Chapter Twelve

He tries to push the door shut against me, but I wait two short seconds and shove my shoulder against the panelling. I hear the sound of fist on wall as he fall back, and before he can kick the door into me I slide round it and lock it. The cubicle's barely two foot square, and we're practically pressed nose to nose. He's obviously just washed his face; I can see the scarlet flakes of skin where the handsoap's rubbed it raw. His breath still smells of beer and some kind of meat. We're there for a good seventy seconds, standing so close I can see the bloodshot lines criss-crossing his eyeballs, until he turns his head away and manoeuvers onto the toilet seat. I attempt to perch on the edge of the sink, the fourteen inches of space not enough to cope with the bulk of my ass. The only sound is the rumbling of the wheels on the track, the occasional squeal of the brakes as we hit the corners too fast.

Finally, he asks me what I'm doing here. I tell him, with a small smile, that I'm surprised he can remember who I am. He doesn't look impressed with that comment, for three and a half seconds his mouth is twisted into a grimace which could rival Ann Widdecombe, but his shoulders slacken and he forces it into a smile.
"That's determination."
"Why did you follow me?"
"It would have been rude not to. That, and I have nothing better to do."
He makes for the door, then stops, realising my legs are so close that he will have to touch them to get out. I swing them over to the toilet and he unlocks the door, as silently as he can. He pulls it open an inch and peers round. His head comes back like a naughty child caught ear-wigging, and there's a degree of panic written across it.
"Relax," I say, and move to unbutton his daks.

He looks unconvinced with the finished result.
"Relax," I say, "I've done this a million times."
I take his hand and pull him through the door, straight into Simon, looking concerned. He takes a good long look at our rosey cheeks and unzipped flies, then back into my eyes. I wink at him, and apologise for barging into him, we were just a bit distracted. Then I hold out my hand, and ask him if there's a bin anywhere. He holds out his left hand, to recieve the rubbish he thinks I'm holding; an empty crisp packet, a squashed juice carton. As the train pulls into the station, the grind of metal covers the obscenities he barks as he feels the damp rubber in his palm and we shove past him through the door. If he had wanted to get close enough, he'd find out the damp was just handsoap.