The man next to her leans across for a better look. She can feel the hard rectangular e-reader press into her chest and lets out a polite cough. The woody scent of his cologne fills her nostrils and she shoots a quick look at the man. He has blond hair with a rugged profile and for a moment she wonders if they have met but quickly decides it’s just her imagination.

She tries to relax and for a moment, she thinks she might need her inhaler, but the man’s weight eases off and he sits back on his side of the seat. She steals another glance, but still isn’t sure if she knows him.

Whether they have met before or not, she is irritated by the infringement on her space. Exhaling through her nose, she tries not to think of dead homeless people as she returns to Cassandra Hotchkiss and her ‘regions’.

She scans the grey digital page for where she left off, however, through her side vision she can feel the man next to her looking her way.

Is he looking through the window, or at her?

She can’t tell.

Whatever he is doing she wishes he would stop. Or does she?

‘Terrible ’bout those men. Murdered and preserved in formaldehyde. Who would do such a thing?’

Megan doesn’t really approve of speaking to strangers, especially men who encroach on her space, but she doesn’t want to be impolite. ‘Yes, indeed. Such a shame for the families.’

Megan is a suburban working-class girl but prefers to affect an educated middle-class voice, especially when talking to strangers on public transport.

‘Shame to be murdered,’ says the man.

‘Quite.’ She hasn’t quite thought about it like that. Megan’s rationale is when you’re gone you’re gone, despite how death occurs. At the end of the day, the living have to pick up the pieces, not the dead.

‘I heard the police can’t find anything that connects them.’

‘It’s awful.’ Megan meets his gaze. His eyes are a dark blue.

He grins.

Megan blushes and shifts in her seat, unsure what to say before turning her attention back to Cassandra’s world.

‘I heard on the news the police think one person is responsible. I don’t believe that. How can one person be responsible for all that? I bet they was immigrants like those delivery men that burned to death in Streatham.’

Megan knows she shouldn’t agree, but the man is probably right. This kind of thing is just not English.

The bus is approaching Megan’s stop. She switches off her e-reader, drops it into her handbag and thinks she’ll pop into the Lumberyard Café for a skinny latte before going into the office.

‘Did you finish your book?’ asks the man, his eyes scanning his phone as he swipes his finger across the screen.

‘Not yet,’ she replies.

‘What you reading?’