The Mystery of the Mottled Mattress

I was standing on the platform, waiting for the 08.38 service to Huskbrough. It was a cold, grey day, and the sun beat down remorselessly. Further along the platform a fat man had stumbled and sprained his ankle. A vet had been called, and the man was being put down. The situation made me feel uncomfortable.

The train pulled into the station, the wheels screeching in mock ecstasy. I boarded the train, cursing as I realised my lunch (porridge) was leaking out of my briefcase.

I sat next to an elderly gentleman. I wasn't sure if he was dead or not, so I jabbed him in the arm with a letter opener. He awoke with a jolt.

'Sorry.' I chuckled. 'I thought you might be dead.'

'Where are you going?' I asked him.

'Industrial Turkshead.' He replied, staring out of the window into the blank darkness of the tunnel.

'What an interesting name for a place!' I cried, delighted by my discovery.

'It's French. It means "City of a thousand hidden delights and terrors".

'Well, that's certainly true! What a terrific name for the place'. I was making headway already.

'Yes, it's German.' He smiled to himself, as though laughing at some secret joke. He winked conspiritorially at me. 'You may call me Johann.'

I thrust out my hand. 'Pleased to meet you Johann. My name is mud.'

To be continued...?