While Davy stood in the London bound train queue, he saw an elderly woman struggling with two heavy bags. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me. Can I help with those?"
She looked gave him the once over before answering. "Thank you, young man."
Davy entered the carriage, dumped his suitcase in the luggage section, and returned. He let her go first and carried the bags.
She found a window seat and sat. "You're a kind boy. Please, get yourself a cup of tea."
"No, bother love, my pleasure." He glanced at the fifty pence piece, grinned and strolled to the centre of the carriage, sat and placed his smaller case to one side. The other passengers read papers or stared out of the windows.
Too tired to think, he slumped in his seat and dozed. From a forward carriage, six yobs, wearing worn black leathers, staggered along the central aisle. "Wake up, you tossers."
Each drank cider from a can and smoked as their steel-capped boots thundered along the central aisle. He watched as two feigned a fall at the luggage rack while the others shook their cans, yelled and sprayed liquid into the air. He smiled to himself as his unwanted suitcase disappeared into the next carriage.
At Kings Cross, hewaited while the coach emptied before making his into hustle and bustle of a busy station scarcely breached the inside of the carriage. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. The platform remained crowded as young and old, scurried in the same direction. These people, he thought, have a destination. In his right hand, he gripped the suitcase and jumped off, following the fast-disappearing throng.
"Excuse me, sir."
Davy froze. He turned and stared at a thin man wearing the uniform of a ticket collector holding a brown, tweed overcoat.
"Yours, sir?"
Men and women hurried past, none paying any interest.
"Sorry mate," said Davy. "Not mine."
"Thanks. I'll take it to lost property. God knows in this weather how anyone can forget their overcoat." The man rolled his eyes and walked away, muttering.
Panic gripped Davy. The police seemed to be everywhere. He searched for somewhere to hide. Sweat ran down his back and his heart raced. It seemed the world could hear him breathing. His body shook as a female police officer started towards him. He closed his eyes and opened them He breathed deeply; she had stopped to help a young mother.
At the nearest exit, he stopped and placed his hands against a wall for support. A wave of nausea flooded his body; Bile flooded his throat, as he vomited. People sped by oblivious. Jesus Christ, he thought. He started walking again grasping the fact that up to yesterday the Navy controlled his life.
The fear of being arrested filled his mind. He needed somewhere to hide. Without a clue of his whereabouts, he wandered along back streets of aged and weather-beaten houses. A corner shop window displayed an assortment of postcards advertising rooms to let. Behind the counter stood a bald, overweight, but tall Asian man, filling the cigarette cupboard. He turned his dark eyes cautious and watchful.
Davy asked, "Are those rooms for rent?"
The man smiled. "What do you want? A room to play or somewhere half decent?"
Davy returned the smile. "I'm in town on business for a few weeks."
He nodded. "Try Mrs Evans. She's a good sort. Keeps a clean house and her rates are reasonable."
"Sounds good. Where do I find her?"
The man came from behind the counter to the shop entrance and pointed. "It's not far. Straight down until you reach Mortimer Street and she's number sixty-seven."
