6713

The light of the screen illuminates his face, shining a spotlight on his confusion. There’s hesitation as he slowly jabs at the buttons on the screen. I can almost hear cogs grinding in his head. ‘Single or return?’ ‘Is 9am classed as peak or off peak?’ ‘Which station am I changing at?’

     With a groan, another commuter decides to break off from the back of the queue, heading towards the platform without a ticket. But not me. I’m sticking this one out.

     And then I see it. 6713. Shit, I actually saw it. He slides his card back from out of the slot, filing it back into his wallet as he waits for the machine to print his tickets and receipt. Maybe it was 6712? But no, I’ve seen it now, and some four digit combinations simply can’t be unseen.

     I feel that uncomfortable sensation of sweat beginning to form from out of my pores. I feel nervous, as if seeing someone’s PIN number means I’m somehow obligated to mug them for their card. Surely tapping in your number for the world to see is just asking for punishment. It’s only a matter of time before the wrong type of person stands behind him in a queue, sees the number and takes action anyway…

     No. I’m certainly not the wrong type of person. Quite the opposite actually. Apart from the odd library book returned late, I’m no lawbreaker. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t even get caught. Wait until he’s got off the train, follow him until we’re free of passers-by and then… Then what? What am I going to do? Tongan Death Grip? A knockout punch? He’d probably be able to take me to the ground and hold me until the police came, despite him being easily 15 years my senior.

     It’s probably the safest option to pretend I never even saw 6713. Trying to forget, I select a peak return to London St. Pancras. I insert my card, guarding my PIN number with a carefully placed hand as I enter it into the keypad.