there is a split straight through his thumbnail, looks like he has taken a sharp knife and slowly & carefully sliced a ruler straight line from base to tip. dark brown dried blood marks it out.
it is not worrying him. he sits with legs wide apart, a large sized paperback open on his lap and his arms following the direction of the pages so his elbows stick out beside him and into the burgundy haired woman on one side.
the book is old, second or third hand from an old musty bookshop or riverside table sale. if the bookmark tells the truth; he is a fast reader and has zipped through maybe a hundred pages on this journey.
i think he is an artist. there is a tiny speck of paint on one trouser leg and none of his clothes match.
i never get to see what book he is reading, he dives from the train at the last moment before the doors close at kings cross.
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