‘Character,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That’s what the English always say to describe a shite-hole. Pardon the French, and all that shite.’

I didn’t reply. I figured that an awkward smile would probably do the job. He’d embarrassed me. Sworn when he shouldn’t have. I was a nice middle-class lady who didn’t have much experience of his coarse, Caledonian ways.

‘You never answered,’ he said, his eyes on mine. ‘Shall we split a cab to wherever you’re going?’

I was getting cross. He was hitting on me and he was doing it in a way that would have scared this poor woman half to death if she’d been real. I wanted rid of him.

‘No,’ I said, more firmly. ‘I’m off at the next stop, thanks all the same …’

He closed his eyes. Looked for a moment as if he were counting. Opened them again and his pupils were huge: black tadpoles devouring the lenses of his eyes.

‘You’re not,’ he said, giving a little shake of his head. ‘You’ve got a ticket to Carlisle. Then you’re heading to Gilsland.’

I didn’t let the fear show. Forced myself not to react at all. Didn’t glance around to see if there was anybody nearby who might be keeping a watchful eye on proceedings. I told myself, again, that he might just be a bloke – no more of a risk than the thousands of macho men who thought that it was their right and responsibility to bang as many women as they could before the grave. But I wasn’t fooling anybody. He knew who I was. Knew what I was, too. There was a twinkle in his brown eyes; a glint of something that said he had only been playing along.

‘I’m engaged,’ I said, trying to sound apologetic and jolly English about the whole thing. ‘Fiancé is picking me up at the station. I don’t think I know Carlisle. Sorry if you’ve got me confused with somebody else. Actually, look at the state of me. My eyes look like a tramp’s. I’m going to go and put on my war paint, if you’ll excuse me … bit of lipstick, take the tiredness out of my eyes …’