The elderly man on the train is having a panic attack. He’s gone all sweaty and is saying out loud what I think in my head sometimes: ‘Oh no, oh no, I can’t cope, I can’t do this, help, I think I’m dying, help.’
Tom is watching the man, eyes wide, body stiff.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the train window and realise I look frightened, too.
What’s happening? Have they stopped the train because we’re on it? Are the police after us?
I see a flash of yellow neon on the platform and my heart pounds in my forehead.
Boom, boom, boom.
‘Tom, let’s use the toilet.’ As I hustle Tom along the gangway, the neon people enter the carriage.
Oh God, oh God.
‘Hello there.’ The voice is booming. Authoritative.
I turn.
Across the carriage, the bald man says, ‘It’s too much. I can’t do it. I need to get off.’
Relief floods through me.
The neon people are transport police, here to help the man on the train. Someone must have pulled the emergency cord.
One of them says, ‘Okay, sir. We’ll help you out and check you over. Are you going anywhere important this evening?’
‘I’m seeing my daughter.’ The man gulps. ‘But I can’t do it. Could someone phone her?’
‘Let us help you off and we’ll sort it out.’
‘Mum,’ Tom whispers.
‘Shush, Tom. Just be quiet.’
I watch, heart racing, as the bald man is led off the train.
An announcer says, ‘We’re sorry for the delay to your journey. A passenger required medical attention. We will shortly be on our way.’
After a moment, the train doors whoosh closed and the carriage jolts. We move along the track again, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Towards London and the overnight train to Scotland.