‘So hot you could piss steam!’ If O’Donnell said that again he was going to scream. Or smash his bloody face in. They were standing at the edge of the track, looking down towards the town. Steel lines converged into an unsteady haze. Fireweed smouldered on either side of the track, making a purple smudge above wavering iron. A wood pigeon cooed softly and insistently in the ash trees behind the station. The air simmered. O’Donnell took out a blue handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Christ it’s hot, so hot...’ He tailed off, seeing the frown go across Peterson’s face. He stared for a moment at his angular features with their dark shadow of stubble already forming. The eyes were a pale grey, too pale, as if they’d acidified in that thin face. Ah, what the hell. He was a cussed bastard. Truth was they were both getting bad tempered in the heat, and no bloody train. It was already twenty minutes late. Peterson spat onto the platform, hardly able to muster a globule of moisture from his parched mouth.
