Inside the train it was close, the kind of closeness that makes your fingernails dirty even when all you’re doing is sitting there looking out of the blurring windows. Watching the dirty backs of houses scudding along under the half-light clouds. Just sitting and looking and not even fidgeting.I was the only one in the compartment. My slip-ons were off. My feet were up. Penthouse was dead. I’d killed the Standard twice. I had three nails left. Doncaster was forty minutes off.I looked along the black mohair to my socks. I flexed a toe. The toenail made a sharp ridge in the wool. I’d have to cut them when I got in. I might be doing a lot of footwork over the weekend.I wondered if I’d have time to get some fags from the buffet at Doncaster before my connection left.If it was open at five to five on a Thursday afternoon in mid-October.I lit up anyway.It was funny that Frank never smoked. Most barmen do. In between doing things. Even one drag to make it seem as if they’re having a break.
