Disordered Minds

'Rhubarb ... rhubarb ... rhubarb.'

She pointed to something in the letter and nicked him a smile. 'Now laugh. People who laugh don't blow up trains.'

'I don't want to blow up a train. I'm a British academic. My passport's in the case. All I have to do is show it to them.'

'They'll still question you. Everyone's been reporting a mad-looking Arab on the platform. I slipped round the back; otherwise they wouldn't have let me through.'

'Why aren't you afraid?'

'I know who you are. I saw you at the Crown and Feathers.'

Jonathan groped through his memory. There had been a couple in the bar, he recalled, but he didn't think the woman had been this one. 'I don't remember you.'

She stuffed the letters into the briefcase and tucked it under one arm. 'It's a big place,' she said cryptically, glancing toward the platform entrance. 'You're all right now, I think. They seem to have gone. Come on, there's a seat down here.' She put her other hand under his elbow and urged him along the platform. 'You'll feel better if you sit down. You're so wet already, a little more water on your bum won't matter.' She lowered him to the metal bench and sat beside him. 'Did Roy say something to upset you? He can be a right jerk at times.'

Jonathan leaned back to stare at the sky and felt the nausea begin to subside. The rain had eased off and a weak sun had broken through the clouds although it was still very cold. Her scent, an attractive one, filled his nostrils, and, for the first time in months, he found the closeness of a woman comforting. He couldn't account for it, nor did he bother to try, he was just grateful for the human contact. 'Is he a friend of yours?'

'Not really. I know his ex-wife, so I get to hear about his faults. He's famous for opening mouth before engaging brain. Did he say something insulting?'

'That's where being tke token black pays dividends...' Was the truth ever an insult? Perversely, Jonathan found himself defending the man. 'If he did, it probably wasn't intentional.'

'I wouldn't bet on it,' she said with an easy laugh. 'He may not be the brightest thing on two legs but he knows how to get under people's skin. You don't want to dwell on it. It gives him a buzz if he thinks one of his jibes has hit the spot.'

Despite her expensive clothes, he didn't think she'd been born to wealth. Her voice had a rough Dorset burr, much like Roy Trent's. 'Does he do it to you?'

'He does it to everyone. That's why he has so few customers.'

It was a different explanation from George's, but it appealed to Jonathan rather more. 'Do you know Councillor Gardener?'

'Roy's girlfriend? Only by sight.' She turned to look at him. 'Don't tell me she upset you? She got religion after the cancer-wants the world to accept Jesus and all that cr-' She broke off. 'I'm being a bitch. Forget I said that. She's very well-meaning ... crusades for the poor. I can't believe she'd say anything unkind.'

Fleetingly, Jonathan wondered why she was so intent on blaming someone else for his problems. 'It's just exhaustion,' he said. 'I flew in from the States last night and didn't sleep. I'd have done better to stay at home.'

'Was the trip worth the effort?'

'To the States?'

'No ... today's ... down here.'

He shook his head.

'Will you come back?'

He glanced at her. The question wasn't overly intrusive, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind her persistence struck a suspicious chord. 'Did Roy send you after me?'

'Hardly,' she said with a small laugh. 'He'll have forgotten all about you by now.' She nestled her chin into her scarf. 'To be honest, I was surprised to find you here. You left the pub a long time before I did. So ... are you feeling better?'

'I am, yes.' He was surprised. The nausea had gone, and even the tremors in his arms had ceased. 'You've been very kind.'

'I'm in a charitable mood.' She looked along the track. 'Your train's coming. I'll see you onto it, then all you have to do is make the connection at Bournemouth Central. Can you manage that?'

He pushed himself to the edge of the seat. 'What about you?'

'I'm going the other way,' she said, standing up and offering him his briefcase as the train drew in. She'd re- locked it at some point, and he took it gratefully.

'Then why are you on this platform?'

'I could see you were in trouble.'

He shook his head. 'I don't even know who you are.'

'A good Samaritan,' was all she said, as she opened a carriage door and urged him inside.

His last view of her was muffled in her scarf with a gloved hand raised in farewell but, as he waved back, it occurred to him that he wouldn't recognize her again. All he had seen was a pair of painted eyes beneath a dark fringe. It wasn't important until he opened his briefcase at Bournemouth Central and discovered that she'd stolen everything that mattered to him. She'd taken his wallet, his train ticket, his opera ticket, and worst of all she'd left him with nothing to prove who he was. His passport was gone.