Now all Fran wants to do is escape from the hell that is the London Underground, get home, use the toilet, change into her pyjamas and crawl into bed, but the carriage is packed and every time they stop at a station it takes at least three attempts to close the doors. As the train slows into Kilburn station, the woman with the enormous bag stops tormenting Fran and squeezes her way through the mass of bodies to the door. Simultaneously, the people either side of her shuffle to fill the space she left behind. Someone stands on Fran’s foot, making her wince. She looks up sharply but if the grey-haired man in a suit registers her annoyance, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he continues to gaze over the heads of the other passengers, wearing the weary, blank expression of a London commuter. Fran sucks in the warm, fusty carriage air, an objection forming on her lips. There’s no excuse for a lack of manners and—

The thought evaporates.

One second ago, the grey-haired man had his right hand wrapped around a pole for balance and his left hand hanging loosely at his side. Now, that same left hand is gently stroking the bottom of the woman in front of him. Fran’s heart gives a little jolt as she clocks the woman’s dark hair and slim figure, but it’s not Jenna – it never is. This woman is much younger, mid-twenties at a push. Her hair is held up in a pony tail and she’s dressed casually in leggings, trainers and a T-shirt.

The young woman shifts her weight, a little wiggle of irritation at the waist to show her dislike at being touched, but she doesn’t turn around. Did she assume a bag or a coat was brushing against her? It is a packed carriage after all. Or maybe she was too scared to glance over her shoulder and look into the eyes of a pervert. She’s got nowhere to run, no means of escape.

Fran glares at the man as he casually drops his hand back to his side. He hasn’t spoken to the woman the whole journey, nor she to him. They’re no couple.

Nothing happens for a few seconds, and then the man inches forward, his face expressionless as he closes the gap between him and his victim. His hand slides away from his side, his fingers inches from the cleft of her bottom. Fran’s spine straightens.

Don’t you dare, she thinks as the train slows, approaching the next station. Don’t you bloody dare.

The man dares.