Читать книгу Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017 - C.J. Skuse, C. J. Skuse, C.J. Skuse - Страница 20

1. Woman sitting next to me on the train who has no concept of personal space (cue elbow digs), coughs without putting her hand over her mouth and has just eaten an egg-andmayonnaise sandwich. If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot that fucking sandwich right out of her hands

2. Plug hogs on trains. Woman next to me is also one of these

3. Pass ag ticket inspector who huffed when I showed him my seat reservation instead of my ticket, then lingered, making small talk with the nineteen-year-old blonde student nurse behind me

4. Man in Lycra shorts who barged past me to the last seat on the Tube

5. Everyone who lives or works in London

Had my usual Dad dream. Woke up with the shakes. I told Craig I was just cold. Am on the train now, travelling to London for tomorrow’s Up At the Crack interview. The OK! magazine I bought at the station is a veritable cavalcade of fake-titted reality stars and women too fat or too thin, according to what’s in fashion, so I’ve given up. I’m now enjoying watching the people who get on board whenever the train stops at a station. I like how they look around when they alight, sizing up the competition.

Hmm, who is the least threatening person to sit next to, they think.

Will it be the group of young men sitting around the table covered with empty beer bottles at 9.29 a.m.? No, definitely not.

How about the oily old gent with the carrier bag on his lap who looks like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo? Not, not him either.

How about the four ginger kids whose tablets are all on full volume? Or the two old women incessantly nattering – one who looks like Helen Mirren, the other like Helen Mirren’s less successful brunette sister who works in Aldi?

No. They all make a beeline for me, of course. Because I’m the woman alone. Sweet and unthreatening. Friendly faced. Quiet.

Craig had suggested a B&B for me a couple of streets away from the TV studios, one he’d stayed in when him and Stuart went up to watch QPR play Middlesbrough and his train home was cancelled. He said the fry-up was ‘beyond the beyond’.

A man rubbed up against me on the Tube out of Paddington. He must have been thirty-something. Bit of a quiff going on, highly polished shoes, iPhone clutched in one hand, latte in the other, cock against my arse. The train wasn’t that packed. He could have moved away but he chose not to. I don’t mean just brushed against me either – this isn’t me getting all hoity-toity-Calm-Down-Dear about it. He was dry-humping me. I was in a good mood so I handled it as calmly as I could. I turned to him, so we were cock to front on and I said veeeery quietly in a voice only he could hear

‘You carry on doing that, I will slit your fucking throat.’

And I gave him a flash of my knife. And it stopped. Instantly. And the next time the train reached a station, he got off.

I got off and pootled around Covent Garden for a bit to waste some time before I could check in. I got some more money out of Julia’s bank account and bought some warm cookies in a little French bakery just off the main square. Found a kitchen shop which had the most astonishing array of Sabatier knives in the window, the display created to look like a starburst of weapons. I stared at them for ages, imagining which handle would look best with my fingers around it. They were all better than my crappy little steak knife. Might go back there tomorrow. We need a new tin opener as well. Mrs Whittaker has nicked ours.

I couldn’t live in London but I like to inject myself with it every now and then. It’s quite nice when it’s not raining or being bombed.

*

Just logged back in to report that the B&B is a shithole and my mattress is covered in piss patches. I’m sleeping on my bath towel tonight.

In other news, I’m getting bored of the chat rooms. Took me ages to cum tonight, though I do generally find it hard to climax when I’m on a mattress that was around during the Renaissance.