I killed a man on a train with a knife, except when I look at the knife after the event, it's a pen. Then I run away. Not a sprint down the carriages but a real 39 Steps in the making.  

I open the carriage door, jump out while the train is crossing a bridge, plunge into black water, rise to the top gasping for air and find myself transported from a stretch of water nobody should ever find themselves in - possibly the Thames - into a clear shallow stream somewhere in the Highlands of Scotland. 

I drag myself out, a heavy coat dragging behind me and sit on the bank next to a man who looks like Tom Waits but I know is supposed to be my old man. 

We exchange pleasantries. 

“Did you do it?” 

“I did not. Did you?” 

“I think I did.” 

“That’s a real shame,” he says.  

The next time I look, my father has turned into Tom Waits for real. He pulls a full size piano from his pocket, a stool from the other and plays my favourite song of his, New Coat Of Paint, on the riverbank.