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his computer when his glorified swiping and punching skills were not required. His only other task was to carry out an hourly check of the platform area, its toilets and vending machines, filing an electronic report if re-stocking, cleaning or remedial work was required. Occasionally he would be asked for detailed timetable and destination information. That was the most challenging aspect of his duties although that, too, was mercifully rare as the majority of his passengers were regular commuters. All in all it was not a bad job. At worst he occasionally had to engage in conversation, as opposed to responding in time-honoured clichés, but it paid for his frequent excursions to the Morgan Bros and other such emporiums and, at best, it gave him plenty of time in splendid isolation to think…and dream.
     
                  This morning Marcus was thinking harder than usual, paying scant attention to his copy of yesterday’s Echo or the cyclical news bulletins on his monitor. He was glad it was Sunday…fewer commuters making the routine trip to or from the city though the down side was the weekend day-trippers who tended to be more exuberant and verbose. Most of the day’s passengers were, however, pleasingly preoccupied with their seemingly purposeful lives and few strayed from the well-worn rut of polite exchanges. Marcus was more deliberate than ever to avoid engaging them in anything other than the business of buying tickets.
                  “Thou shalt not steal,” he pondered. Why not? Who would it harm? Nobody was really that interested in the fate of an old picnic basket to care if it went missing. City Developments certainly didn’t care…and the guessed the museum curator could think of far more worthy displays to spend the sponsor’s generous donation on. It was just a picnic basket. It held no secrets of the past, no enlightening insight into 20th century culture. It was probably sealed and buried as no more than a student jape. Marcus pictured it against the far wall of his bedroom, opposite the four-poster and his solitary painting. If he moved the teak wardrobe slightly he could make a proper show of the basket and its contents…though nobody must ever find out. Perhaps he would tell Misty. No, even that was too dangerous. He, alone, would enjoy his private exhibit. He, alone, deserved to.
                  Soon Marcus had shed the guilt of his desire and turned what had been a moral dilemma into an exciting opportunity to take another step closer to the reality of the past. He concentrated instead on a new problem – that of how to remove the picnic basket from the display annex without a fuss. Slipping in, hiding in wait and then sneaking out the next morning at opening time was no longer an option…and he needed something to transport the basket from the museum to his home. Taking the bus would be no good. Marcus hardly noticed the day passing as he pondered long and hard, just as the commuters in the evening rush, albeit modest, hardly noticed the curious smirk developing on their ticket clerk’s face.
    His Sunday shift ended as every Sunday shift did, but with one deviation to the order of his established routine. At 7pm he locked the tiny booth, checking the barriers were switched to ‘unmanned’ mode. He would not begin the next shift for another eleven hours and Sasha was on nights next week. But, instead of making his exit through the automated turnstiles, Marcus returned to the platform and walked to the end of the covered area.
    Leaving its shelter he passed beyond the sign that read ‘Danger – no passengers permitted beyond this point’ and huddled within his coat beneath the black and ugly sky. The exposed area of platform continued for another few yards. The wind pushed him towards the steel railing and he peered down at the lights of suburbia. Glancing guiltily over his shoulder he was the platform remained deserted. The CCTV camera seemed to