A hand on her thigh and she reared out of sleep in half a second. In this deserted carriage there was a guy sitting next to her: completely bald, late twenties or early thirties. Despite the polished clothes, Laura clocked him immediately as a madhead; he had that skinny, staring look about him.
‘Get the hell off me, honey,’ she said in a drowsy tone. Instead the man began to massage her thigh, knuckles working up and down, eyes looking directly into hers with a bleak and uncomprehending triumph that made Laura’s teeth grind. ‘Come on, love. I just got out of prison. I got nowhere to go.’
The violation was bad enough: the sob story broke Laura’s patience. “Do I look like I give a shit?” she said, and punched the man across the jaw.