Unexpected Turns: What's in a Name?
Groundhog started to breathe normally again. He hiked home with a rush of excitement, as if his whole body was full of electricity.
Albin, meanwhile, was feeling utterly miserable. He couldn't see anything, except a few tiny pinpricks of light through holes in the fabric of the bag. He couldn't hear anything, except the hum of a fridge motor and the distant buzz of a fly-killer. He was sweating. His breathing was an effort and the heat in the room was stifling. His body was bent and numb. One of his feet had died.
He tried to move but a large suitcase lay on top of him. He gradually worked his feet out until they hung, still wrapped in bag, over the side of the trolley. With a final heave, he toppled down, bringing the suitcase with him. It landed on his head.
"Yeouw!"
He pulled on the strings inside the bag and unzipped it. Air, stale with the smell of vinyl and dust and oil, but fresh enough, poured into his face. He climbed out of the bag and stood up. The blood began to reach parts of his body which he now wished he never had.
There were plenty of bags to open. Albin started on the first trolley. He felt so guilty his hands shook. He worked in terror of being caught. Every sound, every click, every squeal of brakes, made him feel like running to a corner and hiding.
By the time it was too dark to see, he had a good selection of things stuffed into his bag. A Pentax camera, some foreign currency, an assortment of expensive-looking souvenirs, a wallet which he didn't have time to check out, two silver candle-holders, some silk scarves, a paua-shell ornament, and a bankbook.
Now he was hungry. He found some biscuits in a cupboard by the window. They were delicious. He also found a small bag of sweets. Peppermints. He ate the lot. Now he was bored. There isn't a great deal to do in a deserted luggage room with the lights off.
All night he woke and slept, like a neon light flicking on and off. He couldn't get comfortable. The bags were useless as a mattress. The concrete floor was too hard. There was nowhere to sleep that didn't have something wrong with it. By the morning he was feeling as if his brain had floated to the ceiling.
Seven o'clock. Groundhog parked his bike beside the luggage door. The train was due in at seven-thirty. The window slid open again and the man looked at Groundhog
