and there was the set of six in the centre of the carriage.
To my left I saw the remnants of the night before. A young girl, in her late teens, fast asleep and leant against the window – our at least this is how it appeared at the time. Her belt length skirt was only just covered by an oversized flimsy white shirt, clearly returning home from a heavy night on the town. Although she took up very little room, I was loathed to seat myself beside Sleepers, mostly because of the occasional snoring or non-consensual snuggling that sometimes occurs when they unconsciously roll over, forgetting they are not in bed with a loved one.
I also edge away from such a scenario because when presented with the choice of sitting beside a conscious or unconscious passenger, most would prompt for the former for reasons explained above. This means, I either choose to seat myself beside The Party Girl (the name I have chosen for the lady in an unconscious state), or I take a seat opposite knowing that the pursuing masses who enter the carriage are more likely to place themselves beside me, and thus restrict my own personal space significantly. It was a no brainer.
I chose the set of six, for the simple reason that from my own past experience the seats at the farthest end of the carriage generally filled quicker. The reasoning in my opinion was owing to the reluctance in people to display any sign of uncertainty. This meant that whilst assessing possible seating locations they would continue to make their way down the carriage. If they aren’t able to make an instant decision they would often find themselves to the rear of the carriage, and therefore not wishing to return up the aisle and against the tide, they would select a seat to the rear of the carriage.
I found I was in a similar situation myself  having already commenced walking, I could sense a presence from behind making their way into the empty spaces now disappearing behind me. However, none of those had been suitable for myself as the two seating areas I had passed contained passengers within too close a proximity to my desired seating. The ideal place was the window seat in the central seating area.
Abort! Abort! As I began to turn to my right I saw him, The Workaholic, or at least that is how I affectionately identified him. I found myself identifying each individual with whom I had become accustomed to seeing on the same train with a similar noun depicting what I believed best assessed their external appearance.
There has been an opportunity to ascertain correct names or identities (like Paul or Bob or Sandra) on these journey. Even if there was, names can be deceiving, incorrectly producing a false impression based on previous experiences with individuals of a similar disposition. My own method of labelling was impersonal, but better suited my intrigue into what type of person each individual was, and what behaviours they could be expected to display on the journey.
A small man in stature, The Workaholic had a clear receding hair line, his tie hung loosely around his neck, and stubbled face indicated a man with very little time to care for his appearance. He had a constant look of stress on his face – even at this early hour in the day - and today was no exception as he stared despairingly at his laptop screen before thrusting his face into his sweaty palms.
The Workaholic was sat in the corner seat of the centre six area, the seat I had initially chosen on entering the carriage. I hadn’t seen him when I perused the carriage as he had been slumped over his laptop, and with his back to the door had been concealed by the bulk of the chair.
General etiquette would dictate I take the central seat on the opposite row of three to The Workaholic, but my pride said no. I had been the first onto the train, and as such I had earnt the right to take my choice of seating, and suicidal a window seat.  There was no turning back, because I had already made my way past the first two seating areas, therefore I had to keep walking, but there were clearly people in both of the final seating areas.
I slowed my pace to asses my chances of still claiming a window seat. The odds seemed against me, but then on inspection I realised that the seating directly to my left had a vacancy beside the window. The gentleman who had taken the seating at the far left end had placed his back to the rest of the carriage and his coat rested in the seat by the window, instead electing to seat himself beside the aisle.
I took my chance, threw myself into the fire, and stepped into the far left seating area. I had fully committed to the manoeuvre and knew there was no way back from this. I now had to go with it.
It was a success; I removed my rucksack and placed it on the seat beside me, then unfolded the newspaper which I rested on my lap. I glanced up to see the last of the commuters entering the train and locating a place to seat themselves. The doors closed, and the platform to my right began to move as the train commenced its journey.

When you peruse the carriage of an average commuter train, you will often identify a number of regular occupants, each seeking to take their usual seat on the daily mundane, journey to the big smoke. But much like the cast of a Star Trek episode, there are some who appear for the first time, nameless extras to the regular characters, who feature briefly to bolster the story, and as sacrificial lambs are thrown ruthlessly to the slaughter by the production team and writers, never to be seen again.
On this day I recognized a small number of people who regularly embarked the train at this station. The Married Couple, who I had encountered at the door, had placed themselves in the set of six seats in the middle, The Husband sat beside The Wife who had been given the window seat. She seemed such a timid little thing, slumped opposite The Workaholic, and resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.
“Did you see the way he was looking at you?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t, I think you were just a bit close to him.”
“You are really sweet honey, but you have to realise. I know men, I know what they’re thinking.”
“I don’t think he was looking at me.”
“Trust me sweet heart, he was, and I’m not having any of it. No one starts eyeing up my wife, especially not right in front of my eyes.”
“Please don’t make a scene. You remember what happened in the office with Martin?”
“That was entirely different, any way I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You yelled at him in the middle of a team meeting because you thought he was eyeing me up as well. In front of me, in front of the rest of the team, in front of the management, and in front of his boyfriend.”
“How was I to know he was gay? Anyway, I was right he was looking at you lustfully.”
“That wasn’t me he was looking at. I was sat next to his boyfriend at the time. They were trying to be subtle about it.”
“Well they weren't doing a very good job of it, cos I didn’t know that was what was going on.”
"You never noticed them disappearing off to the photocopier machine together? Or popping out to lunch? Or the joint holidays to Brighton?”
“Brighton’s a nice place, nothing wrong with Brighton. It’s by the sea, it’s got a beach. My father used to take me and my brother there regularly.”
"You mean your sister?”
"Look, he’s still my brother. He’s just going through a rough time at the moment. That’s what happens when you grow up in a street full of girls and no male contemporaries with a mother who’d spend too long teaching you bake cakes. I’m sure it’s just a phase, he’ll grow out of it.”
“It’s not a phase. He’s nearly forty.”
“There’s still time. He just needs to get it out of his system.”
“According to you, he’s been getting it out of his system for the last twenty years.”
“I admit, it is disappointing that he hasn’t finally managed to settle down and make a proper man of himself by now.”
“He doesn’t want to be a man, that’s the point.”
“I’m afraid that’s not his choice. He was made a man and he’ll die a man. The trouble is mother was always too fluffy with him. Maybe a few more cuffs round the ear might have set him straight. Didn’t do me any harm.”
“Of course my love, you’re the epitome of sense.”
    “Anyway, all of this is irrelevant. My initial instinct was correct. Martin was making eyes at someone, I just didn’t realise he was that way inclined.”
    “Just don’t make a scene, I’m sure it was completely innocent. Please.”
It wasn’t the first time that this conversation had taken place between The Married Couple, they would frequently dispute the same thing. Possibly it was easier for The Husband to attack his less intimidating wife than seek confrontation with another male who may not be so accepting of his insecurity. 
I continued to glance around the carriage to assess the other passengers who had climbed aboard. There always seemed such a rush at the door, but then when I took the chance to look around the carriage, it hardly seemed that many had actually embarked the train. It is possible that the number seemed higher owing to the small area by the doorway within which such a quantity of people were squeezed into. Once they had stepped on, that number dispersed between the two halves of the carriage.
The gentleman opposite me I had never seen before, but I had often seen the one sat in the identical seat to mine. He reminded me of a particular celebrity; of course it couldn’t be, the likelihood of such a person sat on an early morning commuter train to London was preposterous, but every time I saw him I couldn’t help but wonder. His hair was shorter, and thinning on top, but there was something about his nose and chin that just seemed so much like him.
Of course it couldn’t be him. Such a ridiculous concept.
I removed the outer layer of my newspaper, the outside pages always being a double spread advertisement of some type. And as was my routine, began to fold the paper in half, and then in half again. I then glanced at the man opposite me, a relatively young man, approximately early twenties, with large headphones covering his ears and eyes closed. He clearly wasn’t paying any attention, so continued with my origami, until sat in my hand was a slightly flimsy looking crane.
I had created my partner for the journey, a small origami crane, which I then placed on the seat beside me, before removing my bag from the seat beside me and placing it on the floor between my legs. I always felt it rude, and maybe even a little arrogant to place your bag on a seat with the intention of dissuading somebody from taking the place beside you. But I had a fiendish alternative, an experiment to see how people would react to the positioning of such an ornament as a paper animal perched on the seat, and whether they would be willing to move the said object in order to seat themselves.
The rules of the train were numerous, but included the requirement to only ever communicate with fellow travellers when absolutely necessary, and even then to limit the conversation to the least number of words needed for the exchange. Therefore, seeing an origami crane sat on the seat they had intended to take for themselves, might just throw them off their plan sufficiently to seek an alternative. After all, what sane person would enquire as to the ownership of such an article? But at the same time would they wish to move or destroy such an object and risk the wrath of a fellow commuter for destruction of their possession?
“Fairly busy this morning eh?”
I looked down to my side at the voice that had emanated from the small paper crane sat beside me.
“About usual.” I responded.
“I see The Married Couple are here again. Still very much the man in that relationship isn’t he?”
“Ain’t that the truth?” The comment was in reference to how the couple sat, with the timid shape of the wife leant over her husband’s shoulder as he sat rigidly in his seat. I often wondered whether she even spoke to other people without his permission; by their body language and the way he would lead her on to the train by the hand like a parent guiding a toddler, I guessed that such approval would have to be sought before she felt enabled to do so. “Did you see how I just gave him the look while we were waiting for the train? That made him step back a bit.”
“How could I? You only made me two minutes ago pal.”
It was easy to forget the fundamental flaw in my statement. It was admittedly, an unusual aspect of my life that each day I would develop a relationship with the creation of my own hands and a folded piece of paper. What was hard to accept was the degree of sarcasm shown by my newly created friend, and at times the cruel and brutal honesty shown for such a young creature with so little life experience.
“Oh yeah, you should have seen me. He was stood right up close to me, while we were waiting for the train, like as good as leaning on my shoulder.”
“Within the non-delay three inch designated area?”
Although there was no such official required distance, I always felt three inches was a good standard of which to set limits between individuals. Of course there were times when trains were delayed, that madness had ensued, and that too many people had been crammed onto too few carriages, resulting an immediate dissolution of all the rules for that period. But at times when there are no delays between arrivals and departures with everything running as it should, three inches seemed to be most appropriate.
Away from the crazy world of commuting, three inches would seem an unnecessarily close proximity for two strangers to be separated, but on trains it seemed to work somehow. There were times of breaches, when individuals would attempt to push the boundaries, but with the right reminder, these rules, though not written down anywhere were generally adhered to. 
“That’s right, he was way too close, practically resting on my shoulder. But not for long. I pretty quickly put him back in his place, with just one look.”
“The look?”
“That’s right.” I leant back in my seat with a sense of pride and satisfaction.
“Just remember not to over use The Look, or you will reduce its power.” The Crane looked sternly at me for a second as he spoke, then we both gave out a muffled laugh. There would be nothing worse than for other members of the carriage to witness me laughing uncontrollably to myself.
The Wife appeared to be in her late thirties or even early forties, a subtly attractive lady with long brown hair, soft blue eyes and fragility in her face that only went to enhance the sensation of inequality between the pair. For The Husband was much more hard faced, never once did I notice him smile or offer any real sign of affection during their interactions. He was much older than her, or at least appeared that way, with enough contours around his face to emulate an ordnance survey map and specks of grey merging from his mostly dyed black hair.
The Married Couple frequently got on the train when I did, and at brief times in the past, I would swear that I had caught The Wife gazing over in my direction, just briefly, whilst her husband stared into the space ahead. And I could do nothing, knowing that any sign of acknowledgement from myself may have been misconstrued, should it have been witnessed, to be an act of hostility. It wasn’t flirting, not necessarily a specific attraction towards me in particular; but rather fleeting glances that seemed to give the impression that deep down she was looking for someone to respond and offer her a way out.
But then, such journeys would often cause the mind to seek fantasies and excitement that may otherwise not exist. Reading too much into another’s actions based on little information is just one of many consequences of seeking some a form of relief from the monotony of commuting.
“I see your choice of seating has not improved. How is it you have not learnt from all the time you have been frequenting this journey?” My companion’s statement seemed to break off my train of thought.
“How do you mean?”
“You know she will not sit next to you all the way back here?”
“What? Who? I’m not expecting anyone to sit next to me.”
“But you’d like her to eh?”
“No! I don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”
The little creature began to bounce lightly on the fabric of the seat as he laughed quietly. “Of course you don’t. You just continue to sit back here and take the opportunity to sneak glances across the carriage, like some crazed stalker.”
“I do nothing of the sort. I merely people watch, of which she is one of many subjects within the carriage.”
“So you do know who I mean?”
“I can take a calculated guess from your tone.”
“Really? That’s an appalling denial. You spend half the journey stealing half glances at the girl, I’m amazed she hasn’t got a restraining order on you.”
“I do no such thing.”
“As long as she’s in agreement with you, then you should be ok.”
Strange for one so young to speak with such an undermining manner and lack of respect, in particular when considering the fact that such a personality was of my own making. And yet its capability of uttering such declarations with no sense of foreboding for the consequence it may convey upon the other party concerned, seemed impossibly contradictory to my own sense of empathy.
“Your silence is telling. Of course, we could just return to the safer subject that is The Married Couple in the middle row, if that would make you more comfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
“No? And yet even though we both know of what we speak, you insistently deny it.”
“That is because there is nothing to confirm, therefore the only alternative is to deny.”
Of course I knew what he was talking about, and that it was counter productive to argue the point with such an individual who no doubt knew me, and my down fallings, better than I would ever admit to myself. But for now, in denial, I gazed out the window in realization that we would soon be approaching St Albans station, and with it the arrival of a certain someone who would alight the train. And our carriage in particular.
“You have studied her habits explicitly, you know where you should place yourself, and yet you seem reluctant to do so. Why?”
“I had no choice in seating, all the others were taken.”
“You’re no longer denying it then?”
“There is nothing to confirm or deny. My choice of seating, much like every other day is based on my preference for a window seat with spare seats both opposite and beside me.”
“Exactly, in the hope that a certain person will take one of the two closely positioned vacancies.”
“Not at all. The seat opposite allows me more leg room, and the one beside means I am not crushed against the window. Once I have attained my territory, should somebody choose either of those seats I admit that I will have to forfeit some land, but remain the majority stake holder by wielding just a small patch of my acquired property, rather than the majority.”
“Unless of course it is you know who?”
“I take no more interest in her than any others on this train.”
“Of course you may tell yourself that, but whilst you live in denial, you will make no progress.”
“Even if you are right. Why should I seek progress? It may well be true that I am a fantasist. God knows the stability of a mind of a person who communicates with talking origami animals whilst travelling on a train. But at least I have not reached the position of acting on my insanity.”  
The train halted at St Albans, and the doors opened. From outside a number of people began to make their way onto the train. I sat on the opposite side of the train to where the platform was, so I had no way of seeing who was stood waiting to enter until they alighted. However, I could guess a small number.
There was The Student, an oriental looking girl with glasses, approximately late teens, and carrying a bag from which a white material similar to that of a lab coat could be seen packed within. Then there was The Computer Nerd, a chubby lad with big glasses and stubble, wearing a phone earpiece like a corporate executive, but dressed in a cardigan and t-shirt.
They were followed by a group of four that I had fondly named The Financiers. The group consisted of three men, and one woman. And although numerically the group was heavily weighted in favour of men; the slim, short haired, middle aged colleague certainly held her own in the banter stakes.
And then there seemed to be a gap, I held my breath, maybe she wouldn’t be getting on the train today. Maybe my young paper friend was right, maybe my subtle glances weren’t quite as infrequent as I liked to think. And just possibly she had noticed and chosen to take an alternative carriage in fear of being approached by a sex starved pervert.
During this gap, it was then that I noticed The Apprentice, sat at the far end of the carriage facing the door. He had got on the train when I did, albeit behind me in the queue to the door. But his positioning had been a big mistake, as he was about to find himself shoulder to shoulder with my Commuter Hate. 
As my eye returned to the empty door way, my heart began to falter in disappointment. And then I saw her; stepping through the carriage doors, walking in my direction.
“Don’t look so hopeful, we both know she won’t sit here, no matter how much you want her to. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“I’m not thinking anything of the sort.”
“Of course you are, you’ve glanced down at me three times already since she entered the carriage. Surely you’re not worried for my safety?”
Once again he was right, on both accounts. The Secretary, with her bobbed blonde hair, and beautiful features stepped to her left and sat in the aisle seat beside The Party Girl and closest to the door. She usually selected a seat that had easy access to the door, possibly to provide her with a readily available escape route from creepy men like myself who chose to stare blankly in her direction whilst refusing to make any attempt of communication. It occurred to me that on the whole it was an undeniably disturbing behaviour.
There was certainly an element of me that was always disappointed at The Secretary’s choice of seating, as if this time it would for some reason be any different to the habits she had displayed over the last year and a half. But on the other hand, I could see her clearly through the seats between us. Her beautiful blue eyes shone as she produced a book from her coat pocket and began reading the moment her backside touched the seat beneath her.
“It is creepy, admit it.” The voice of my origami conscience once again appeared beside me. My very own Jiminy Cricket, but in paper form.
“You know, now I think about it, it creeps me out a bit. Why do I keep looking at her?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not like cigarettes.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know the old trick where man catches his son smoking, so he forces him to smoke the whole pack in one go, and the lad is sick, ergo never wants to smoke another cigarette.”
“Yes?”
“Well staring at her for the entire journey, as opposed to just stealing a fleeting glance here and there is not the answer.”
“You what?”
“Stop staring!” The Crane raised his voice considerably, causing me to sit up abruptly.
The train was ready to move, most seating areas within the carriage now filled as the doors closed and the tracks rumbled. I glanced down at my paper companion who remained seated beside me, and at the man still fast asleep on the seat opposite.
The Ex-Footballer on the seat across the carriage had now been joined by the raucous laughter of The Financiers, but seemed to pay little attention to their banter. And The Secretary sat engrossed in her gossip magazine, reading about the latest celebrity to have an affair with his dog sitter. And across the carriage from her sat the rather large framed Home Economics Teacher perched on her seat, opposite the slumped figure of The Party Girl with her back to me, which was not an altogether disappointing scenario.
“And yet again, you do nothing.” I looked down at my esteemed companion.
“And what would you have me do?”
“Anything but this. You’ll regret it.”
“I think you’ll find, I’m more likely to regret it if I do choose to do something, because it will inevitably be the wrong something to choose to do.”
“No risks eh?”
“Not again.”
There was a scream from across the carriage.
A scream? Of course there wasn’t a scream, what was there to scream about on a commuter train? Apart from the realization of life’s inevitable demise, whilst we while away what time we have making the most of the bubbles in which we live.
There really had been a scream! Nearly everybody had turned around and was now facing the centre of the carriage. The faint sound of music playing in the background as headphones were removed and left to dangle around necks. All of a sudden The Home Ec teacher rose to her feet, visibly shaking and her cheeks as white as a sheet.
“She’s dead!”

It is ridiculous that with a carriage packed with such a diverse range of characters, the one that would be of assistance at a time like this would be the one clear absentee. If there was an emergency icing or jam filing related incident with a lovingly prepared Victoria sponge, or an explicable collapse in stock prices of toilet tissue, I’m sure we would have sufficient experience within the carriage to deal with either of these scenarios. But a possible life saving occurrence was far beyond any of us mortals.
With unsociable shift patterns, and unreliable rail services, it was highly unlikely that medical technicians should use such public transport. I suppose the education of tomorrow’s Jamie Olivers and the maintenance of the country's fiscal structure had their own importance, but when it came to matters of life and death, a stroke patient could hardly be asked to wait just a little longer because there’s been a hold up around the King’s Cross Area owing to signalling problems.
“Oh my God! Did you hear that?”
 "I did. Completely ridiculous.”
“But didn’t you hear her? She said, she’s dead.” The Husband gave no response, just shrugged his shoulders and continued to read as his wife exclaimed. “Well?”
“I’m well aware of what she said, or rather screamed. What I don’t understand is why they allow people like that onto the trains at this time amongst us professionals.”
“You mean she’s made it up?”
“No you daft cow, I mean she’s hysterical. You saw the lass when we got in, she looked like she’d been around the town a few times. She’s just asleep that’s all. Now pay no more attention to it, you’ll see.”
Surely somebody should do something, but at times like this when nobody had any experience of such events, the carriage seemed to remain static with a small whirl of muttering emanating from all around. Nobody seemed really sure what the accepted protocol was in such circumstances.
It was almost as if people were scowling through their imaginary Commuter Etiquette manuals to somehow identify the correct manner of response.
Nothing on death at all. There’s a segment in here on what to do if you suspect somebody to be in possession of an illegally smuggled Koala. But death on a train? Nothing.
What about first aid?
That usually only applies to the living in order to maintain life signs until suitable medical help can be acquired. Not much use with the already dead as there is nothing to maintain.
“Someone needs to take charge.” Came the voice beside me.
“Take charge of what?” I responded.
“This place, it’s a crime scene. We don’t want the murderer getting away do we?”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“I'm just saying, this could be your time to shine. Stand up in front of the lovely young Secretary and show her just what kind of man you are.”
“And what kind of man is that?”
“At the moment, the kind that hides in the back of a train carriage chatting to a piece of folded up newspaper that vaguely bares some ornithological resemblance to a crane.”
“Don’t talk that way about yourself. You are a fine specimen, even if I do say so myself.”
“Well, you have to say that don’t you? But I’ve got to be honest about these things. My wings are uneven, my head is somewhat flimsy and my tail isn’t even folded back properly.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, but it’s the paper you see. The stuff used for the newspaper isn’t half as good as the printer paper in the office.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You’re not jealous are you?”
“Well, it’s understandable. You spend a lot more time on your paper animals in the office than you ever have done on me.”
“That doesn’t mean that you mean any less to me than the others.”
“Really? What about the owls you made? You even drew their eyes on. And as for the peacocks, well, their meticulous decorations would have put even the real ones to shame.”
“But I choose to sit beside you every day on my way to work. That’s gotta count for something.”
“I suppose so. But it wouldn’t hurt you to say it once in a while.”
“Say what?”
“That you appreciate me, that you’re glad to have me around. I just want to feel special. I know you can never be just a one origami-man, but maybe if you were just a little more attentive during the short time we spend together each morning; rather than spending all your time and energy pining over a girl you’re never going to have the guts to approach.”
I stared at The Crane intently. “Wow, I never realised you felt that way.”
“Well it’s hard to read my expressions when I don’t have any facial features.”
“Unlike your wings, which often have various offers or discounts to read.”
There was a pause of silence at my attempt of humour to break the tension. I had amused myself as the thought appeared in my head, but like so many other occasions, my censorship chip which was supposed to be in place to stop such careless remarks from leaving my lips and entering the outside world was clearly now sat in the frontal lobes of my mind, peering out my eyes and laughing to himself, I can’t believe he just said that, what a complete dick.
At that brief emotional pause of silence between me and my origami crane, an assertive declaration emanated from within the carriage in the seating area in front of mine.
Up stood a man from the central seating areas. He was a chubby black man, with a thick black moustache, and short black, greying hair. In my confusion I had forgotten about this one passenger, the man who was usually sat on the train already when I entered the carriage, and possibly the most suitable to deal with such a scenario. He spoke with authority, in a powerfully deep voice, “Everybody remain calm, I am a police officer.”
“I knew it.”
He then waved around his wallet quickly, flashing some kind of card with his photo on, which could have been a library as much as a police warrant card, but in times such as these we often allow our instinct to overrule any real sense or judgment we may have. On my previous observations during the commute to London, I had often considered that he would be in some way connected to the law enforcement agency in some shape or form.
Finally, the long arm of the law had taken hold of the scene, or more accurately, the rounded belly of the law had placed its self beside the enquiry and squeezed it up against the window. The portly gentleman had certainly seen better days when it came to chasing criminals around the British streets. Personally, I would feel uncomfortable in the knowledge that in the time of great need, men of this man’s age and/or build would be those panting up the hill to come to my aid.
It occurred to me though that such days were beyond this particular police officer, it was plausible that he had an office job somewhere; most likely London as that was to be the train’s primary destination. The way he seemed to revel in issuing commands within the carriage only seemed to serve as an opportunity to relive his past glories.
The Old Cop continued with his announcements, “I want everyone to remain exactly where they are, and in complete silence.”
The officer was in luck; such an instruction could not have reached a more qualified audience than that of a small carriage of commuters who practice in the art of silence throughout a period of time every working day. But there are times on a commuter train, when the ordinary is put aside for the extraordinary, when circumstances lead to the unexpected, and for the first time we get to learn more about our neighbours and ourselves than we realized was possible.
“I need everyone to remain seated, nobody is to leave this carriage until we have established exactly what has happened.”
The Old Cop was assertive, he spoke with an air of authority seldom witnessed on such a journey, and at first his demand was adhered to. But, pretty soon whispers began to pierce through the blanket of silence, not least from my left hand side where The Financiers were huddled together.
“Should one of us maybe get up and do something?”
“Do something? What did you have in mind?”
 “I don’t know, but there's a dead body on the train.”
 “And what would you recommend? Have you had any medical training?”
“I did an evening class in water safety.”
 “What did that involve?”
 “Jumping into the deep end of a pool, taking off my pyjamas whilst treading water, then using them to rescue a floating a manikin.”
“Genius, have you got your pyjamas?”
“Hold on, I think I might have some in my bag.” The Short Financier raised his bag from the floor by his feet and started to rummage around.
“Why would you have your pyjamas with you?” Asked the fourth Financier. A slightly slimmer and tanned member of the party, who up to now had remained silent beside the Female Financier.
“You never know when you’re gonna need a pair of pyjamas. I could pull a lovely young lady at any time, and as such I need suitable sleeping attire at hand.” Came the response as he continued to search deep into his back.
The Ginger Financier interrupted, “You mean like the lass sat over there, she looks like your type.” He gestured over towards The Home Ec Teacher at the end of the carriage then laughed.
The Short Financier raised his head, “Found them.” He announced removing a brightly coloured pair of green boxer shorts with pictures of red post boxes scattered over them.
“Very nice.” Replied The Female Financier, “You can’t imagine how long I’ve been waiting to see you out of your boxers.” She seemed more repulsed than amused as she turned her head away.
“There you go. Am glad to be of service.”
“Weren’t you trained to take them off though?” Asked The Ginger Financier.
“Yes, that’s right. But whilst submerged in water. It’s harder than you think.”
“But, you’ve already got them off.”
“So I have. Objective complete, looks like the course was worth the money after all.” With that he replaced the boxers back in his bag.
"Well done. Who’d have thought you could have got so much use out of a water safety course simply on the way to work?” The Female Financier replied.
The Young Financier interrupted, sounding a little concerned, “What about the dead girl on the train?”
“What about her?” Asked the others.
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
"Obviously nobody else on the train is any more qualified than we are. Maybe we could try help resuscitate?” Replied the Short Financier.
“Did you learn that at Junior life saver’s as well?” Both the Female and Ginger Financier laughed at her response.
Then The Ginger Financier added, “Mate, you heard the girl, she’s dead. Not a lot we can do. It’s not as if someone’s got their tie caught in the office shredder.”
There was a bit of a laugh from three of the four colleagues. “Come on guys, now’s not the time to bring that up, it was just the one time.” Pleaded the Young Financier.
“He’s right guys, let’s show a little bit of respect shall we?” The Female Financier joined in with a very serious expression on her face. “Let’s allow him some shred of dignity eh?” There was a laugh from the two other colleagues, followed by a chorus of alternative puns.
“You think its inappropriate tie-ming?”
“Maybe good to cut through the tense atmosphere.”
“But we don’t want to get caught up in the moment.”
The other two immediately stopped, the laughter halted, their expressions replaced with frowns. The seating area which housed the four Financiers along with The Ex-Footballer was smothered by an uncomfortable smog of silence.
The Short Financier tried to explain his remark, “You know, as in his tie was caught in the shredder.”
"Yeah, thanks for that.” His explanation was immediately dismissed by The Female Financier, who immediately turned to face the debate that was starting to take place down the other end of the carriage.
“I’m sorry, but are you suggesting that we are all under suspicion?” The first person to raise his head above the parapet was no surprise. The man I would describe as my Commuter Hate. Every commuter has one, a person who gets so far under your skin that you can honestly use the word hate to accurately describe your feelings for the individual despite having never so much as exchanged a single sentence with them.
For me it was The Tall Man, often I would see him sat up, towering over the others in his particular seating area. He must have exceeded seven foot, and that was just the width of his shoulders. Sat in the middle of a three seated area, I often wondered whether the ticket inspector should in fact be charging him for the occupation of an additional two seats as his shoulders impeded far past his own allocated area into that either side of him. Not to mention his stretched out legs that were a matter of millimetres from using the opposite chair as a foot stall, providing a significant hurdle to leap over for anyone wishing to use the adjoining seat to his.
“How do you know the murderer is on this train?” The Tall Man continued.
“How do you know that he isn’t?”
“Or she.” There was an interruption from a small voice sat to the Old Cop’s left.
“I’m sorry?” The Old Cop turned his head to The Secretary, who was sat smiling beautifully back at him.
“Or she isn’t on the train.” She insisted, putting much emphasis on the word she.
“We know she was on the train, because now, she’s dead.”
“I mean the murderer that is. Could be male or female.” To emphasize that the killer could be either male or female seemed a somewhat foolish strategy as all it served to do was to incorporate everybody, including herself, into the list of suspects.
“It’s because she’s stupid.” Came the voice from beside me. He could tell by the way I was watching the conversation intently what I was thinking.
“It’s the voice of an innocent mind.” I argued.
“Innocent, but stupid.”
“That’s ridiculous. You can’t make assumptions like that based on just one conversation.”
My crane friend gave off a sound that could possibly be described as a laugh, if origami cranes could laugh. “I think you might be letting your instincts get the better of you.”
The conversation in which I intended to explain to my esteemed travel partner that intellect and attractiveness are in fact mutually exclusive terms had distracted me from that which was taking place at the other end of the carriage. When I looked up, The Tall Man was returning to his seat, shaking his head.
“Of course he’d object.” I whispered to my side.
“Why of course?” My companion replied.
“He’s feeling nervous. I reckon he’s the murderer.”
“Of course you do. Is it any surprise that you accuse your very own Commuter Hate?”
It was true, but had I ever told anyone this? “I don’t recall ever telling you I hated him.”
“You didn’t need to; it was written all over your face, ever since your shoulder battle.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Oh really? Like what?”
“Motive?”
“I’m listening.”
With hindsight, it is hard to explain why I felt the need to justify myself to a folded up piece of newspaper, but the suggestion that I would allow my prejudice to in any way cloud my judgment on such a subject deeply wounded me. “You’ve seen how he is with people, the way he seems to look down on everyone else.”
“Well, it’s probably hard not to when you’re the size of Goliath’s love child.”
“You know very well I don’t mean physically. He probably didn’t like the look of her, and bam!”
“Bam?!”
“Yeah, bam! A couple of arsenic pills down her throat and she’s dead, and no one’s the wiser.”
“You suggesting he just happened to have a couple of arsenic pills on him? Just in case someone offended him?”
“It could happen. He could be some type of secret agent, who is in possession of such items should he be caught by unfriendly agents and need to take his life to save himself the pain of months of torture at the hands of his captors.”
“You really have quite the imagination don’t you?”
“If I didn’t would you be here?”
“Good point I suppose, but it still doesn’t escape the fact you have no proof or even any reasonable suspicion to accuse The Tall Man for the murder.”
He was right, I didn’t like to admit it, but he was right. But there was something about him that made him my top suspect, much like watching an episode of Colombo, the culprit always gave himself away with his arrogant demeanour and hostile reaction to questioning.
“I’m sorry sir, but you will have to wait in here until I am happy we have secured the evidence sufficiently.”
“That’s ridiculous, some of us have work to be getting on with, you can’t hold us in here forever.”
I knew The Tall Man would raise an objection. Create tension and uncertainty amongst the other passengers, that was his plan, and in doing so demean the authority of the investigator. The act of a true criminal mind.
The Old Cop was dismissive of The Tall Man’s objections, “You will all be allowed to disembark the train when we arrive in London. I guarantee to keep disruption to a very minimum, but I can’t allow a potential murderer to be running through a crowded train unchallenged now can I?” He then turned around to the couple who were stood in the small hallway area that split the carriage into two. “I’m afraid that goes for you two as well, you’ll have to step inside please.”
Neither of these two seemed particularly pleased with this suggestion. But it was the female who raised the objection, “You mean us? We only got on at St Albans!”
“That is irrelevant at this time as we do not know what time the young lady received her fatal interaction. For now I require anyone who has been close enough to the girl to remain within this carriage. Until I have ascertained what happened here, I am certainly not happy to allow possible suspects or witnesses to be roaming around the train without any sort of Police Control.”
“You think she’s been murdered?”
“I’m not saying that. But until we know better, let’s not rule anything out.”
On hearing this, the two Work Colleagues reluctantly stepped inside the carriage to join the rest of us murder suspects. I had adjudged these two to be work colleagues only, based upon my observations of the coyness of their relationship, in particular on the part of the female.
The girl appeared to have Indian heritage, with beautifully smooth, dark skin, and long black hair which was permed and meticulously styled. She was wearing a pale coloured, double breasted, military style jacket in a manner befitting of a catalogue model; the same could not be said for her colleague though. With chubby red face, and inconsistent spiky hair revealing a forehead the size and shape of the Australian outback, he had all the hallmarks of a man who tried so hard, and yet consistently fell well short of the mark.
What the girl had in looks, she certainly didn’t possess in humility. She was attractive, but was also very much aware of it, and the way in which she ensured a clear foot distance between her and her male compatriot at all times indicated such a belief. And yet, he seemed reluctant to take the hint.
Her next choice was almost certain to give him a clear indication, and confirm my initial assessment of their relationship; as she was faced with the predicament of choosing a seat for either herself, or the two of them. The decision was simple, to her left (the seating area directly in front of mine) was a single space by the window, beside the Old Cop’s seat which was still occupied by his coat and brief case. On the opposite side were two seats, admittedly not opposite one another, but nevertheless situated close enough to enable conversation should they wish.
It was clear that should she take the seat to her left, she was giving a clear indication that she did not wish to engage in further interaction. Her choice was to be a deliberate attempt to prevent him from invading her seating area, and in doing so maintain a distance between them. However, if she chose the seat to the right, it would indicate the contrary suggestion, as she would have to sit beside The Husband of The Married Couple, but would have been chosen on the basis of allowing her male counterpart to join her in the seating area. 
As suspected, she took a side step to her left and slipped past the two passengers (The Computer Nerd and The Professional respectively) and took her seat by the window, facing towards where The Old Cop stood. But then came the response of her colleague as he himself opted for the much sought after secret option C.
Rather than take his place in the alternative side of the carriage, sat with The Married Couple, Student and Workaholic for company; this male instead elected to also step to his left. He then nonchalantly breached accepted seating protocol by lifting the coat and brief case of The Old Cop and shifted them across the aisle to the seat beside The Married Couple.
With a vacancy now beside his female colleague, he took his place beside her. He must have been the only person in the carriage who didn’t notice the heavy sigh of a woman tired of rebuffing the continued advances of an unwanted suitor. She turned her head away to stare out the window at the passing landscapes.

It is curious how, as the environment around us descends into chaos, the rest of the world continues to pass through the monotony of its everyday routines.
From the length of the carriage I could hear the muttering of The Old Cop making enquiries with the various passengers.
“What station did you get on at sir?”
Mr Cool glanced up at the officer and with a well rehearsed and over pronounced wave of his arm, he removed his sun glasses from over his eyes. In his mind, he must have felt that the manner in which he undertook such a basic action as removing one’s spectacles gave the impression of some sort of Hollywood hero. But to the rest of us he just appeared as the twat we all knew him to be. “The first one. Bedford. If you recall I stepped onto the train just before yourself officer.”
“I see.” The officer made a note in his little black notebook which he had produced from somewhere. I knew that officers on the beat would use these things to detail incidents that they had been involved in, but never realized that they carried them around all the time just in case of an emergency.
“And was she alive when you saw her?”
“Surely you remember that for yourself don’t you officer? After all, we did come in at the same time.”
“The question was directed towards yourself sir. My evidence is strictly irrelevant.”
“I wouldn’t say that officer. I’m sure you do a fine job.” There was an unpleasant smugness in the way he answered, not that this was in anyway indicative of murder, but I found it somewhat annoying.
“He’s a piece of works ain’t he?” I turned once again to my esteemed colleague.
“What have you got against this one?”
“Check out his attitude. A girl’s been murdered and he’s lording it up as if he’s talking to his butler.”
“Are we talking about the same person here?”
“Apparently not. I’m talking about the tangerine coloured, silver haired fox over there.” With my eyes I pointed over to the door, where The Old Cop was continuing his witness examination of the Bill Clinton look-alike with a seriously harmful sun bed addiction.   
“Officer.” Suddenly we were interrupted by the over excited tones of the Home Ec Teacher. She was a large lady and no mistaking, what else could she be? She had to be involved in some manner of employment that involved food. Of course there was just as much reason to suspect she worked with children.
Cuddled into the Home Ec Teacher’s shoulder was a The Secretary. From my position at the back of the carriage I couldn’t see the entire picture, but recognized the signs of her blonde hair nuzzled against her shoulder. Clearly the reality of the situation had struck her firmly since her earlier interaction, when she had appeared perfectly fine.
“Officer, would you mind if I took this young lady down the back. I don’t think this poor young thing should have to sit opposite a dead body. It’s upsetting.”
“I won’t be long madam, but I need to speak to everybody.”
“Well can she go to the back for some space?”
“I’d rather she stay where she is so I don’t miss anyone.”
“For Christ’s sake, she’s not going anywhere.”
“Be that as it may, I’d still rather.”
Suddenly, there were others getting involved. First up was The Tall Man, I should have known, “Are you seriously gonna force her to stare at a dead body whilst you go around the carriage asking for people’s names?”
 “Nobody’s forcing her to look at the body.” The Old Cop responded not quite realising the wrath he was about to unleash.
“What are you expecting her to do, close her eyes until you’re ready?” The Tall Man, clearly in a mood for an argument, continued to speak up.
“Perhaps she would like to borrow my glasses,” Came the input of Mr Cool.
“Maybe she’d like a drink of water to settle her down.” The Wife had her hand raised as if she was at school, however clasped in her grip was a small silver canteen.
“Erm no, that’s mine thank you.” The Workaholic placed his laptop onto the seat beside himself along with a number of loose papers, then rose to his feet, or at least that is what I assumed. But at his measly five foot nothing, he barely appeared any higher than those still sat down. 
“I’m sure you can spare a small amount can’t you?” The wife responded, holding the canteen away from him.
“No really, I’ve got a terrible cold; she wouldn’t want my germs, really.” He was becoming panicked and agitated. His face was bright red, and sweat was starting to drip down his cheeks. He leant forward to take hold of the canteen, but The Wife quickly swept it away from him. Like watching a person dangling a bone in front of a dog, The Wife rose to her feet and began swinging the canteen to either side of the poor guy, as he desperately grabbed for his drink.
It was only inevitable, with the manner in which she swung the canteen to either side in front of her, that The Workaholic’s groping hands would catch a hold of something entirely different to his intended target.
“Hang on a second fella, you know that’s my wife you’ve got your hands all over don’t you?”
The Wife gave out a scream as she jolted backwards releasing her breast from the man’s grip.
“Was it me, or did she pause slightly before she moved away?” I couldn’t help but notice that her panicked reaction seemed to be as a response to her husband’s objection, as opposed to the initial offence.
“You think she enjoyed it?” My counterpart queried.
“Maybe she doesn’t get all that much physical attention from her own husband. He doesn’t strike me as the passionate type.”
We both watched as The Husband made attempts to intercept The Workaholic from pursuing his wife. It all appeared somewhat amusing, like watching a newsreader trying to intercept a sexually excited Chihuahua.
In the excitement, The Wife’s hand was knocked causing a quantity of liquid to spill out of the canteen and over the central seat opposite, which just so happened to be occupied by The Workaholic’s laptop computer and paperwork. There was a flash of light and loud bang, followed by a small waft of smoke which emanated from the computer.
“Oh my god! My laptop, my work! Oh my god!” If he was panicked before, The Workaholic had now reached some higher plane of hysteria. He lifted the laptop and opened the lid to a blank screen. He pressed a button just above the keys, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, still nothing. He then began to rapidly press the button, as if the repetitive tapping would create some form of kinetic electricity which would spark the computer into life. But there was nothing.
“I am so sorry.” The Wife began to apologize frantically, but then she stopped and brought the canteen up to her nose.
She took a deep breath. “Oh my god, it’s not even seven in the morning! What is wrong with you?”
The Wife handed the canteen to her husband who also took a deep breath, then withdrew his head dramatically scrunching his eyes closed in exaggeration of the smell. “Whisky? At this time in the morning?”
With one hand The Workaholic continued to tap the power button of his laptop, but as he did so, he leant across with his other arm trying to reach the canteen that was now being passed around the carriage.
“You were going to give whisky to this poor girl? She’s traumatized, alcohol is the last thing she needs.” The Tall Man felt the need to intervene.
“But I didn’t want to… I tried…” He was exasperated, as a further barrage of criticism fell upon him.
“Can’t you see what damage drink can do, just look at this poor girl sat over here.” This time it was The Home Ec Teacher, still with the Secretary clasped on her shoulder.
“But I never asked for her to.” He swung his hands down across the central seat in frustration causing the laptop to leap into the air and drop to the floor along with a flurry of paperwork. He dropped to his knees, loose leafs of paper scattered about him. “Oh my god! My paperwork! For fu…”
“Calm down sir, there’s no need for swearing.” The Old Cop had placed his note book back in his pocket and now been drawn into the dispute in the middle row.
“My work, all my work.” He began picking up the sheets and holding them out in despair.
“Would you mind standing up please sir.”
“But my work, my laptop.” He stopped and took a second to look at his watch, as if to extend the agony already bestowed upon him.
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind please.” The Old Cop was becoming insistent.
“Yes, yes, in a minute. Just let me…”
“No. Now please sir.”
The short, sharp tone was enough to force The Workaholic to his feet. “Sorry, it’s just all my work. And I have to be ready for a meeting at ten o’clock today.” Even as he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on the various sheets of paper scattered about his feet.
“I hope you’re going to speak to him about his language.” Came the nagging voice of The Home Ec Teacher.
“Thank you madam, I will deal with this.”
“What about what he did to my wife? It’s sexual assault, I’d like to make a complaint officer.”
“Yes, yes, sir.”
Whilst the small group of travellers huddled around The Old Cop like a group of professional footballers trying to influence a referee into a more favourable decision, there was chatter amongst the group of Financiers to my left, “What’s the betting he’s responsible for the poor dead girl as well?”
“That’ll be why he’s all boozed up.”
“Can’t deal with his own shame and guilt.”
There was a peculiar sense of hilarity in the way they were discussing the passing of some poor unknown young girl. You would have thought that in such times when you are introduced to mortality, it would bring life into perspective. But judging from the reactions of the other passengers towards The Workaholic, it would appear that the opposite is more accurate.
The Old Cop was finally granted some space enabling him to speak to The Workaholic and address the concerns of the other passengers. “Sir, I would like a word with you…” He paused as The Workaholic finally raised his eyes from the floor and looked up at him. The Old Cop took a deep breath. “Have you been drinking?”
“Come on my dear, let’s take you up the other end while he’s sorting out that pervert!” My attention was suddenly drawn to the two figures making their way towards me down the aisle.
“Eyes up, they’re coming this way.” The whisper came from beside me.
He was right, this was my chance. She was on her way up the aisle, and the only place available to sit was in the small seating area to the rear of the carriage, where I was sat.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” I felt guilty about it, but what could I do? I grabbed hold of my dear friend by the neck and quickly slotted him on my lap, releasing the seat beside me for use.
“Sorry my friend, but I’ve got to.”
There was no response. Possibly because this once keenly crafted origami crane was now no more than a misshapen, creased piece of paper that lay crumpled on my lap. But there was no time for sentiment or remorse, the two ladies (a word used in its loosest sense as it would be the only way of including two people of such opposing ends of the spectrum within a singular noun), made their way towards our seating area.
“Should I look up at her? Maybe offer her the seat? Or would that be too much interaction?” There was no answer from my colleague. Of course not, he still remained crumpled on my lap, to expect an answer would be ludicrous.
They were nearly at the point of no return. The moment when she would have to take the seat beside me, and yet still I had no idea as to how best to inaugurate someone to the seating area.
It was a win-win situation. There were just two available seats at the rear of the carriage, one beside me and the other directly opposite. Either way I had the opportunity to make myself known to the girl that I had spent a number of weeks admiring from a distance.
She sat down and looked directly across towards me. If I was facing up we would have had a moment of eye to eye contact. Now was the chance, I already had the event planned out in my head, I would turn slightly, and acknowledge her arrival with a mild smile. Nothing too cheesy, just a harmless welcoming introduction, like a slightly adjacent door, inviting people in if they wish, but no pressure. Absolutely no pressure.
Maybe just pop your head round, or even come all the way in, have a cup of tea…or coffee. Maybe a biscuit, we’ve got plain, chocolate chip or custard creams, always a favourite are the custard creams.
Maybe stay for lunch? No? You’re a bit busy? Not a problem, we can reschedule. How about dinner, Tuesday night? I know a place. No? How about Wednesday? I’ll pick you up. Thursday? Friday? The following week? The week after?
Where’d she go?
Enough thinking. I turned my head from viewing the passing scenery and caught a glimpse of her eyes, still placed in my direction. I could see the beams of light emanating from her pupils and their target. All I had to do was subtly place my warm and friendly face into the firing line, and contact would be made.
But things didn’t go according to plan, such is the way with the path of romance. As I turned my head to face her, so she did contrary wise, and soon I was gazing at her and she was staring out of the window. I hesitated, with the slight reflection in the window; she would clearly be able to see the direction of my stare. This would result in one of two reactions, a polite return glance when she realised my intentions to initiate contact, or the contrary and less pleasing response of repulsion.
I waited, there was no response, it became apparent in my mind that the latter set of circumstances was certainly drawing from the fog of uncertainty as the clear favourite. But the question as to how long to hold my gaze before I change from being a possible romantic interest to pervert was left unanswered as I was interrupted by a loud clearing of throat to my left.
“Ahem!!”
I glanced around and suddenly realised my mistake. I had forgotten the spare seat beside me. For some reason I had assumed that the Home Ec Teacher would return to her seat at the front of the carriage, this assumption had proven to be incorrect as she stood looking over me and glancing at the vacancy to my left.
She frowned at me and gave a second grunt of disapproval as she stared at my shoulder which had overlapped the adjoining seat by a matter of millimetres. I obliged with a quick apologetic smile, whilst behind my eyes I was cursing my luck.
I moved my shoulder very slightly to allow this large lady full access to the spare seat. Clearly, that wasn’t enough. As she thrust her backside into the fabric, I felt myself being lifted into the air by a matter of two to three inches, like being sat on a bouncy castle. Then came the shoulder, I had competed with the biggest and baddest at shoulder wrestling for the neutral zone, but that was what I thought. Against the Home Ec Teacher, there was no contest.
As my backside returned to its rightful place in the centre of the seat, I felt the force of a freight train shoving me against the window. Like being crushed between a brick wall and heavily padded wrecking ball, my shoulders seemed to fold in like those of a toy Transformer, diminishing my overall width by half. I felt every bone in my body snap, I had allowed the borders to my land to be penetrated with little resistance, and I could see no way of regaining sovereignty. 

As I think back through my commuting experiences, I can recall a handful of occasions when the equilibrium of the carriage was disturbed by an event completely outside of the norm. Usually it would involve a passenger not so well versed with the habits of professional commuter, and therefore would cause much disruption to all those around.
Such incidents would usually occur on the return leg of the daily commute, either in the form of an aging inebriated gentleman wishing to share his philosophical outpourings with the entire carriage; or a single mother failing to take control of her unruly mob of juveniles.
Of course the biggest disruption to the commute would occur occasionally when owing to “technical difficulties”, normally relating to an unexpected two legged rail hopper, people would suddenly be drawn together in a furious frenzy of mobile phone Googling in a bid to establish how they are to conclude the final part of their journey.
This is the only time when it is permissible to breach the usually well observed rules of commuting. When the rule book is effectively thrown away, and in a bid to achieve the mutual aims of the collective, people from within seating areas, and sometimes even from those adjacent, will allow themselves to converse and form a fully functioning and communicative social unit.
It is only at those times of peculiarity that people allow their guards to drop in order to deal with the more pressing unexpected circumstances. But murder is something altogether on a whole new spreadsheet, with its own set of axis on a graph unperturbed by the more remedial of distractions.
Perhaps it was the sheer enormity of the occasion which caused everybody to quickly return to their usual commuting mannerisms. The momentum seemed to cause everybody to return to their default settings, almost dismissing the fact that slumped to one end of the carriage rested the dead body of a young murdered girl; and within the carriage itself, possibly sat her killer.
I scanned the carriage for possible protagonists. Each seating area contained at least one individual with the opportunity for murder, but as for motive, that was strictly hidden from view and would have to be uncovered by The Old Cop as he conducted his rounds of mild interrogation.
I already had my suspicions of The Tall Man, who sat at the far end of the carriage, but he usually embarked the train before me and I hadn’t noticed him already on the train when I arrived. Come to think of it, I didn’t recall him embarking the carriage at his usual stop either. How could I miss such an imposing figure getting onto the train, unless of course he meant for people not to see him, or he was already on.
Perhaps he had carried out the act, then hidden in the adjoining carriage. Knowing people would expect to see him arrive on the train at St Albans, he had hidden away until the appropriate moment. He then appeared in the carriage at the correct time, behind the others, just as he did every morning, and no one would be the wiser. A watertight alibi.
Then there was Mr Cool, sat within the same seating area and opposite The Tall Man. His only crime at this time was his belief that sun glasses were a suitable form of attire at six thirty in the morning, along with shiny polyester suit and tangerine tan. Of course he had the opportunity, but I suspected he was unlikely to notice anything further than the reflection of himself through his own darkened frames.
Maybe she rebuffed his advances. Maybe he made a move on her when he stepped onto the carriage and was so enraged by her rejection that he chose to end her life rather than face the fact that he is no longer young and sexy. Highly unlikely.
Across the aisle slumped the dead girl, all alone. Usually The Home Ec Teacher would have been sat in this particular seating area, but surely she would not have been responsible. She was the one who notified the rest of the carriage of the girl’s death, when she could have easily played ignorant to the facts and escaped the clutches of the law and the train long before her actions had been identified. No, there was no way she could have possibly been responsible.
In the central seating area back from that of the dead girl sat The Work Colleagues, The Computer Nerd and The Professional. But I had seen all four embark the train at St Albans, therefore negating the opportunity for each one of them. But there was someone no longer present at the seating area, who had been there prior to my arrival; The Old Cop.
Of course it couldn’t be him could it? A member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary? Was he using this investigatory response as a ruse, knowing that when we arrived at St Pancras International he would flee the scene? He was very quick to react to the scenario, and in such a calm manner, it couldn’t help but raise suspicion.
And then there was The Workaholic who also seemed a viable target; plus it could possibly explain his highly erratic disposition. My eyes crossed the aisle to the one man in the opposing central seating area who had the opportunity of committing murder prior to my arrival.
There was a clear sense of panic in his mannerisms, even now as he sat back in his seat he seemed highly agitated. I had missed his interview with The Old Cop, but his simple reaction to the Police Officer’s presence when he was being confronted over his behaviour was not that of a totally innocent man. It was as if he had something to hide.
And across the aisle from me was The Ex Footballer, or at least he looked just like… But he couldn’t be, surely. Nearly all former footballers from that era were working for some sort of media outlet, providing expert analysis of football in some shape or form, from the English Premiership to the local Sunday league. For some reason, people are much happier with hearing the tactical reasoning and opinions of a bloke with no formal qualifications and made a living from kicking around an imitation pig’s bladder for ninety minutes a week.
I had ulterior motives for trying my own hand at amateur detection as I reached my own seating area. Being crushed into the side of the carriage, I felt like I was being restrained by some sort of over bearing chaperone. My eyes had made several short glances across the way towards The Secretary, but each one of these had failed to register with the required target; and though at times I sensed a similar response from her, the glances seemed to linger for a similarly short period. Like two kids wishing to engage in visual flirtation, but without being clocked by the disapproving guardian.
By scanning the rest of the carriage, it kept my eyes from subconsciously focussing on the girl in front of me, an action I was pretty sure my next door neighbour had noted. But there was one final possibility; The Sleeping Man sat just feet from me. Unlike the others, I had no prior knowledge of this one; I had never seen him on this train before, which in most murder serials would be a dead giveaway.
But this wasn’t a television show, such principles didn’t apply to real life. Besides, the man was out cold, anybody who has committed murder would undoubtedly find it difficult to fall asleep just like that. The sheer adrenalin rush that would come from such an act would be far too much to ignore, besides, he had the opportunity to leave the train unlike the others who would seek to maintain an alibi by conducting their daily routines as per usual.
The Old Cop, taking a methodical approach to interviewing had reached The Computer Nerd. Each traveller sat in their seat patiently for the officer to arrive, almost like the arrival of a ticket inspector. Each sitting keenly to provide their details, before returning to their chosen form of entertainment be it book, personal music player or broken laptop.
“Officer. Do we know what the cause of death was?” From over The Old Cop’s shoulder came the bleating of The Apprentice. A youngish lad in his late teens, he had a round face with scruffy hair which I would assume he hadn’t had time to brush as opposed to deliberately chosen to leave the house in such a way. It was my judgement that he was still getting to grips with the early morning commutes, having only seen him on a regular basis for the last couple of weeks.
The Apprentice tugged at the knot of his tie awkwardly as he awaited a response from The Old Cop, another clear sign of discomfort as a result of a young man being dressed in an older man’s suit.
“Patience young man, we have to take account of all those present before we commence any more specialist work.”
“I could start taking first account notes from the more likely suspects if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary thank you. Just allow me to carry out my work in the way I see fit and we will be sorted in no time.”
“But you are just wasting time, some of these people couldn’t have possibly been on the train when the murder took place. I’m just suggesting that you utilise some of my advanced analytical skills to strip down the list of suspects to the most probable.”
“What makes you say murder?”
“Of course it’s murder. There’s a dead girl, on her own, on a train. What else could it be?”
“That is not for us to assert at this time. That assessment should be made by a trained professional. I am here merely to identify future lines of enquiry for the designated investigator. He stopped and turned around, “Unless of course, you are a medical practitioner?”
The Apprentice was silent for just a moment, thinking of an adequate response before continuing with his interference of the legal process, “What about this girl? She’s a doctor I think. Always has a long white doctor’s coat.”
The two of them looked down at the young oriental girl sat in the middle seated area. She had long black hair and thick rimmed glasses, and her head was buried inside the pages of a heavy, hard back bound reference book. A book I had seen her reading on frequent occasions prior, during her daily commute. From the top of her bag, which she rested by her feet, a small white collar poked out from the partially opened zip.
“Not all people who read heavy books and wear white coats are members of the medical profession.” The Husband, sat opposite the girl and monitoring the conversation, found this to be the moment to add his own perspective.
“It doesn’t mean she isn’t either though.”
“By that reasoning, our friend over there is a millionaire playboy, with his sunglasses and heavy tan.” The Husband pointed over at Mr Cool, who just smiled back, clearly enjoying the insinuation that he was some kind of Hugh Heffner figure.
The Apprentice paused and looked hard at the orange letch, “Wouldn’t he travel first class if he was really a millionaire?”
“Not if he wants to stay in touch with the common man.”
“On an early morning commuter train to London?”
“When you have all the money in the world, sometimes the one thing you are missing is the one thing you crave. Money brings about alienation, and as I’m sure you are aware, man can not live on money alone, he needs companionship from his fellow man.”
“Forget that fellow man nonsense. If I were in his shoes, I’d be spending my mornings lying comatose in a four poster bed, surrounded by naked, unconscious supermodels, recovering from the night before.
“Maybe some people exist in slightly more realistic avenues.”
“You saying if you were as rich as him, you wouldn’t be living it up with a load of beautiful young blondes on a tropical island somewhere?”
The Wife glared disapprovingly at her husband as he gave a quick laugh at The Apprentice’s response.
“Beauty and youth aren’t everything you know young man.” He smiled, and then turned to his wife as if he seemed to believe that was the response she was looking for.
Maybe relationships are far easier when viewing them from afar; perhaps the intense emotional attachment one forms within a relationship inhibits the capability of judging one’s own actions objectively. But what was clear is that, in one simple statement, this cocky middle aged man had managed to insult his wife in both her age and looks. I may not be an expert in relationships, but even I knew this would require a substantial amount of grovelling to reconcile.
The Wife turned her back on her husband, grumpily staring out of the window. But he acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He turned back to The Apprentice, still smiling, and looking as if he had received approval from his partner to continue the debate. It can be funny how men fail to spot the not-so-subtle signals given off by women they have known for years
           “She’s too young to be a doctor. Maybe a medical student?” The Male Work Colleague joined in the discussion over the possible vocation, with the girl herself being completely oblivious as to her central role within the discussion.
I could see she was wearing small in-ear headphones, the only giveaway being the little black wires that dropped from beneath her long black down either side of her face. It occurred to me that she had been so engrossed with the subject matter of her book that she had somehow been unaware of the whole scenario. Or was she in fact hiding from the reality of the occasion by submerging herself within her studies, like an ostrich with a portable sand pit.
Had The Old Cop even taken her details? As he was making his way around the carriage I made an assumption that this had been done, but I hadn’t witnessed such an event taking place. Curse my lack of focus. No matter what the scenario, I also seem to find my mind easily distracted by external stimuli that has little bearing on my own life.
You need to get your priorities straight! The voice in my head responded, echoing through my brain as if it was being shouted through a long, empty tunnel.
I watched, with great interest, the interaction between The Apprentice, and The Male Work Colleague. It is worth noting at this point that The Female Work Colleague had created a gulf between herself and her male counterpart. With her body facing the window, any keen observer of body language could read quite clearly the embarrassment she felt at being associated with such an individual.
With The Old Cop making his way to the rear of the train in my direction, the two younger men leant across the aisle, apparently comparing investigative notes on the carriage occupants. It seemed to be a competition, as each one announced their own interpretation, and in doing so attempted to belittle the other’s deducement.
“Clearly she was on her return journey from a night out.”
“Obviously, just by the manner of her dress. Short skirt, high heeled shoes resting on the seat beside her, and shirt draped over her shoulders. But also, have you noticed that the shirt is way too big for her?”
“Precisely. Indicating that at some point during the night she spent time with a man of a much larger frame than herself.”
“Clearly a man’s shirt, judging from the trim on the collar.”
“And not a jacket? Despite the fact last night was rather chilly, therefore indicating a possibility that the shirt was handed over following a moment of intimacy.”
“A one night stand? She looks dressed for such an occasion.”
“But no coat suggests she did not intend to stay so late.”
“Or no intention of returning home.”
“And the man in question? A friend? Stranger?”
“Maybe a stranger, but still willing to hand over his shirt to allow her to get home even if he did ask her to leave the same night? Suggests she wasn’t forced out.”
“Why would she leave, unless she had somewhere she needed to be?”
“Or someone she needed to be with?”
“A wronged lover?”
“A disapproving father?”
“Of course the murderer would have to be someone she knew.”
“Naturally, the way she was when we entered the train, appearing to be asleep suggested as much.”
“Actually, had you also noticed that there had been no sign of any struggle?”
“Should either father or boyfriend be to blame, one would suspect some sort of argument to have taken place.”
“Though a dejected admirer may be similarly incensed by the affair, and yet such anger could be unknown to the girl.”
“And he could administer the fatal act as she struggled for consciousness.”
“Never realising what was really happening.”
“That would mean the suspect has to be…”
“Desperate?”
“Lonely?”
“Down on his luck?”
“Batting well above his league?”
“Perhaps middle aged…” The two of them turned around in recognition of one another’s assessment, and their eyes became fixed on The Workaholic who was sat tapping frustratedly at the side of his laptop with his palm in the vain hope it might affect some miraculous recovery.
All the signs were pointing to one person; perhaps his preoccupation with his computer was just a clever ruse to discourage people from prying too much into his own story of events. Even I found myself questioning the man’s current state of mind. He always appeared flustered and hard at work on his laptop, but did anyone ever have a good look at the screen. For all we knew, he could be some kind of sexual deviant, spending each morning on the train to watch unadulterated, masochistic pornography.
I breathed in with horror at the prospect of such a meek looking individual and the savagery he was capable of, fuelled by lust and passion. Breathing was a bad idea.
I had managed to remain still for much of the journey since being joined in the seating area by two additional bottoms, and with good reason. At the brief, yet critical, intake of breath I had given up a small area of land that was quickly seized upon by my neighbouring conqueror. I felt her body sink into the vacated space like plaster filling into a mould. And before I knew it, I had even less space.
I knew it would be a long journey; I would have to take quick, shallow breaths if I was to maintain adequate seating space to survive. Maybe this was what happened to the poor girl at the other end of the carriage. Like some kind of horror film, perhaps she had been too weak to withstand the incoming mass of the Home Ec Teacher.
I’ve seen it before in films, that sometimes the killer is actually the one who first discovers the murder, knowing that it will inevitably be uncovered; they use the opportunity to remove themselves from the enquiry. Very clever.
But was I now to be the next of her victims? Like sinking into quick sand, I felt her ample frame begin to surround me from all angles, creeping into every minute space exposed upon my need to take in breath, there was no way out. I closed my eyes and took one final breath in the hope it would take in sufficient oxygen to sustain my life for the remainder of the journey.

I must have drifted into a heavy sleep because I didn’t feel the train slowing as it arrived at the station. There was a sudden jolt as the train came to a stop.
When I opened my eyes, I felt a mild pain throbbing in my temple. I had no idea how long I had been out for, but the pain wasn’t as severe as I thought it could have been. It was more like a mild discomfort than a severe blow to my skull.
“If you want I can find you a pillow.”
I clutched my head in agony and looked to my left from whence the voice had come. Sat beside me was The Home Ec Teacher looking not so impressed. I suddenly realised that I must have fallen asleep, and in doing so my head had dropped to the left and leant against her shoulder. That was followed by the even more embarrassing sensation in the corner of my mouth. Just a slight tingle, nothing more, not discomfort or even overwhelmingly apparent. But embarrassing nevertheless. It was the indication of some form of condensation, or more likely saliva.
Had I dribbled on her shoulder? I didn’t like to ask, and I certainly knew that I wouldn’t wish to draw attention to the fact in case I had and she hadn’t realised. 
I couldn’t have been asleep for long though, I could see The Old Cop questioning the group of Financiers in the seating area across the aisle. They were laughing as they spoke, as if this was a polite enquiry about graffiti on the carriage or a stolen newspaper.
The Old Cop shut his note book, acknowledged them all, “Thank you for your help.” And turned around to face me.
I felt so nervous as he started to make his way over; I attempted to sink back into the seat in the hope of hiding behind my seating partner, whose ample frame had succeeded to obscure the view of me quite significantly when I was sat upright.    
I felt guilty, as if I had something to hide. At this point I was happy to be smothered within the folds of my neighbour’s personage. I looked to the window; we were approaching another tunnel, maybe in the darkness of the tunnel I could make good my escape.
Darkness crept in from outside the windows, I felt the train beginning to slow. I leant forward, but couldn’t move. I was still wedged in firmly by my neighbour’s ample waistline. The carriage once again filled with artificial light from outside as we made our approach to St Pancras International Station. I would give anything for a distraction.
There was a shout from the other side of the carriage. “She’s alive!” If there was anything that would provide a sufficient distraction, it was that singular phrase.
It worked. The carriage turned silent and everybody raised their heads across to the far end of the carriage. Even my sleeping compatriot, who I was certain had missed the entirety of the fiasco, had now awoken and was looking over his head rest.
The Tall Man stood in the centre of the carriage, his arm rose pointing at the girl nestled into the corner of the carriage. “She moved.” He said, “No word of a lie, I just saw her.”
I didn’t know what to make of it, had she been leaning against the carriage window like that all the time? Something told me she did look different to when I had first noticed her, but the lighting had changed since then, also my own disposition was somewhat more strained. I wanted her to be alive, not just for her own sake, but for mine. The Old Cop began to walk back down the aisle to join The Tall Man.
“I’m telling you.” Announced The Tall Man, “She wasn’t leaning like that earlier.”
“Did you see her move?”
“No, but I’m telling you 100%, she wasn’t lying like that earlier. She has moved.”
Wishing to throw his own two cents in, The Apprentice added to the party. “It’s possible the movement of the train caused her to lean over.”
“If it had’ve been that, she would have fallen onto the floor. I’m telling you she moved by herself.”
“Did anyone else see her move?” The Old Cop spun around to his wider audience in search of volunteers. Everybody remained silent.
“There you go, she moved again.” The Tall Man shouted. The Old Cop turned around again.
“Did she?” Asked The Old Cop. As far as I could see the girl had remained in exactly the same position, lodged into the corner of the seat between the chair and window.
“I swear. Her head was facing the window and look at it now.”
It was true, her head was now facing into the carriage. But hadn’t it always been facing that way? It was only a matter of seconds ago and yet I still couldn’t remember. It looked as if it had always been leaning in that way.
“It could have been jolted by a bump in the tracks.” The Apprentice added.
“We didn’t go over any bumps.”
“How do you know?”
“We’d have felt them.”
“Not necessarily.”
 “If they were sufficient to shift a dead woman’s resting position, I would suggest they would have been significant enough for one of us to have noticed.” He then looked around at the carriage. “Did anyone notice a bump?”
There was a minute of silence until a faint voice came from the central seating area in the form of The Wife. “I did, just before we entered the tunnel.”
“That wasn’t when the girl moved though was it?” The Tall Man responded angrily.
 “I suppose not.”
 “So why is it relevant?”
 The Wife leant back into her seat embarrassed.
 “What are you saying? That dead people still like to make themselves comfortable before they join the afterlife?” Came the sarcastic response from The Male Work Colleague.
“Of course not you stupid boy. I’m suggesting she’s not dead.”
All eyes turned to The Old Cop who placed his hands behind his back in a pose especially reserved for law enforcement officers. He commenced a slow pace back towards the rear of the carriage. “I suppose it is possible that the body’s upper weight was impacted upon by the initial bump prior to entering the tunnel, but such was the body’s situation, that its counter weight prevented any initial movement until…”
The Old Cop was interrupted from his contemplative musings by another shout from The Tall Man, “She did it again.”
It was like some kind of pantomime sketch, The Tall Man shouting she’s behind you! And each time The Old Cop turned around, she would be as still as a statue, causing him to miss the event.
“Are you sure?”
At this point, The Tall Man seemed to lose what was left of his frail patience. He stormed over to where the girl lay and slapped her around the face. “Wake up little girl, wake up!” He then took her by the shoulders and began to shake her frustratedly, “Wake up! Wake up!”
“Oh my god, he’s gone mad.” Came mutterings from around the carriage. “What’s he doing?”, “Somebody stop him!”
Guilty!!! I looked down at the small screwed up piece of paper that rested on my lap. If he were still here, I’d have to remind him of the fact that I was right. I’ll just have to remember for next time I see him.
But my smug grin was soon wiped from my face when there came another voice, this time female. “He’s right. She’s alive!”
I looked up, The Tall Man had stepped back, and The Party Girl was now sat up in a much more upright position, rubbing her eyes with her own hands, very much alive.

The entire carriage sat in silence. There was a sense of indignation at the fact the girl that the entire carriage believed to be dead was now very much alive and sat upright in her seat staring out of the window, blissfully unaware of the trauma her believed death had caused.
The scene would seem somewhat humorous with so many people apparently angry at the miracle of this girl’s recovery. Not that anybody wanted her dead, but it all seemed like such an anti climax, it was hard not to feel some kind of negative reaction, be it anger or a more mild element of disappointment. We had all experienced highly provocative emotions dealing with our own humanity in the realisation of how easy it can be taken away. It seemed to provoke a similar response to consider the possibility that the revocation of life could itself be undone just as easily as it had been done.
“Did nobody actually check the girl before declaring her dead?”
“I thought it had already been done.”
“Well who was the one who said she was dead?”
All eyes turned to the Home Ec Teacher and through association by the fact I was literally sat adjoined to her, their focus also turned to myself.
“How was I to know? It’s not like I’m medically trained!” She protested and rose to her feet in defiance.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I felt the blood start to circulate around my body freely once more, “Ahhhh!” It was like a new lease of life as I spread my shoulders across the entire back of the chair.
The Tall Man continued his assault on the Home Ex Teacher, who was now stood tall in her defence. “You didn’t think to check her pulse? Basic first aid training isn’t it?”
“I didn’t see anyone else offering any advice.”
“I think we were all taken back by the hysterical screaming of some neurotic nutjob!"
“I’m sorry, I guess I’m just not used to sitting beside somebody who doesn’t seem to be breathing. But then I’ve never been subjected to one of your meetings.”
The carriage once again went silent as the train pulled to a stop, arriving at St Pancras International Station. There was no announcement, as if nothing had happened, the regular individuals made their way to the carriage doors and awaited the door release to engage. I watched The Secretary rise from her seat and step across me without so much as a passing glance as she made her way to the door.
The majority of the train filed out. I was left alone, with just The Sleeping Man opposite for company within my own seating area. I had missed The Secretary step past to leave, such was the commotion caused surrounding The Party Girl’s resurrection.
Other than myself and The Sleeping Man, all that remained were The Financiers, The Professional, The Ex Footballer, and Mr Cool.
The next stop was only a matter of minutes away. The Financiers knew the optimum moment in which to leave their seats and make their way to the doors. I could see them preparing their bags and coats in readiness to raise themselves at the last minute.
This was clear proof the male opposite was not a long term commuter, he had already risen and checking his seat for anything left behind, before turning around in readiness to make his way to the door. He placed his right hand in his pocket, maybe it’s the magpie in me, or the irony that ordinarily my attraction to shiny things would often distract from the more important situation. But something caught my eye; my suspicions had been raised.
The carriage went dark. It sent an eery shiver down my spine. We were travelling through another tunnel, but there was something very sinister about the way The Sleeping Man was standing and looking down the carriage.
My mind flicked back, like the reviewing of a series of old movie collections. I had stepped onto the train; the guy by this seat had seemed fast asleep, and failed to register when everyone else around was in a state of panic at the death of a fellow traveller. Put that in contrast to his reaction when it was apparent the girl was in fact still alive.
There was a genuine frustration. Most other people took a moment or two at least to register the fact before they displayed any notion of annoyance, and yet this guy reacted the very instance her resurrection had been uncovered. He hadn’t been asleep; I could picture him now, the shallow breathing, the flickering of his eyes beneath their lids as his conscious mind attempted to compute the information being received through the medium of sound waves without anyone being the wiser of his state of being.
And then there was the flash of silver, a glimmer of metal that shone between the fingers of his clenched fist as he withdrew his hand from his pocket and began to walk down the aisle.
I rose to my feet, the guy was walking with pace and purpose. I knew I had to stop him, like the finale of an action film, I tried to run into the aisle, but The Financiers had begun to make their way towards the door, blocking my exit from the seating area.
The Sleeping Man was getting closer to his target, the girl sat unknowingly at the opposite end of the carriage, blissfully unaware of what was approaching. I fidgeted on my feet, darting from side to side to see if I could find a way past, but there was none.
“Excuse me, excuse me.”
“You okay fella?”
“I think someone might need the toilet.”
“Didn’t you go before you came out?”
The humorous remarks from The Financiers did not help the situation. I looked across and The Sleeping Man was continually arriving closer to his target.
“You know what you have to do!” A voice came from behind, like a hushed whisper. I turned around and saw nobody.
“Give me wings again, so I can fly.”
I looked down at the seat. There, resting on top was my newspaper and the crumpled up paper that had been a crane until I sacrificed the seat for the Home Ec Teacher.
The voice was right, I knew what I had to do, what I had the skills to do, and just hoped that I also still had the time. As quick as I could, I picked up the piece of paper, flicked the corners over three times in quick succession, used the already created crease down the middle to create a handgrip and launched the plane into the sky and down the length of the carriage.
The plane glided through the air swiftly, staying true to its course. I sat within the crease, my eyes glued to the nose as it cut through the sky, piercing its way down the aisle to its destination. Each individual particle in the air struck sharply across my face like a series of flying daggers as the plane carried me at speed towards its target.
“Brace for impact!”
Just a matter of inches away I saw the Sleeping Man raising his right hand into the air above his victim. The hairs on the back of his neck were drawing into clear focus; each follicle and its minute detail were rushing towards us.
“This it, today we die as heroes!”
That was the end of my dear friend, who had started life as the advertising pages on the front of a free newspaper, and ending his life by saving that of a complete stranger. Goodbye my friend.
The hand came down, the blade now protruding from within its grasp and on a collision course with the young Party Girl, and she had no idea. Still too intoxicated to realise the danger that encompassed her.
Slap!
The plane made contact. Not in a dramatic way that would cause him to collapse to the floor, but more of a mosquito bite type of annoyance. But it was enough. The minor collision caused the plummeting hand to veer off target and imbed within the fabric of the seat inches from the body of The Party Girl.
“He’s got a knife!” Finally the words came out. But of course everybody within the carriage was all too aware of what had happened, as the events unfolded before them. As the knife penetrated the seat, the temporary paralysis that had taken over the entire carriage as they watched and gasped suddenly diminished.
The Sleeping Man turned and tried to grab at the handle of the knife, but the blade had become embedded within the surface, possibly caught on a thread in the upholstery.
He tugged at the handle in frustration, but that was enough time for The Old Cop to react. He leapt into action, grappling the guy to the floor, gripping around his arms and chest. Then came The Financiers, the female led the charge, and before I knew what was happening they all had hold of him as they raised him back to his feet.
“You?” The girl now sat up, and very much sobered up.
“You know this man?”
“Sort of, I mean yes, well in a manner of speaking, possibly.”
“Sort of, yes, possibly? Which is it?”
“No.”
“You don’t know him?”
“I don’t know. I met him last night at a night club, he seemed to know all about me, but I didn’t recognise him. He bought me a drink, and that’s the last I really remember.”
The Old Cop turned to his detainee. “And what was in that drink?”
“How am I supposed to know, she ordered it. Like the mug that I am, I just paid.”
The Old Cop had hold of him beneath his arm pit. I have no idea quite what happened, but the Sleeping Man gave a yelp like a dog whose tail has been trapped in a door. “Ok, ok. It contained arsenic…”
“I knew it.” A small cry of success came from one of the remaining passengers.
“It should have been enough to kill her. I realised I had to stay on the train with her to ensure she was discovered at the correct time by a host of people to contaminate any forensic examination. Of course, when I realised she wasn’t dead, I had to finish the job in a good old fashioned way.”
“Well I’m afraid it didn’t, and now you’re up for some serious jail time.”
“But why?” The girl cried, “Why would you try to kill me?”
“You don’t remember me at school do you?”
“No?”
“Timmy Loughbottom?”
“No?”
“I had slightly longer hair admittedly. My father and your father used to go bowling together?”
The girl continued to look blankly at him.
“We sat together in Geography for three years; you used to copy my homework every week.” There was still a blank look across her face. “You don’t remember the Year 11 prom, what you did to me? The humiliation I suffered? All for just a giggle. You completely destroyed my life, and you don’t even remember it? It took me three years of intense therapy to overcome those demons, and even now I’m still on a heavy dose of antidepressants. All because of you!”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? Loughbottom, Loughbottom. Not so funny now is it? Can you see anyone laughing at my name now? You are so conceited, you shallow, spoilt little bitch!”
“Ok fella, that’s quite enough of that.”
And with that, the train doors opened once more and The Sleeping Man was dragged outside. “You’ll have to come with us young lady.” Came the call from The Old Cop as he stepped off the train.
“Yes sir.” She replied and the group of them left.
The train once again commenced its journey. We arrived at London Blackfriars and the carriage emptied. I was the last to step outside. Something caused me to pause for a second, I glanced at the chair where The Party Girl had been asleep, and there lay the crumpled newspaper of a once jubilant fighter jet, now resting at peace.
I stepped out of the train onto the platform. As I looked up I saw a girl running towards me. She was going to miss the train, the doors started to shut and she was still some distance away. I quickly swung my foot to the side and wedged it inbetween the doors. There was a thud as the two doors clattered into either side of my black leather shoes, the automatic doors pulled back open upon impact and I then placed my hands in between them.
I felt the pressure of the doors trying to shut once again, then giving a dramatic shudder as they gave way to my superior strength. I heard the girl’s footsteps approaching quickly, so maintaining my hand across the far door; I stepped to my side allowing her access. She stepped in and I released the door just as I heard the shout of an angry train driver from the other end of the platform.
The doors shut almost immediately as I released them from my grip. I glanced through the window to see a face peering back at me. She had red, wind swept hair and a pale complexion with red cheeks, but when she caught sight of my gaze she smiled and mouthed the words “Thank you.”
The train then pulled out of the station and I was left to consider my interaction with The Running Girl, the first time I had ever made contact with another person during my time as a commuter. Although not strictly with a fellow commuter, as technically she was not actually on the same commute as me, maybe this provided the exception to the rule. I had not come across this girl before and I suspected that I would not come across her again, and yet in the back of my mind I still felt the impulse to identify within my directory of fellow commuters, however under the sub heading of miscellaneous encounters.