The train juddered as I read. Jolted forward. There was a squeal and screech and then we were rolling again. I looked up from the page, a pressure headache pressing into my temples like knuckles. I screwed up my eyes, feeling bone-tired suddenly. The adrenaline had worn off. Much as I tried to fight the feeling, I was growing increasingly irritated. Walt had brought my attention to something that I was happier not knowing. Does that sound dreadful? I suppose it does, especially when you know what you do about me and what I later became. I’ve never been sure which of my critics to believe, you see. Am I really too fond of myself by half? Arrogant, all-knowing; a sense that if I don’t save the world then nobody else will? Or am I the quite-clever girl from Newcastle who grafted her way into a posh university, seduced her professor, got knocked up and lucked her way into a sham marriage and a comfortable life? I’ll be honest with you, I’ve never been sure. But neither of those personalities were particularly feeling benevolent towards Walt as the train rattled its way towards Sheffield and the rain began to hit my reflection with the sound of hoofbeats on tin.

I was so caught up in feeling sorry for myself that it took longer than it should for me to notice the newcomer in the carriage. He was sitting three rows back from me, facing the same way. The windows all served as mirrors and from where he was he could see me a damn sight better than I could see him. Not that he was looking, of course. He was sitting there with his eyes closed, arms folded, head lolling back to his right. I got into character – the ditsy, creative type, forever forgetting things and spilling her tea. I made a show of reaching over for my bag, rummaging through the contents and changing my angle so I could look at him properly without him registering my eyeline. It sounds paranoid, I know, but I’ve no problem with that. Paranoia has saved my life less often than it’s made me look over-cautious, but I’d rather look daft than dead.