Five o’clock, a discreet scrabbling at the desk.
Belongings swept into the bag hurriedly, but without wishing to attract too much attention. He always leaves on the dot, always catches the same train, and when he gets off at Brockley, turns the corner, up Coulgate Street,
he sees him:
the man pushing the empty wheel chair.
He always passes him half-way home,
sees him for a moment,
wants to look back, to scrutinise.
It would be rude.