Stranger on a train

People like him are everywhere in this city. You'd expect no less. He smiles at you, but you don't see it, only his hands catch your eye as his fingers twitch and turn in complicated rhythm. You suspect something awful is about to happen to you, but put it down to paranoia. Always trust your instincts. You tell yourself that, but what can you do? Break into a run? Scream for help? Turn and face him. You're on a train in the middle of nowhere. None of these things will help you. He asks you what the next station is, and in the darkness you fluster and tell him you're not sure. He tells you that it's Teddington, and it's not for another 18 minutes. He looks at his watch and corrects himself. 19 minutes. He sits back and slides his fingers up and down the table that stands between you.
   "It's funny", he says, "how in the dark you can't tell whether the train is moving or not. Blinded by your own reflection, you can't be sure if the world's still there."
   "Unless it's light outside", you add, figuring that if you keep him talking then you're safe. "Oh yes, unless it's light outside", he continues, "but it's not."
   Any minute now, you expect the lights to go out and a violent laugh to grab you, but instead you are jolted to the present by the sound of the door opening between the carriage behind and your own. A boy with a large suitcase struggles in. He is wearing a bright yellow patterned t-shirt, shorts and sandals. He looks desperately foreign, and walks past you and into the toilet cubicle to your left.
   The man leans forward, almost to touch you with those reaching hands, and asks, "May I?"
   You're not quite sure what to say, but you notice there is a meaning behind those twisting fingers, they are gesturing towards the seat next to you. A newspaper is there, but you could have sworn it wasn't before. You bend to pick it up, when suddenly the toilet door slams wide and you see the suitcase open on the floor. There's no sign of the boy. The hand reaches forward and grasps the edge of the paper, the door slams shut. "Thank you", he says. You release your grip, and the paper is gone. There is no contact between you, but your fingers feel uncomfortably warm.
   "Is Teddington your stop?" you offer. "No, my dear," he replies, "I venture it's not yours either?"
   "No," you agree, "I'm going to the end of the line." You regret it immediately, but it's too late, the damage is done. "A friend is coming to meet me at the station." You thought it would be a good idea to let him know that you'd be missed, but now you just think you sounded desperate. He says nothing. Doesn't even look up from the paper.
   You stare at the window trying to see out, but only see the reflection of his hands reaching inside his coat. He withdraws a pen, and proceeds to reveal the nib and write. His writing is strangely violent. He seems to move the paper in opposite movements to the pen, as if he's using both hands to write the words. He looks up and catches your eye in the reflection. You hold his gaze for a while, pretending that you're looking through him and out into the world, then with a long blink you break it. When you next open your eyes, you are looking in the direction of the toilet. You notice that the door is open, and it looks empty. The boy must have left whilst you were looking the other way. Your mind flashes back to the open suitcase, but you can't remember for the life of you what was in it.