11:15 Oxford Road

The train shutters on quicklee. A little shock runs through me as the lights suddenly disappear outside, replaced by total blackness. Bollocks, we must have already passed Edge Hill and have gone into the deep, dank cuttin that takes us that last bit into the city proper. Ah well, should be fine. I close me eyes for this last bit and sigh in relief at the approaching end of me journey. I look again through the window at the sandstone walls of the cutting, scarred from the tools and explosives that hacked through it all those years ago. It looks different in the dark, craggier and redder.

Shit. I’m shaken from me weary musing and exclaim aloud when the realisation dawns on me that me whole leg area is soakin’. Ah, no surely I haven’t fuckin’ pissed meself?

I glance around, definitely no one in sight, thank fuck. The wetness is now going down into the seat and is starting to soak inte me arse.

Careflee, I lift up the box and look underneath. The bottom of it is wet through, brown at the edges and in the centre, deep, dark, red. Bolod. Unmistakeably fucking blood. Lots of it. Seeping through the box and onto me legs.

I’m gripped by a terrible sickness, what am I supposed to do with this now? What the fuck have they got me carryin’?

An idea flashes in me head to dive into the toilet. But there’s no toilet on this typea train. I swing around again at what sounds like someone approaching. It’s nothing tho. Fuck fuck fuck.

I gentlee place the box down on the opposite seat, sit right back down and stare at it, losing myself a little in the train’s constant, reassurin’ rhythm.

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