Drawn Together"a fit! A seizure! There must be some kind of police report!"Drawn Together in Writing More Like This
"Sir, any such information would be confidential. But there has been no report of anyone having a 'fit' or 'seizure' this morning. Now, please step aside!"
"No, no. I'm sorry." Paul backed away, suddenly aware that the queue behind him was becoming a small, angry crowd. A policeman stood nearby, radio held to his lips. Someone coughed, "Nutter," as he staggered away from the kiosk and up towards the London streets.
He scanned the crowd surging into the station, hoping to see the shock of red hair and the deep brown of the jacket. A hand gripped his left forearm.
"Is he here? Did you find him?" A man, maybe fifty, stared at Paul with pleading, mud-colored eyes. The close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and hangdog features sparked Paul's memory: it was the man with the belt. The wo