Wild flowers? Is it wild flowers? Smells like wild flowers, but how can something actually smell of wild flowers? There are hundreds of wild flowers. They must all smell different. All the wild flowers together?
His mind churns.
Wild flowers. Wild flowers. I don't know any stinking, fucking wild flowers. Wild flowers. Wild flowers. The words tumble through his brain. His head twitches, a sudden snap, eyes closed for a second, and it's gone. Now all he can smell is the rotten cabbage of the underground tunnels. Rotten cabbage, sewage, decay. They should bottle those.
He glances over his shoulder at the woman three seats behind. Dark brown hair. Almost black. Shoulder length. She's not looking at him. It must be her; there's no one else in the carriage that would wear that kind of scent.
The train rumbles to a halt, emerging from the tunnels into the drizzle and cold dark night of Dalmarnock station.
He doesn't turn all the way round, but looks at the woman's reflection, catching her eye in the window. A fleeting glimpse then she looks away. He smiles at her too late, but can feel her shudder.
He looks along the length of the carriage. Two old women, grumbling, voices too loud; a man asleep, face pressed against the glass; four teenagers, talking about the weekend and passing around a bottle of cheap wine.
He sucks his teeth, runs his hand across the stubble on his chin and looks at his reflection in the window. Five days growth. Needs to shave. Not good for business, but he likes it. It's more him than the man he has to present to the world every day. His mind rambles on, a trail of confusion, his eyes attracted over his shoulder every few seconds to the woman behind.
Wild flowers. Wild flowers. If a wild flower grows in a garden, does that make it a garden flower? Maybe there's another name for it. Maybe it smells different. Would it smell different?
The doors fizz slowly shut. He looks up at the route map. Seven stops to go, and she'll have to get off at one of them. He wouldn't do anything on the train. Too much chance of an interruption.
A quiet back street, with gentle drizzle, broken street lights and a dog barking half a mile away. That was the place for your first murder.
Is that what he's already thinking? Murder? Does he want to murder Jo? Of course not, but it's almost happened before. Must be realistic. He wants her. Wants to feel her and hold her. Smell that floral scent close up, breathe it in, taste it as he licks her neck. Feel her gasp as he thrusts his hand between her legs.
Maybe she'll want it too, or maybe she'll fight. If she fights… Then you can never know what's going to happen.
He imagines the newspapers. He thinks about the newspapers all the time. Sometimes his name is in the papers, but not often. Never for something like this.
If she wants him, if she comes willingly, will the newspapers care, will anyone care? And if he rapes her, will anyone care? But if he leaves her body on the ground, raped and dead, maybe then they'll notice. Maybe then they'll start talking about him.
He looks out of the window, at the lights and wet streets of Rutherglen, as the train crawls towards the next stop. Shouldn't think like that. It's wrong. It's stupid. It's not very helpful. It doesn't help. Are you listening, Dad? It doesn't…fucking…help.
His eyes slither round again and he looks straight at her. She avoids his gaze. He loves her hair. The same hair that Jo had, just touching her neck. The hair that fell over his stomach when she was sucking him off. Twitches at the thought of her, tries to push it from his mind. Bloody Jo. But the thought is there now. Her tongue sliding the length of his penis, and not because he was forcing her. She'd wanted it. All the time. Always wanted him, his cock ramming into her, her hands all over him, his tongue all over her. All the time.
Then she'd started to fuck other people. And then she'd left.
The woman bites her nails, looking round at the first damp run of the platform as the train shudders slowly into Rutherglen station. Pretty face, slightly overweight, small nose, glorious red lips, getting very frightened by the strange guy two seats away who is staring at her.
The train comes to a halt beneath the M74. Again he glances over his shoulder at the woman as the doors open. Why should he hide it now? She knows what's coming to her.
There's giggling from up the carriage as the four teenagers drunkenly make their way off the train, pushing, laughing, arguing, shouting fuck into the night as loudly as possible.
He looks back to the woman. She's staring at him now, and this time looks away more slowly. He swallows. Maybe she does want him. Maybe she likes the attention.
He turns away and looks up the carriage. He smiles. He lowers his head. He can smell her, her scent filling the air. The two old women are looking at him, as if they can read the intent on his face.
'What?' he says, a bit disconcerted. 'What?' he repeats, and their eyes avert.
The sleeping man's head bobs up from a silent slumber, then flops back onto his chest. The doors start their slow fizz. There's a stamping on the floor behind. He is still perturbed by the attention of the old women, the women who somehow looked into him and could read every thought that was running through his brain, every bloody nightmare splitting his head apart.
He is slow to turn, and then suddenly realises what he's missing. Turns quickly now, but she's already out the door, the doors already closed. He runs to them, stands at the glass. She waits on the platform, crying out for the train to move off; breathless. He starts pulling at the rubber between the doors. Makes some headway. An inch. She doesn't wait. Two inches. She sees the teenagers disappear through the door into the waiting room, one other passenger making the slow walk along the platform, and runs after them. The train starts to move off. He's tugging desperately at the door but he's not getting any further. He's still there pulling at the rubber as the train pulls past the woman hurrying to the exit, and their eyes meet one last time. He drinks in the hair, hoping he will remember her, but all these women look the same. She shudders, then feels like crying with relief as he steps back from the doors and is gone as the train accelerates away into the rain, the still of the night.
He returns to his seat. Looks at the old women, who stare back this time, and he feels intimidated. His eyes drop.
'Bloody Jo,' he mutters.
The woman climbs the stairs to the bridge over the railway tracks. A lucky escape. She feels the relief, and already she is beginning to put it out of her mind. Men. They're all the same; and she starts again to construct her defences for when she has to explain to her husband where she's been all evening.