Martin John has left the food court. He flew it hurrying. He more than flew it hurrying. He is in bolt. No one, except him, is quite sure why this half-dressed man has taken up such speed.

A situation, a situation is boiling/bubbling, a situation that must be burst. He must circle it. If he can circuit the station, the situation will be circled. Harm was done, harm was done, so the loop gnaws. Did he or did he not just grab her? Did he lift his gown? He did lift his gown. His hands were under it.

The nun put Martin John in a bad way. This is the refrain he’ll give us. A circuit. A circuit. Only a circuit will erase it. He is barefoot. He is green-gowned. But a circuit, an absolute circuit, which will need to be a square circuit because the station is a box.

He did not touch the nun. He knows he did not touch the nun. Harm was done. He is covered in tea. His arm is wet. His shoulder is wet because Harm was done.

Martin John has told us about the nun, but she never was the sole captive of his attention. He has lied to us about this. He has lied to us about much. Has he lied to us about Baldy Conscience?

Her, over there, sat next to her parents, she’s the reason he sat down here. The nun may be here too. That’s her choice. But Martin John’s choice was towards the young one with long brown hair. She lifts a burger up and down to her mouth. Her eyes do not initially notice him. He diddles about with the tea, but his hand has slipped/passed under the table over his groin. At first he applies pressure from the heel of his palm to his general bulge but as her mouth moves and munches, his subtle mounding movements become strong, flat-palmed, insistent. Up and down. Until he resists no more and macerates it. He’s waiting for her to register him. He’s patient, though. Her hair shades her face and she’s concentrating on her burger. He watches her lips and how she wipes them with the back of her hand mid-sentence. He likes it. She’s somewhere around fifteen or so. Maybe more. Maybe less. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t care. Her head moves between her food and the conversation to her left. Martin John’s hand below remains firmly with her and he likes what she’s doing for him. He’s lost (in)to it now. He doesn’t notice the man who has joined him at the table to his left because his right hand has found it’s way under his gown and his legs have parted and he’s leaning backwards and focused hard on his task.

People do what people do. They wonder. They elbow. They lean and whisper. They nod. They query. Do you think? Is he? Each other. Doing that? They stand up and look about for someone to report it to. They look for someone to report it to using their arms. They might even walk towards someone panicked and point. They may wave a hand and indicate the problem. Excuse me there’s a guy over here who . . . or they may just up and move away from what’s happening and allow that someone else will deal with it. Very occasionally there’s a decisive someone who sees it. They have seen it and they know exactly what it is they are seeing.

Not today though. Not today.

Or maybe. Wait now.

Hold on a second.

It’s the man at the next table who, like others, thought he saw what he saw, except, ever-assured, never feels the need to question what he sees, knows it’s what he saw and requires no further confirmation of what he saw. He does not ever move off and find another table when he’s uncomfortable. He stays here. He believes in conclusive ends. He likes them.

Martin John’s tea has been forgotten.

Except by the man at the next table.

Martin John is being watched.

Carefully watched.

Measured.

The man at the next table sits back. His hands go into his pockets.

They’ve seen each other at it before. In this station. They exchange knowing glances. One has watched the other up to it. The other has watched the one up to it. Two men up to it. They have never spoken. But one has followed the other. One has sometimes watched the other from a bench. The other has encouraged being observed. Sometimes afterwards the one, Martin John, will look at the other and the other will know he’s being watched. Score says the look. He likes being watched. Once Martin John went after the same woman after the other had managed it.

Years now.

They’ve been silent pairs.

Sometimes it’s singles. Sometimes it’s doubles.

That’s how he met Ralph. That’s how he came to live in Ralph’s house. Did each other a favour. Except Ralph went too far, very far. He went indoors with it. Martin John wouldn’t do what Ralph did but he didn’t mind looking at the photos Ralph took of it.

Did he grab her? Did he lift his gown? Did she or did she not just leap back from him? Might have been a young one. Not a woman exactly. Girl. Tall girl. Teen girl. He is confused. Wrong to touch a girl. Had he gone for a girl before? He had. Harm was done. He grabbed her. It was fast. Aggressive. He lunged. He is covered in tea along one arm and on his shoulder. She covered him in tea or someone near her covered him in tea. But if it was she, then not a girl. Girl doesn’t have tea. Woman has tea. Father has tea.

Past John Menzies in corner, cold air baptizing his flesh through gown. Wristband inscribed with his name and nothing to hide it. He covers it with the palm of his other hand, pressing hard.

All is wrong. Sixth busiest train station. Too many people. Not enough people. Away from the light. Backward. Lifters coming. Bumps into woman. Pile of bags. Platform 1. Not Platform 18. Big interruptions. Circuit will not start. Ever. Retreats to seat. Person stands. Removes. Word has travelled. They are clearing the way.

Start this before all is ended by whole lot here who want it stopped, the way he wants it stopped. No, not it. He doesn’t want the circuit stopped. He wants it whole. Just once. He wants the other stopped. Maybe. Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t.

He bangs into the wrong man to bang into on this day in this station. Banged-into-man shoves him off his legs. Smacked, down he goes onto his shoulder, which is tea-wet. Bald man with Millwall face leering over him now, if and he and fucking and ever and he boots Martin John a strong kick. Three more. Martin John covers his wristband. He doesn’t want anyone to read it. That is it. All he has. Others come. Heads are shaking.

Phones will happen. Police. Rain will fall. Overhead Annie. Numbers. Stations. All she has ever said gone. Wiped. Circuit is gone. Wiped. All is gone. All is gone Martin John.

All is gone except where he’s going. Barriers, but those sloppy ticket men take off for chats. Don’t look up from their newspapers. Keep the head down, Martin John, said mam. Head can pass. Minutes will end. Just minutes. Mere minute. Martin John holds his wristband and will on.