Mr Harry Wade
A swollen cherub. Blonde, pink cheeked, far too big for the train. His huge shoulders push the woman next to him to one side. Conventional dark blue suit, blue-grey trench coat. Battered briefcase has papers scrunched into side pockets. Shifts and fidgets as he sits. His stare is blank and he is chewing the inside of his cheek.
A rugby player. On the field he is swift, calculating, fierce. Almost everywhere else -- passive and put upon. Works as a tracker for repair calls made by British Telecom. Hopeless at it and about to be made redundant. His mother bought the flat in Pimlico for him.
What he is doing or thinking
Nothing -- until no 14 smudges dirt from his shoe down Harry's stale suit. Harry still thinks nothing as his body knee-jerks.
"You do that again, you'll get a fucking knife in the ribs." Harry stares the boy, temporarily unmanned. Why would someone swear at him? He was the one who was kicked!
Then the rugby field takes over. Harry is fed up being confused, alarmed and he finds he has seized the little weasel, the little spiv and ground him like pretzel against the dividing panel. He sees fear in the little spiv's eyes. He sees him scuttle away, suddenly small. Confused again, Harry feels he has done a wrong.
He thinks about his mother, his childhood. Nothing since then has really made sense. From somewhere deep inside him comes the thought: I want to be a farmer. He sees himself windblown on a green slope, looking for lambs.
Car 1 map