30 Days in June

corner, my feet pushed against the wall of the boat in the opposite corner, the sheets rolled into a tight ball by my belly. Staring up at the ceiling, my whole body was coated in perspiration. Questions, questions, questions. Why was my ticket only taking me to Bridgend? Was I even going to make it to Bridgend? Where was I expected to get off? Of course, I couldn’t sleep, but still, I wished that the train was the first out of Paddington and not the last. I just wanted to get – whatever it was – over and done with. Why had he chosen this train? To deliberately taunt me? Make me wait and suffer?
Outside, the guard on the platform theatrically blows his whistle. His moment in the limelight.  Any runners, I consider, desperate to get on the train before the doors close, have lost their race. It is probably for the best, I think. Who knows whether this drama will draw in anybody else? Innocents. I lower my shoulders as the train slowly and smoothly leaves the station, gaining pace, gathering momentum. I smooth down my trousers, fingertips running over my blue phone in my left pocket and my red phone – his phone – in my right pocket. I glance out of the window and – once again – stare in awe at the beautiful countryside visible in the rapidly fading sunlight as we move further and further out of the big city. I wonder when and how he will contact me.
I do know that I'll need to be ready.
Of course, a couple of other questions have been relentlessly running through my mind.
Is he even on this train? If so, where is he?
Opening one eye as the train slows to its first stop, Reading, I conclude that I am still alive.
Stretching my head to the side, I watch the few commuters on the platform, staring at the square button, urging it to turn green, hurrying the punters off the train so that they can embark. Waiting, waiting, waiting - just like me. Widening and then narrowing my eyes, I study their ages, their demeanour, determining whether one of them could possibly be him. Not him. Not him. I discount them, one by one. I conclude that either he is already on the train (maybe even just a few feet away) or he has not yet got on (maybe he never will get on). But wait. I'm not even thinking straight. I'm only looking at passengers boarding my carriage. There are eleven or so carriages. He could be anywhere on this train.
Passengers struggle to squeeze their luggage into the overhead spaces. The suitcases are too big, the spaces too small. Everybody is so prepared, with food, drink and reading material. All I have on my person is two phones (red and blue), my train ticket and my wallet. Dismissing the overnight bag, I still considered bringing the odd item. What about a weapon? Maybe a knife? After all, the person who booked my ticket is (almost definitely) intent on killing me. He only bought me a single ticket, didn't he? But I decided against all of it. I decided to just bring myself.
I check both my phones. Nothing. He hasn’t contacted me all day. And it has been the longest day of my life yet. I glance around. Maybe he is close? Maybe he is watching me?
The doors slide open and the ticket inspector joins our carriage. He is tall, long-limbed, young and smart in his uniform.
“All tickets from London Paddington,” he booms. “All tickets from London Paddington.”
Somebody behind me mutters and swears. Glancing around, a figure retreats in the direction of the toilet. I wonder whether the inspector has the time or the inclination to wait for him to come out, or to make a mental note of his seat number and come back for him later. The inspector seems jovial and friendly enough. His smile is just a little too wide, his eyes are just a little too far apart. I hold my ticket out ready, keep glancing up as he edges closer to me.
I make sure I smile as I hand him my ticket. He thanks me just a little too loudly. His fingers are long and slender and covered with fine, sparse hairs. Most significantly, though, they are shaking. He glances at the ticket, glances at me; nods his head.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, taking back the ticket. I hold his eye. The whites are disfigured with blots of red. I start counting. Reach number three.
“You are invited to join the gentleman in carriage F, seat 43, at precisely 22:50.”
He whispers the words, slowly and clearly. His instruction must have been to make sure there was no misunderstanding, ensure nobody else overheard.
“Thank you,” I say.
My smile is narrow and it is forced, but nevertheless, it is evident. The man nods and then straightens his back. I imagine a weight dropping from his shoulders with a heavy thud. I don’t want to keep him here any longer than he needs to be. I know that – whatever his involvement – it isn’t voluntary. I have a million and one questions. Who is this man sat in carriage F seat 43? What does he look like?
“Just one thing,” I say.
His body rotates slowly. Looks down at me. The cluster of horizontal lines on the sides of his eyes weren’t there a few moments ago.
“Could you please tell me what stop that will be?”
He is eager to tell me. He fires out the words. Relieved that I don't ask who the gentleman is, what threat he made. This is one question he can answer.
“Certainly, sir,” he says. “We will have just left Newport.”
At Newport, just a minute or so before 22:50, there is a scrum to get on the train.
The