Now, he was thirty, and there was no winking woman at the station, so he made his way straight to the Underground. It was very crowded. He got on the Piccadilly Line and sat down by a red-haired man in a brown bomber jacket.

After about a minute, the red-haired man moved his head in a peculiar way. Paul saw this out of the corner of his eye. The man's head was nodding small, fast nods. Paul didn't look straight at the man, but rather at his own feet. He was tired. Too tired to move, but in his periphery, he could see that the nods were getting bigger.

Paul glanced up, and saw the man's reflection in the window opposite. Against the reflection and the black tunnel wall Paul saw the man's head twisting about, and his limbs thrashing. He didn't know what to do. A woman on the seat opposite Paul was staring at him as though he was looking at the red-headed man judgmentally, and ought to be ashamed of himself. Paul felt his cheeks flare with embarrassment.

Somebody said, "He's having a fit."

The woman opposite said, "He's an epileptic!"

Paul turned to see that the man's eyeballs were rolled up under his lids. His skin was a ghastly sick-pink color. And then the epileptic redheaded man keeled over on to Paul's lap. Paul was now sitting there with this fully-grown man jerking and gnashing across him. God, he felt such an idiot.

Down the carriage, somebody had got up and was taking off his belt. What was this? An epileptic and an exhibitionist in one carriage. The guy was folding his belt on itself. He came down the carriage. The woman opposite got up.

The guy didn't answer. They got off the train together.

"You want to get a cup of coffee or something?" said Paul. "I'll get you something if you like."

"No," said the redheaded man, and walked off into the crowd without looking once at Paul.

As welcomes went, it wasn't warm.

It wasn't until later, in his room, that Paul found the little vomit stain on his trousers...

It wasn't until later, in his room, that Paul found the little vomit stain on his trousers...