He lays his head back against the red patterned seat of the train and stares out at the drizzle, and when he shuts his eyes a series of images pinwheel across his vision like a film reel.

It’s funny, he thinks, how something as small as the sight of rain from a grimy window can invoke such strong memories.

He used to get it a lot in the years after leaving university and starting work – something would catch one of his senses and hit him hard enough to transport him briefly to another place, another time. He’d hear a snatch of MGMT’s Time to Pretend and he’d be taken back to a summer festival, any summer festival, or he’d open a can of Grolsch and the smell would remind him of the house party in first year where he’d lost his virginity.

Small things that for some reason brought on strong memories. Little moments that could make you infinitely nostalgic.

Now, looking at the rain and cutting south away from London, he doesn’t feel nostalgic.

The rain makes him think of Rutmoor, it makes him think of the summer of 2002, and in his mind he sees drizzle picked out in cones of light from their minivan as they carve their way through cracked country roads; he hears the sound of whispering and twigs breaking outside a tent; he tastes the cloudy purified water they drank from streams that were little more than trickles in the mud. Mostly, though, he remembers Tim and Mr Stevens. Mr Stevens looking up from his map and the sun reflecting off his glasses, turning his eyes into hard rectangles of silver light.

Thursday, Part Two

He’s got a large bag that’s shoved up in the luggage area above the seats; it’s his walking bag, the big green one, and it’s got most of his stuff in it. On the seat next to him is a smaller bag, a brown one he takes to work with him. It’s full of paper. Cuttings, mostly, bits he’s torn out and built up over the last few months, but there’s something else in there too.

He glances around to check who else is in the carriage. It’s a Thursday, midday and it’s not very busy, but there’s a couple across the aisle from him and an old lady a few rows in front. She’s reading a book, though, and the couple are watching some film on an iPad.

He glances back into the bag, satisfied, and pulls out an old Polaroid. It’s yellowed around the edge from being handled over the years, but the picture is still clear.