I don't watch him too intently. He is nervous, shakes his long hair, hunches over the wheel as though it were electrified and he was unable to free himself from it. I light a cigarette. He shakes his hair again and the pungent smell of dope drifts out of its depth. The mattress in the back is covered with Indian cotton and there is also a piece of carpet and some abused-looking paperbacks. I put an incense stick into a crack in the front dashboard and light it. The van bounces and I push the incense in a little further, trying not to break the fragile splintered stick. The smoke fills the cab. 'That's a bit much isn't it?' he says, throwing an irritated glance at me. I open the window as we drive past the railway station with its ugly overbridge. A friend of mine throws her bag from the top of the overbridge down to the platform; books fly out and fall like little human dummies, like the intentional acting out of a possible accident. It's hot. The sun plays with the grey curls of smoke, encourages the musk-scent, teases the smell of dope out of his hair. I touch his white-knuckled hand that will not leave the wheel. He glances at me, quickly, curiously, as though I had some inside knowledge, as though I knew what he was thinking. I look out of the window wondering what it is that he thinks I know.