I board my train and as it lumbers away from the station I head to the end section of a carriage and take a seat. It is not a busy train. Just me, another woman two seats along and a teenage boy opposite me. The woman is a short insubstantial specimen that is gazing nonchalantly out of the window into the blackness. Her hair is stylishly coifed in a way that makes me envious, when I compare it to my own ragged and poorly kept hairstyle. The boy looks slightly agitated with a sour look in his eyes, which are focussed intently towards an object on the floor of the carriage. He has a headphone in each ear and a tinny beat just audible above the rumble of the train- he taps his hand to it. I am on my way home, weary, mesmerized by the low hum and the clickity-clack of the train. Each preoccupied with out own affairs none of us interact, there is no acknowledgement of the other‘s presence.
    The train continues, snaking its way through the underbelly of the city on its way to the outskirts and termination. As I often do on the train home I begin to think; about my life, about other people’s lives, it keeps me occupied. After time the train slows and comes to a stand still at the next scheduled stop. The woman rises silently and heads for the exit, but as she reaches for her designer bag, the shiny leather strap slips delicately- fluidly- through her bony fingers. She doesn’t notice and just as she is leaving the train I open my mouth to call to her- but I don’t. I sit there agape, silence. The boy appears to have missed the incident all together and continues to tap his hand.
    The wheels screech and the carriages buffet and the train rolls on. Now it is just me, the boy and the woman’s bag. For some reason I am soon drawn towards the bag, so tentatively I reach over and retrieve it- to make sure it doesn‘t get left there and that someone recovers it of course. Glancing over at the boy he again appears not to have noticed anything abnormal, his eyes still fixed firmly on the floor although he seems to be less agitated. After a moment I begin to feel foolish, sitting idly clutching a forgotten bag. I’m not sure if I was seduced by what  I might find inside the bag or whether I felt compelled by a sort of higher morality to try and return the bag to its owner by myself. It doesn’t really matter, when all is said and done. I open the bag, making sure no-one is looking, and begin to snoop around in someone else’s life.
    Lipstick, mascara, tampons, cigarettes, a mirror… boring. I could be looking into my own bag. Even the purse sheds no light on what sort of a person she is. A couple of cards and some receipts. Ms Laura Sullivan… all I can glean is that she doesn’t appear to be married. No great revelations . Another nobody trying to blend into the millions. Conformity. A small notebook, held shut by an elastic band, that lingers at the bottom of the back- the only item I haven’t so far investigated. I retrieve it and leaf casually through it. I check again for suspicious eyes, I’m in the clear. The book appears to be a diary of some sort, with a multitude of short hand scribbles pencilled in a spidery scrawl.
    Tomorrow’s date… “mt c-ma  fdy 07632233659” It’s an enigma to me, apart from the number of course- I can decipher that. The train stops again, no-one gets off and no-one gets on. I will be getting off soon.
    ‘0-7-6-3-2-2-3-3-6-5-9,’ I whisper the number almost silently, a gateway to someone else’s life.
    I mull over whether or not to ring the number. Having resolved that I will, and that I have nothing to loose by doing so, I realise that we are actually underground and will not be able to make the call due to the lack of signal. I am slightly amused by this oversight and quietly laugh at myself when, as if fate had decided what I should do the train burst forth from the tunnel into and signal returns to my phone. I dial the number into my phone.
    It rings
    ‘Hi, who is this?’ a man answers the phone inquisitively, ‘Hello… anyone there… hello? Bye then,’ the phone goes dead.
    I feel guilty. Why did I do that? I feel as though I have stolen from someone. I glance around the carriage, shiftily. That is when I see him glowering at me. Dark green eyes, scowling in my direction like I am some sort of common criminal. I return the notebook surreptitiously- complete with rubber band. I clip the bag shut and break eye contact with the boy. However when I take a fleeting look in his direction I see that he still has a stare fixed upon me.
    ‘I saw you,’ he says eventually, removing a single headphone from his ear as he does so.
    ‘Saw what?’ I ask innocently.
    ‘You know what. You gonna hand that woman’s bag in or just prank call all her friends?’ he inquires sardonically.
    ‘I was just looking for someone who may be able to help me return the bag, is that a problem?’ I lie.
    He rolls his eyes at me, letting me know that he can see right through me. While I was rummaging through someone else’s bag, he was sitting there. Quietly judging me, silently judging me. A palpable feeling of guilt washes over me.
    Why didn’t I call the woman back? Why didn’t I just hand the bag in at the next opportunity? Why did I feel compelled root around inside it? I ponder these questions, I am ashamed of my actions. The train begins to slow for my stop, reluctantly grinding to a halt.
    I get up with the bag and start to leave. I stop
    ‘You take it,’ I say to the boy- surprising myself, ‘Do what you want with it, hand it in.’
    I leave the train.