The Passenger by Daniel Hurst (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

doomed descent into middle age, and now I feel as if anyone under the age of thirty-five possesses some elixir of youth that has somehow passed me by.

‘What, this?’ I say, gesturing at my laptop and trying to keep it casual. ‘It’s nothing. Just something I do to pass the time to Brighton.’

But the handsome stranger doesn’t take that for an answer. ‘Seriously, what are you working on there?’

I pause before telling him, not because I’m embarrassed about what I’m trying to achieve with my book but more because I know that mentioning it could lead to a long conversation. While I might like that based on his good looks, I don’t really have the time for it. I should be writing already because it won’t be long until I’m back at the flat and walking on eggshells around Louise again, but I know if I tell him I’m writing a book, then he will keep asking me about it or, worse, tell me he is writing his own.

It’s amazing how many people turn out to be budding authors when they find out somebody else is working on a book. The last thing I need here is a repeat of my commute last Tuesday. I told the woman opposite me that I was writing, and she then spent the whole journey telling me about how she really needed to put her life story into print because she was certain that her book of memoirs would become a bestseller. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t, but either way, it wouldn’t help me. I need to focus on getting my own bestseller, or I’ll be riding this train until eternity.

But I still haven’t answered his question.

Making a snap decision to avoid a lengthy conversation, I click the programme on my desktop that opens a game of Virtual Solitaire on my screen and turn it around to show him.

‘See, nothing exciting. Just a game.’

The man smiles, and while I’m not exactly sure he buys it, I’ve at least saved myself from talking about my book for the next hour.

Instead, I’m free to actually write the damn thing.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the delay to your 17:35 service to Brighton. This was due to a signal failure in Croydon, but that has been resolved now, so we will be on our way shortly. Estimated arrival time in Brighton this evening is now 18:53.’

Several more moans and groans spring up from the passengers around the carriage after the announcement from the driver. That’s because it is confirmation that we will all definitely be late getting home tonight. But we knew that anyway after such a long delay, so I’m not sure why they are moaning now.

But never mind about that. The train starts to pull away from the station, and we’re on our way. More importantly, my fingers are flying across my keyboard, and the words are pouring out of me.

This journey is going to absolutely fly by now.

5 STRANGER

I watch the woman sitting opposite me as she types furiously away on her laptop, and smirk to myself because it’s the most unusual way to play solitaire that I ever saw. But I know she isn’t really playing that game. I know exactly what she is doing. Of course I do. I know everything about her.

In a show of pathetic predictability, Amanda rushed to her usual seat on the train, and now she is working on her book, which is why her fingers are hitting her laptop keyboard as if her life depended on it. This is the closest I have ever been to her since I began following her, but I haven’t been surprised by anything I have seen so far since we boarded this train. I already know she is very single-minded when it comes to the pursuit of her goal and has no time for men right now, and she just proved that when she made no attempt to keep the conversation with me flowing a moment ago. But that’s okay. My feelings aren’t hurt too badly.

We’ll be chatting again soon enough.

As I keep my eyes on the focused woman before me, I can’t help but admire her discipline and forward planning. It takes a lot of things to give up a stable job for something less reliable.

Confidence. Ambition. Courage.

But most of all: money.

While I suspect Amanda possesses those first three things, it’s the fourth one that I am absolutely certain she does. Amanda definitely has money, around £20,000 I’m led to believe, and all of it locked away in a safe in the bedroom of her flat in Brighton. No wonder she is so willing to walk away from her job with that much cash to hand. I imagine a disciplined woman like her could make those funds last a long time while she pursues her ambitions in the writing world.

Too bad I’m going to take it all from her before she gets the chance.

I loosen my tie a little further, but I’m desperate to just take the damn thing off if I’m honest, along with this tight-fitting shirt and these ridiculous pin-striped suit trousers. I’m much more comfortable in jeans and an old T-shirt, and it won’t be long until I’m back in my normal attire, but for now, I have to keep up appearances. I want Amanda to think that I am just like her and everybody else on this train.

Just another lowly worker making his way home after the grind of a day in the office.

My suit might look sharp on me, but it’s nothing more than a cheap cut I picked up at a knock-down price in some lousy discount store in Brixton. Everything I’m wearing is second-hand, including the gold watch on my wrist, which I took from the guy I mugged in Vauxhall last week. The watch still remains from my haul that night, but I’ve spent most of the money from that man’s wallet, which means I’m in need of more