The train stopped as it always did at one of the many stations on my long, slow route home from work. The doors opened. People got on. The doors closed, and the train crawled away. Someone sat next to me.

“You’re going home early today?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re on the early train?”

He must have seen me on the train before.

“Well…no…not particularly early.”

“Are you having marital problems?”

“Now, look.”

“Of course, you don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re right. Now, if you don’t mind.”

I picked up my newspaper, and hid behind it.

“You holiday in The Seychelles.”

“Nope.”

“You own a boat there, and you’ve bought a plot of land. You hope to retire at fifty and build your dream home.”

“Rubbish.”

“You’re fit but you could be fitter. You drink a little, smoke too much and eat well, but not well enough, sad to say. You go and enjoy yourself while you can.”

I put the newspaper down.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your wife is ten years younger than you. She wanted a family of three, and that’s what she’s got. She doesn’t work, doesn’t need to. Your house is too small, and you’re unhappy about having to move. You will be forced to buy a bigger house next year, and you will be forced to buy a bigger car. You will need a bigger job with a bigger salary to pay for all that stress, memory loss, infirmity, constant reassurance, heart trouble, banzai. Check the statistics.”

“I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but what is your problem? Who are you?”

“I know everything about everybody. Try me?”

“Children’s names?”

“Oliver, Tabatha and little Melissa who at this moment is giving the babysitter a hard time.”

“Mother?”

“Michelle Wislon, private school teacher.”

“Father?”

“Terence Wislon, accountant. I know you’re going home early because you’re taking advantage of the fact that your wife is out this evening.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She says she’s going to the hairdressers, but in fact she’ll be meeting someone at a motorway service station.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to know his name at the moment, but you’ll soon find it out for yourself.”

“Wait a minute.”

“But you’re not going straight home. You’re getting off one station earlier to meet an old flame. Now, pick up your newspaper like a good boy, and pretend all of this never happened.”

The train stopped, as it always did, at one of the many stations on my long, slow route home. The doors opened. The man got off. The train doors closed, and the train crawled away. I picked up my newspaper, shaking slightly.

But the train stopped again. I looked up. The doors opened, and this time they stayed open. Everyone was looking at me. They were looking because they were waiting for me to get off. I was supposed to get off, and I didn’t want to. It was just a matter of making the doors close. Then I could continue with my journey.