At the last possible moment, he grabs his briefcase and gets off. He is going up the long escalator when he realises - his portfolio is still on the train.
It is full of expensive colour reproductions of his best work and will cost perhaps a thousand quid to replace. Lack of chocolate combines with a sick panic in his tummy. He tries to run up the stairs, but runs out of breath. He leans against his knees.
It was his hand, it hurt, he didn't want to use it. At the lost property counter, an elderly lady in line in front of him has lost a clock. By the time he gets to the counter, an old scarecrow of a white man asks him the time of the train. Debendrath guesses. The scarecrow smiles with satisfaction. "You'll be lucky to get that back," he says. "There's been a bit of a crash."