Bloom’s heartbeat began to pound in her ears, a thud-thud pulsing far too quickly. She stepped off the train and when she looked up the man had disappeared. She checked back towards the rear of the train, but he wasn’t there. Jameson was no more than five minutes away, maybe less if she walked quickly.

As she approached the front of the train, the driver climbed out and shut the door behind him. He was a young guy with pasty skin and far too much gel in his hair. He smiled at Bloom, then looked past her and, to her utter dismay, lifted his chin and gave another smile. She glanced at the train window’s reflection to see who was walking behind her. It was the elderly gentleman. He must have stepped back on to the train and waited for her to pass. That’s how he had disappeared. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, or the advantage, of knowing she suspected him, so she concentrated on keeping her head up and her shoulders square. She climbed the escalator, but was blocked by a small Asian lady and her son. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t hear her excuse mes.

Bloom placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘Sorry, can I get past?’

But by the time they’d looked at her, apologized and moved over, they were at the top anyway. She fought the urge to run. He might not be behind her; he could be stuck at the bottom of the escalator or behind some other slow family. She bolted past the Pasty Shop concession stand and around the back of Starbucks. The rear exit barriers were just ahead. She felt for her ticket in the left pocket of her coat. It wasn’t there. She tried the other pocket. Also empty. She opened her bag and reached inside for her purse as she approached the barrier. The ticket inspector was resting against the gate post on the opposite side. There were no other passengers at this exit. She riffled through the receipts in her purse but it wasn’t there. She knew it wouldn’t be. Had she left it on the seat? Dropped it on the floor? She felt panic rising hot and acidic in her throat.

‘You know you can get electronic tickets on your phone now,’ said the inspector.

She always put her ticket in the left-hand pocket of her coat. She tried the pocket once more and there it was, a satisfyingly firm strip of card nestled against the outer fabric.

‘Thanks,’ she said to the inspector.

Once through the barrier, she risked a look behind her. The elderly gentleman was walking towards the barriers with his ticket in hand.