Flash Fiction:I SPOTTED something on the floor of the railway carriage. I scooped it up – a wallet and quite heavy. Inside was a wad of €500 notes, adding up to a few thousand at a glance. I stashed it self-consciously into my holdall.

When I got home, I called the number on a business card inside the wallet. We arranged to meet that afternoon.

From the moment he shook my hand and sat down, the wallet’s owner spoke to me in English, which was far better than my Spanish. While we talked, he looked directly into my eyes without blinking. He seemed fascinated with America and American politics. “What do you think about the Vietnam War?” he asked in a manner that suggested it had only recently taken place.

“I’m a doctor,” I said, “and totally opposed to the wanton destruction of human life.”

“No, please, signor,” he said, “talk to me as a man, with feelings and emotions. I’m not a TV camera.”

Suddenly this guy irritated me. “Look,” I said. “You’ve got your money. I’ve got to go now.”

Without warning, his brashness left him. He studied the other customers in the cafe carefully. When the waitress drew near, he stopped talking. When he did speak, he spoke in maddened whispers. He went into a confused and confusing diatribe against the Spanish government. To convince me to agree with his convictions seemed everything for him. By now, realising that I must employ more tact, I told him I was on call, due back at the hospital, gave him a fictitious number and promised we’d hook up again in a couple of days. Placated, he rose, as did I, took my extended hand and shook it vigorously.

Without even having to look at the note he was pressing into my palm, I knew what he was doing. I’d refused his monetary offer as a reward three times during our one-sided conversation. He was already exiting the cafe and ignoring my protestations with a smile and a wave by the time I squeezed out from behind the corner table we’d been sharing.

I paid the bill, and gave the waitress a tip.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Happy new year.”

I smiled a forced smile and stepped into the street. Nearby, the local bum sat cross-legged at his patch outside the railway station. With his back pressed against a street-lamp, a pensive expression on his dignified face, and flanked by his two dogs, a hairy mongrel and a well-groomed Lassie collie, he possessed a ragged nobility.

The fallen king looked at the money I placed in his dog bowl before acknowledging me. He bowed his head slightly in my direction, thanked me and wished me a good year through a controlled expression.

He then picked up the notes and coins without counting them – €500 less the price of a cappuccino, an American coffee and the waitress’s tip – and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

Send your Flash Fiction stories, of no more than 500 words, to flashfiction@irishtimes.com