I See You Read Free Page A

to the ground. Kelly was aware of someone picking it up and hoped they weren’t going to run off with it. She was already in the dog house with Stores for losing her baton in a scrap the other week – she could do without another telling off.
    ‘Warrants have got a Fail to Appear with your name on it,mate,’ Kelly said, her words punctuated with breaths that were hard to take within the confines of a stab vest. She reached for her belt and unclipped her cuffs, snapping them deftly on to Carl’s wrists and checking for tightness. ‘You’re nicked.’

Isee you. But you don’t see me. You’re engrossed in your book; a paperback cover with a girl in a red dress. I can’t see the title but it doesn’t matter; they’re all the same. If it isn’t boy meets girl, it’s boy stalks girl. Boy kills girl.
    The irony isn’t lost on me.
    At the next stop I use the incoming swell of commuters as an excuse to move closer to you. You hang from the strap in the centre of the carriage, reading one-handed; turning the page with a well-practised thumb. We’re so close, now, that our coats are touching, and I can smell the vanilla base of your perfume; a scent that will have long since faded by the time you leave work. Some women disappear into the loos at lunchtime; touch up their make-up, add a spritz of fragrance. Not you. When I see you after work the dark grey make-up on your lids will have drifted into tired shadows beneath your eyes; the tint on your lips transferred to countless cups of coffee.
    You’re pretty, though, even at the end of a long day. That counts for a lot. Not that it’s always about beauty; sometimes it’s exotic looks, or large breasts, or long legs. Sometimes it’s class and elegance – all tailored navy trousers and tan heels – and sometimes it’s brassy and cheap. Slutty, even. Variety is important. Even the finest steak becomes dull when you eat it all the time.
    Your handbag is larger than average. You usually carry it over your shoulder, but when the train is busy – as it is at this stage of your commute – you put it on the floor, between yourlegs. It has slouched open, allowing me to see inside. A purse – soft brown calf leather with a gilt clasp. A hairbrush, blonde hairs trailing from its bristles. A reusable shopping bag, neatly rolled into a ball. A pair of leather gloves. Two or three brown envelopes, torn open then pushed into the bag along with their contents. Post snatched from the doormat after breakfast, opened on the platform while you wait for your first train. I crane my neck to read what is printed on the uppermost envelope.
    So now I know your name.
    Not that it matters: you and I aren’t going to have the sort of relationship that needs names.
    I take out my phone and swipe up to reveal the camera. I turn towards you; use my thumb and forefinger to zoom in until only your face is in the frame. If anyone noticed me now, they’d just think I was uploading a record of my commute to Instagram, or Twitter. Hashtag selfie.
    A silent click, and you’re mine.
    As the train takes a bend you let go of the ceiling strap and lean down for your handbag, still intent on your book. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you’d caught me looking, and were moving your belongings out of view, but it isn’t that. The bend in the track simply means it’s nearly your stop.
    You’re enjoying this book. Usually you’ll stop reading much earlier than this; when you reach the end of a chapter, and you slip between the pages the postcard you use as a bookmark. Today you’re still reading even as the train pulls into the station. Even as you shoulder your way through to the door, saying ‘Excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ a dozen times. You’re still reading even as you walk towards the exit, your eyes flicking upwards to make sure you don’t bump into anyone.
    You’re still reading.
    And I’m still watching.

3
    CrystalPalace is where my train terminates. Had it not been, I might