Paparazzi by Jo Fenton (e reader manga .TXT) 📗

barrier to the platform, I notice my hand is trembling. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down. I go to my assigned seat on the train. It’s facing the direction of travel, and I’m pleased to see there’s no reservation on the seat next to me. The carriage is less than a third reserved, according to an electronic display on the platform. I’m in an airline-style seat, which is also good, meaning I don’t have to sit opposite a stranger. I always hate those table seats – there’s a choice between uncomfortable silences and making polite conversation, not to mention the difficulty about where to place feet. This is much better. I glance around the carriage. There are a few businesspeople with laptops already open, and several older people who look as though they’re heading to the capital for a day out. A family with kids of primary-school age occupy the table seats across the aisle from me. They look very ordinary and pleasant. The children settle down without argument, and immediately start watching films or programmes on their iPads.

I open my Kindle and settle down to read an old favourite from Georgette Heyer; nice relaxing material to calm me down. It’s working great until a smartly-dressed, strapping guy in his forties boards the train at Stockport, walks past all the empty seats and plonks himself on the seat next to me. He gets out his laptop and spreads out, forcing me to back into my little corner. After fifteen minutes of this, I’m suffering from severe claustrophobia, and my anxiety is getting the better of me. I find enough elbow space to put my Kindle in my handbag, and I gather up my fleeing courage.

“Excuse me, I need to get out.”

The man-sprawler looks at me in surprise. “The train doesn’t stop for another quarter of an hour,” he says, looking at his watch. Otherwise, he makes no movement to let me through.

“I feel sick. I need some air.” If I didn’t feel so rubbish, I could have laughed at the speed he picked up his laptop and stood up. He clearly didn’t fancy someone throwing up over him.

I move past, muttering thanks, grab my coat from the rack above, and move through the train to the end of the carriage, where there are a couple of seats opposite the toilets. Sitting on one of them, I take some gulps of the fresh air that’s blowing in through the small gap between the coaches. I allow myself to calm down again, before standing up and heading to the next carriage along. It’s a quiet coach, but that suits me fine. I have no intention of phoning anyone or of playing music. There are more empty seats in here, including several doubles. This time, I take the precaution of sitting in the aisle seat and placing my coat and bag on the window seat next to me. I’m not going through that again. There are plenty of spare places for other passengers to sit.

After a while, I return to my Kindle and eat my brunch, and all remains calm until it’s time to get off the train at Euston. I deliberately get off at the other end of the carriage to avoid the man who’d sat next to me, but he catches up with me on the platform.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asks. The words are kind, but the tone is sarcastic, and he tops it off with, “I thought you were coming back. I was on edge the whole journey.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I’d made it clear that I wouldn’t be returning when I took my coat.” I give a half-smile and pick up speed to move away from him. My heart’s thumping in case he catches up with me again, and as soon as I reach the concourse, I dive for the Ladies, which is fortunately nearby. Once there, I take some deep breaths and splash water on my face from the sink. There’s a touch on my shoulder, and I jump. It’s a lady in the uniform of the train company.

“Are you all right, love? Was that man harassing you? I noticed you on the platform.”

“He stressed me out a bit.” I explained what had happened on the train.

“Poor pet! I hate men like that. They think they can take up a seat and a half, and God help the poor soul sitting next to them. Obnoxious gits they are, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Of course, thank you.” Her sympathy is very welcome. “I’m probably being really paranoid, but would you mind checking that he’s not outside waiting for me? I’ve got really on edge.”

“Sure, love.” She puts her hand on my shoulder briefly, before going to the exit and disappearing. She’s gone for several minutes, and I’m wondering what’s going on, when she returns with a WPC.

“Blighter’s still out there. I asked him to stop loitering and move on, and the cheeky swine said ‘You can’t make me. I’m waiting for someone.’ I said, ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be waited for.’ He was very rude, so I went and fetched the Transport Police who were just heading our way on the concourse. This kind lady came in with me. She’ll escort you to wherever you need to go next, while her partner detains that awful man.”

“Thank you so much. You’re really kind.” I smile at her, and then at the WPC who’s hovering, looking concerned.

“You’re welcome, love. I suggest, if you can afford it, you take a taxi to your destination, rather than messing about with the Tube or the bus.”

“Great idea, thanks. I will.”

The WPC accompanies me to the taxi rank, and shields me from the man who’s being questioned by a handsome Sergeant in his early thirties. The Sergeant is facing our direction and is forcing the other man to face away from me and his colleague. Clever.

Once past them, the WPC becomes friendly and chatty, and we’ve built