Three people

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The Spreader

I was sitting in the last seat on the train. Not the last available seat but the very last seat. Coach 6, seat 14, any further back and I'd be on the track. God knows what happened to seats 1-13, maybe they were on the roof. I was so far back those at the front would arrive in Lisbon a full minute before I would. The man in the window seat was a spreader, holdalls and carrier bags sprawled around his huge legs, which were spread-eagled across into my leg space. Obviously if I were not quite so British, I would have said something, but as I am, I just squeezed into the available space and grinned and bore it. In fact, I did better than that, I was soon snoozing gently as the train raced through the Portuguese sunset. I think the rustle of the newspaper woke me up. I looked to see my travelling companion was perusing the lonely hearts column in the paper. Unlike any I’d ever scene before these ads had pictures accompanying them. Pictures that revealed rather more of the lonely hearts than I felt was appropriate for a train journey. The man next to me was growling his approval. And all I could think was, I'm was glad both hands were clearly visible.

The Cabin Crew 

Her long sleeves were not enough to hide the bandages that were doing their best to hide the scars, that she herself had inflicted. She shouldn't be here, she knew it, her colleagues knew it and her face showed it. She’d only been out of hospital three days, but the company had told her they wouldn’t pay sick leave for self-inflicted wounds, but the wounds were just the symptoms, the cause was a much larger illness, a deeper malaise.
The last thing she needed on her first day back was a two-hour delay and one of those bolshie customers who thought they knew their rights. But that is exactly what she got. Her eyes glistened with tears as she tried to keep two people calm. He was right, a two-hour delay should mean some refreshments, but her company would never authorise such a move. She smiled a smile so fake it could have been sold on a Sunday market. She wanted it to be real, she felt his pain, but hers was worse. Her mouth said sorry but her brain thought about the blade she’d play with in the dead of that night.

The Beggar

“No legs,” he said in Portuguese, “I've got no legs.” I don't know why he was telling me this, I mean I could see it quite clearly for myself. As if to emphasis the point he lifted up the blanket and let one of his stumps dance around for me.
“Money,” he said, holding out his hand. His eyes pleading with me, shinning out of a puffy, red, alcoholic’s face.

“Money,” he repeated but I’d heard him the first time, I just wasn't in the habit of giving money to beggars, legless or not.
He put out his hand offering me a chance to shake it. I turned my back on him, not wishing to encourage him further but it didn’t work. He manoeuvred his wheelchair around me so his big green eyes were staring into mine again. Again he offered his hand, not for money but wanting a handshake. Thinking it might get rid of him, I took his. His skin was rough and his grasp strong. He yanked me in towards him so I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and see the burst blood vessels of his face.
He said something in Portuguese that I was quite glad I didn't understand. I tried to pull my hand away but he kept hold of it, pulling me closer to him. I could see into his eyes now, into his soul. It wasn’t pretty. He let my hand go and a scarpered away leaving my coffee half drunk and my heart pounding.