'Not sure /do. Does it matter?'
'Of course it matters.'
'But you won't let it come between us?'
'I won't let anything come between us,' he whispered into her ear.
For a few seconds they looked lovingly at each other. Then he lowered his eyes, removed a splayed left hand from her stockinged thigh, and drank his last mouthful of beer.
'Just before we get into Paddington, Rachel, there's something important I ought to tell you.'
She turned to him - her eyes suddenly alarmed.
He wanted to put a stop to the affair?
He wanted to get rid of her?
He'd found another woman? (Apart from his wife, of course.)
'Tickets, please!'
He looked as if he might be making his maiden
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voyage, the young ticket-collector, for he was scrutinizing each ticket proffered to him with preternatural concentration.
The man took both his own and the young woman's ticket from his wallet: cheap-day returns.
'This yours, sir?'
·Yes.'
·You an GAP?'
'As a matter of fact I am not, no.' (The tone of his voice was quiedy arrogant.) 'To draw a seniorcitizen pension in the United Kingdom a man has to be sixty-five years of age. But a Senior Railcard is available to a man who has passed his sixtieth birthday - as doubdess you know.'
'Could I see your Railcard, sir?'
With a sigh of resignation, the man produced his card. And the slightly flustered, spotty-faced youdi duly studied the details.
Valid: until 07 MAY 96; Issued to: Mr J. C. Storrs.
'How the hell does he think I got my ticket at Oxford without showing
'He's only doing his duty, poor lad. And he's got awful acne.'
'You're right, yes.'
She took his hand in hers, moving more closely again. And within a few minutes the PADDINGTON sign passed by as the train drew slowly into the long platform. In a
DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR
rather sad voice, the Senior Conductor now made his second announcement: 'All change, please! All change! This train has now terminated.'
They waited until their fellow-passengers had alighted; and happily, just as at Oxford, there seemed to be no one on the train whom either of them knew.
In the Brunei Bar of the Station Hotel, Storrs ordered a large brandy (two pieces of ice) for his young companion, and half a pint of Smith's bitter for himself. Then, leaving his own drink temporarily untouched, he walked out into Praed Street, thence making his way down to the cluster of small hotels in and around Sussex Gardens, several of them displaying VACANCIES signs. He had 'used' (was that the word?) two of them previously, but this time he decided to explore new territory.
'Double room?'
'One left, yeah. Just the one night, is it?'
'How much?'
'Seventy-five pounds for the two -with breakfast'
'How much without breakfast?'
Storrs sensed that the middle-aged peroxide blonde was attuned to his intentions, for her eyes hardened knowingly behind the cigarette-stained reception counter.
'Seventy-five pounds.'
One experienced campaigner nodded to another experienced campaigner. 'Well, thank you, madam. I promise I'll call back and take the room - after I've had a look at it-if I can't find anything a little less expensive.'
He turned to go.
'Just a minute!... No breakfast, you say?'
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'No. We're catching the sleeper to Inverness, and we just want a room for the day - you know? - a sort of
