New fiction from NER 40.1.
man sat next to me on the tube. Straight away he started talking to his wife opposite us in a quick, large language, and waving his hands about to make his point. So enamored and assured was he of this point that between Canada Water and Canary Wharf, he hit me in the face. That was how this day began.
Wrigley was still dead. I went into work, my cheek screaming, and Anu pressed a wet wad of green paper towels to this tender part. “You should report him,” she said.
“Who?” I said.
“The tube guy.”
“For hand talking? It was an accident.”
“He was reckless, Loraine. It was a battery.”
“It’s probably not that simple.”
[Read more.]
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