The train is fifteen minutes late. I drag myself on board, frozen to the bone. The carriage is mostly empty and I treat myself to an empty pair of double seats. Heaters are blasting hot air against my ankles, as I pocket my gloves and unravel myself from my hat and scarf. Behavioural Sink Delirium by Madmadmad is rattling in my earbuds. Beyond the glass, Lewisham disappears into the dark, as I continue my journey home.

South London’s lights swirl by, lulling me into a semi torpor. It has been a very long day. Blackheath appears. Doors open. Passengers disembark and board. Doors close. The train slides into a tunnel and I become aware that someone has sat down opposite me. A figure, like a mound of black bin bags, leans on my peripheral vision. I do not want to look, but the window offers no distraction, only the darkness of the tunnel. I see from the reflection that the figure is looking directly at me. It waves to attract my attention.

Reluctantly, I turn. The Spirit of Nothing points at its own head, waggling a finger. Sharply, I raise my eyebrows and my chin. The Spirit of Nothing says something, but the music is too loud. I remove an earbud. “I said,” says the Spirit of Nothing, “Don’t you think that headphones have ruined the art of conversation?” I sigh, pocket my earbuds and bid the Spirit of Nothing to say his piece.

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“I take it you don’t like January then?” says the Spirit. I choose my words carefully, knowing full well how sacred this time of year is to the Spirit of Nothing. “I don’t think anyone has any strong opinions about January, do they?” I say. “Isn’t that the whole problem?”

The Spirit considers this. I feel a bit mean. The Spirit of Nothing is physically unable to have strong opinions on anything. “January is no one’s favourite month,” says the Spirit, and then changes the subject. “Read any good books lately?”

“I finally got around to Rian Hughes’ XX: A Novel, Graphic,“ I say. “The hardback has been looking beautiful on the shelf, since it I bought it when it first came out. It was too bulky for the commute, so it got passed over for more portable things.”

“What changed?” asks the Spirit.

“I read it at bedtime instead,” I explain. “Not really something to help you drift off to sleep, to be honest. The opposite, in fact. It blew my tiny mind. It was like a block of concentrated inspiration. The pages crackled with so many ideas, I would end up staying awake half the night. I loved it.”

“Doesn’t sound like my sort of thing,” says the Spirit of Nothing.

“Maybe not,” I sigh. “There was an album of music to go with it, though. Citizen Void by Celestial Mechanic. I got it off Bandcamp. You might like that.”

“I don’t really like new music,” says the Spirit of Nothing. “You just can’t beat the old tunes, can you?”

“Which ones?” I ask.

“You know,” says the Spirit. “The old tunes. From the old days.”

“When?” I say. “What specific tunes do you mean?” The Spirit of Nothing snorts and shifts in his seat. As if I even need to ask. A silence lasts until Woolwich Arsenal. Eventually, I say; “So, what’s new with you?”

“New?” says the Spirit, the word possessing a bitter taste. “Oh, you know. Same old. Same old. This and that. Up and down. Round and round. Am I right? I know what I meant to ask you; How are your wife and kids?”

“They’re very well,” I say.

“Seen any good films lately?” asks the Spirit. I look up at the destination screen. Four more stops. I can do this. “Me and the fam watched, All of Us Strangers on Disney+ the other night. We all really enjoyed it. It’s a sort of romantic, psychological ghost story. It’s a British movie, with a British writer/director. It has a British and Irish cast, but I there was a weirdly ethereal, Japanese vibe to the whole thing. Turns out, it was based a Japanese novel...”

“I’m not really into ghost stories,” said the Spirit of Nothing.

I clench my toes. I stare through the glass. The train passes through Plumstead.

“Where did you get the Superman ring?” asks the Spirit of Nothing. I glance at the chunky, silver shield on my left index finger, glinting in the window’s reflection. “Must be about thirty years ago,” I say. “I got it from a market in Ibiza.”

“Why Superman?”

“I like Superman.”

“Why?”

“He’s the grandaddy. The archetype. The epitome of the trope,” I say.

The Spirit of Nothing rustles doubtfully. This rankles me. “What do you like then?” I ask. “You were the one who wanted a conversation. But you don’t seem to have anything to say.” The Spirit crinkles with indignation. “I like lots of things,” it says. “I have a lot to say. But this is my stop now. It was nice to chat with you. Goodbye.” The Spirit of Nothing rises and alights the train at Belvedere.

I begin to gather my things as the train heads towards home. Hat, gloves and scarf in place, I stand and head towards the door. The train slows. I catch a glimpse of the tattered fash-flags, cable-tied to the lamp posts along the A2016.

The air is sharp as I step onto the platform. The station is empty. As I head out onto the street, I see a fox padding along the pavement a few meters ahead. The fox stops, spots me and nods in recognition, then disappears into the undergrowth, next to the train tracks. I think it might have been Woody. Maybe Abbie.

I head under the bridge and pick up the pace, trying to shake off the afterglow of irritation left by the Spirit of Nothing. I never learn my lesson with him. Getting through winter is a struggle as it is. You should never even give him the time of day.

I head for home.