Seven forty three AM John reaches his hand over to press the button on the top of the alarm clock, and swings his legs out of bed, stuffing his feet into an old pair of tartan slippers. He pulls on an old dressing gown, and drops his phone into the right hand pocket.

Kitchen. Kettle on. Tea bag. Mug. Pot. Bread. Toaster.

The kettle boils and he makes up the pot, before pouring himself a cupful, milk, two sugars. He ignores the photo on the mantle and settles himself into his usual chair, and switches the tv to the morning news. He takes out his phone and checks his texts. Work, work, a woman he met in the library. Boring. He fetches the toast from the toaster, and thickly spreads it with jam.

He eats quickly, showers, gets dressed, collects wallet, phone, keys. At eight seventeen AM he locks the door behind him.

He takes the tube to the surgery. He stands up, and he reads the Metro. Kidnapping. Crashed truck. Boring.

He had never got around to actually admitting to himself that there was only one name he was looking for in the news.

Fifth stop, up the steps, into the deliriously bright spring sun. The sky is watery, like a soaked paintbrush has been wiped across it, mingling the blues and yellows and whites into each other.

At his office, he makes a cup of tea, milk, two sugars, swaps his heavy knit jumper for his white lab coat and settles down. He ignores the newspaper cutting on the wall. First patient, woman, 24, possible pregnancy confirmed. Second patient, girl, 5, chickenpox, recovering. Third patient. New man, just moved to the city, 33. Check medical history, check heart rate, check blood rate. Confirmed in full health.

Before he opens the door however, he turns to John. "'Ere, you been on telly on summin? You look right familiar..."

"Of a sort." John smiles, and turns away before the man can inquire further.

Lunch break next, switch lab coat back to jumper, ignore the newspaper clipping on the wall. John leaves the surgery, and heads down the road to a small cafe he frequents while at work. Just before he enters, he happens to glance up the road. He pauses. On the corner of the street there is a man, standing by a lamp post.

Ordinary

He is wearing a well tailored suit.

Ordinary

He has thick, curly, dark hair.

Ordinary

And a long, black, felt trench coat with the collar turned up.

John blinks as a woman hurrys past, blocking the man from view. The woman leaves. The man is gone. John shakes his head, and steps inside. On the door handle, his left hand is shaking.

He briefly, subconsciously, toys with the idea of going after the man, but instead opts for coffee, black, no sugar.

Back at work, four patients. Flu, broken rib, tea break. Check phone. Rash on arm, arthritis. Change from lab coat to jumper, check phone. The woman on reception waves at he leaves. He nods politely, makes no other move to interact on any level. Back on the tube, his phone vibrates,

Drinks tonight, Queens Arms, 8pm? - Stamford

Sounds good, see you then - JW

Off the tube, John looks up at the iron grey sky. As he's walking up the road, he momentarily has the feeling of being watched. No one behind him. Continue. When he reaches the door, He turns the key in the lock. Inside, shoes off, ignore the photo on the mantle, pour the cold tea out of the pot. Shower. Same jeans, clean shirt. Check clock. Six thirty seven. Searching the fridge, be begins to make dinner for one.

While he eats, he checks his emails. Spam, boring, facebook, boring, comment on his blog, ignore. Browse the medical journals. Boring.

Quarter to eight. Close laptop, drop dishes in sink, fetch wallet, phone, keys, ignore the photo on the mantle, out the door.

Five minutes away from the pub, he feels his phone vibrate.

Dropping Amy at friends, will be ten mins late - S

He pushes open the door of the pub, and is greeted by the heady smell of stale tobacco, spilled beer and the beeswax used to rub down the tables. A few men nod to him as he walks to the bar. "Evening John, usual?"

"Please."

He slides onto a bar stool, next to a man in a button down shirt. However, the second he sits down, the man turns from him, pulls on a jacket and quickly strides to the door. He was gone before John had seen his face. As he reaches into his pocket for cash, he notices his left hand is shaking. "Um, George, who was that?" He gestures over his shoulder as money and alcohol change hands.

"Dunno. New bloke. Quiet type."

He leaves to serve some new customers, and leaves John to his pint. Sanford arrives presently. They talk about work, house prices. Order pints. Works, Amy's school. Pint. Stanford's wife. Johns lack of one. "You've been on your own too long now John. Why don't you look for another flat mate?"

John ignores him, and orders another pint.