It's a quiet afternoon at the station when two people, a man and a woman, race through the gates and up to the ticket window. The man slams a ten pound note down as they grab two singles to zone 1 and run for the lift without waiting for their change. The ticket clerk shrugs and puts the change on one side. They'll be back for it once they realise they've forgotten it.
As the lift doors shut, brakes squeal from the road outside. A crowd of policemen sprint through the station gates and down the emergency stairs two at a time. After a couple of minutes, the lift ascends containing the unfortunate couple and a number of accompanying police officers who frogmarch them back out of the station and into a the waiting van. A sergeant walks over to the ticket window. "Sorry about that, Sir - between you and me, I think they could have chosen a better escape route than the Underground. Maybe not the brightest of lightbulbs, those two."
A man sits peacefully on a bench with his eyes shut. He has somewhere to go but is in no real hurry to get there, so he sits on the empty platform and listens. He hears the distant hum of fans circulating air and mysterious mechanical sounds from deep within the tunnels. He hears footsteps echo as two other passengers join him on the platform and a vague chattering as they walk past him, one in soft soled trainers, one in clicking heels. A gentle gust of warm air on the left side of his face is the first sign of a train approaching. He strains to hear the first hollow rumblings from the tunnel as the rails start to sing and oscillate.
The rumbling turns into thundering and the gentle breeze turns into a gale as the train breaks out of the tunnel into the platform, wheels bang-banging across joins in the rails as it decelerates. A couple of seconds of silence follow before the sweep of the opening doors tells him it's time to open his eyes and get on the train.
Daisy and Steve walked into the station and stopped to look at the big map on the wall. "I told you he wasn't there", said Daisy. "You've got the wrong place, I swear."
"Daze, I'm sure that's the place. Highgate's a big famous cemetery, right?Remember when that mate of Joe's was in Europe? He said he went there."
"Europe is a big place. Don't forget he also said he spent most of the time either pissed out of his head or floating about a foot off the ground. The guy thought he went to the famous Oktoberfest in Amsterdam, ferchrissakes."
"Yeah, but he swore he saw it. He said everyone went there and it was a really, y'know, spiritual experience."
A couple of minutes later, as they disappeared towards the platforms bickering loudly, the ticket office clerk turned to his colleague. "You won't believe this. I just had a couple of Aussies ask me where in Highgate Jim Morrison was buried."
On the station roof a pair of eyes open slowly. The owner of the eyes peers around with no obvious recognition of where he is. How strange, he thinks. Just a few seconds ago I was out in the forest looking for something to eat, and now I'm.. where?
It's all very odd. I can't move my arms. They're stuck out in front of me, holding my bow. It's a good hunting bow, that one. Hang on, I can't move anything at all. Just my eyes. Something's not quite right here. He looks around as far as his eyes will let him. This isn't the forest.
There are.. strange things everywhere, and many shiny metal rails down below him, half of which descend suddenly into darkness. He blinks to try and get the fine black dust out of his eyes. What circle of hell has he landed in? Huddled figures pass by underneath, paying him no heed. He tries to call out, but they don't hear. A gust of wind swirls the dust around his feet, and the Archer drifts off back to sleep.
There is no small amount of drama in the late afternoon as a Situation develops at the ticket barriers. Arms are waved, threats are made, positions are stated and restated, insults are hurled, but the protector of the ticket barrier stands his ground, parrying verbal blows, shrugging off the angry looks that would wound him, standing like a rock until his would-be assailants are reduced to begging and pleading for mercy and kindness.
Eventually, the crowd of teenagers finally accept that one child rate Travelcard isn't enough for all twelve of them and beat a surly retreat to the ticket machine as the warden of the gates howls in triumph and beats his chest - well, rolls his eyes and wonders why they even bother trying that one.
A train meanders along the single line to terminate at the station's one platform. After a few seconds a woman who had previously been stuck behind an Evening Standard looks around and realises there's nobody else there. Oh, she thinks, are we there already?
She unplugs her headphones, stuffs her paper into her bag and walks out onto the platform, only to stop short looking confused. It takes her a few seconds to spot the platform sign - MILL HILL EAST - and work out that ah, that train she had to run for at Camden wasn't going to High Barnet after all.
At 0802 a middle-aged man running for the train slips on the stairs to the platform and falls. As he tumbles down he grabs instinctively at anything solid-looking, including the legs of two other passengers who follow him down the stairs. A snowball effect results in a pile of dazed bodies on the platform who pick themselves up, apologise to each other a lot, reclaim their briefcases and try to recover their dignity. It's only then that someone notices the man at the bottom of the scrum isn't moving.
The station manager calls an ambulance. When they arrive, they find him still breathing - just - but only half alive. Looks like a heart attack, says the paramedic as they wheel the stretcher away. The other passengers continue with their journey, maybe a little bruised but otherwise fine, as the station manager frets about lawsuits. He's been asking for someone to fix that loose step for weeks.
"Great night last night, wasn't it?"
Marian James looks across at her husband. "It was?"
"Absolutely!", says David. "I had a fabulous time. Good beer, good friends. Can't really ask for more."
"And that's your memory of it? Does your memory extend beyond the sixth pint?"
"Of course it does. We sat in the pub and talked to those nice people from.. oh, where was it? Stockholm?"
"Stuttgart. You don't remember doing anything other than talking?"
"Course not. Charming people."
"You don't remember whispering lecherous nothings to that poor girl while I was at the bar? It's just as well her English wasn't too good - some of that vocabulary you employed was very, well, specialised."
"Uh.. what?"
"Oh, come on! You invited her back to the house for a threesome. That by itself is bad enough, but her boyfriend seemed quite keen on the idea."
David's face turns slowly into a mask of hung over horror. He really wants the train to come right now, so he can change the subject. Or maybe throw himself in front of it.
Of course it's near Buckingham Palace, the travel agent in Baltimore had said. Just a subway ride away. The hotel's in Greater London, you know - must mean it's in the middle, otherwise it would be in Lesser London or something. Bill Redfern smiles ruefully at his wife. The centre of London sure seems to go a long way out, but at least the hotel's nice. Only ten minutes in a cab to the subway, too.
They're catching a late show in the West End tonight - the ticket agency said it wouldn't finish until gone midnight. They're looking forward to getting a meal somewhere after the show, then maybe having a couple of drinks and soaking up that famous London nightlife. Hell, Bill thinks, it's gonna be at least two o'clock before they even think about heading to the subway to come home to the hotel. All part of the London experience, isn't it?
The terminal platforms are quiet after the morning rush hour peak. They don't stay quiet for long - a noise like a riot in progress erupts from the ticket barriers as fifty primary school children are herded onto the platform by four worried-looking and slightly hung over teachers. The kids colonize the platform, investigating every corner and pushing all the buttons in sight (including the ones labelled for Staff Use Only) as the teachers look on resignedly.
It's the annual Year 4 trip to the British Museum. The teachers feel like they've done a full day's work just getting them all here in one piece, but the worst is, they know, yet to come. Still, one step at a time - with sufficient shouting and cajoling they finally herd everyone onto the waiting train and end up with the same headcount they started out with. For the kids, it's going to be a day of fun, discovery and boring old statues. For the teachers, it'll be a day of lost packed lunches, glares of official disapproval from museum attendants, and temper tantrums.
As the lift grinds slowly down towards the platform Cecilia Williams eyeballs the youth leaning against one wall and frowns at the tinnitus of white noise hissing from his Walkman. This is the worst part of public transport, she thinks. Having to share confined spaces with all kinds of riffraff, pickpockets, junkies muggers, and god knows what. That one over there's obviously up to no good. I bet he's a junkie. I bet he's just waiting for his moment to bash me over the head and steal my purse, leave me bleeding and unconscious to travel up and down in this lift until someone notices. He's got that vacant, stoned look in his eyes.
On the other side of the lift, Carl Hornchurch blinks hazily and looks around. Almost dropped off there, he thinks. Can't wait to get home - these extra night shifts really knock you out, but I've got to keep going - we really need the overtime for the deposit now we've got to move sooner then we'd planned. Once the baby arrives, the flat just won't be big enough for all of us.
Frank Turner, aged 88, intends to take the Tube to visit a friend in Clapham. It's the first time he's been out for a while - it was always Alison who was the travelling type, and with her gone there's little call to venture further than the shops. He's always been happy pottering about minding his own business - the house isn't much, but it's paid for, unlike those on either side. Nearly two hundred thousand pounds each they went for a few years ago. Frank wonders how the young folk these days can manage to make ends meet with the amounts of mortgage and rent they have to pay.
He wasn't going to go anywhere today, but the phone call last night changed his plans - an old mate from the ARP isn't well, and it's possible he might not last long. Nearly everyone's gone now, Frank thinks, and soon it'll be just me, left behind in a world that's changed beyond recognition.
He approaches the ticket office but it's closed, so he has to brave the wall of humming ticket machines that stare blankly back at him, impassive, like every other face in his world.
"But of course, the 1975 production at Stratford just knocked spots off that modern version they did at the National last year. You know - the one with all the nudity and the swearing."
"Ah, but surely the swearing was valid, wasn't it? I mean, the piece is full of energy and passion, and for most people it would be perfectly natural to swear in some of the positions those characters are put in. Besides, I think Baum's original vision was obviously to make more of the sexual tensions inherent in the main group of protagonists. It was only prudish self-censorship that led to the storyline being neutered."
"Yes, maybe.. now that I think of it, it's clear that the two characters who are artificially created are, being sans genitalia, a reference to castration, symbolic of the malaise of the male condition as a whole in a post-feminist world."
A young man who hasn't been able to help overhearing this dialogue rounds on them. "Oh, for god's sake! It's just the Wizard of sodding Oz! Will you people get a grip?"
The supposedly respectable-looking man slouched in a seat on a northbound train that's just terminated here doesn't want to move. The station assistant trying to convince him that the train's not going any further and he'll have to change to get to Colindale bravely weathers the storm of expletives and abuse aimed at herself, at London Underground, at Ken Livingstone, at the railway unions and at the world in general, only wincing slightly every so often as the man's rancid, alcohol-sodden breath hits her face in warm blasts with every new outburst.
After some time the man is persuaded to leave the train, but only after making a particularly lewd suggestion. Once he has stumbled onto the next Edgware train the station assistant takes the opportunity for a quick break. Her payslip has arrived, and as she looks at the depressingly small number in the bottom right-hand corner she considers taking up a less stressful career.
A tired-looking woman gets off the train and yawns. She's still not quite sure why she's here, but Head Office were very keen on someone calling in at the flagship stores to, well.. to do what? Something was said about "jollying the staff along", and something about "emphasising the commitment of Happybuy Holdings Ltd to a 'listening management' policy".
Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me, she says to herself. Maybe there's a bit of worry among the worker bees at all this talk of aggressive takeovers from Japan, but it's nothing we won't be able to handle. And why does this meeting have to be at 8 o'clock? She rarely leaves for work before 9:30, and resents being dragged out two hours earlier than usual.
I'll tell them, she thinks. Oh yes, I'll jolly them along, the lazy overpaid scuzzbags. It's time this company made it perfectly clear just what the position of the shop floor workers is as far as the board and shareholders are concerned.
A loud man in a suit is lined up on the platform waiting for a train south to the City. His phone rings. Loudly.
"HELLO? YES? AH, HI! I'm just waiting for the train! No, THE TRAIN!"
"I'LL BE THERE SHORTLY! In about half an hour! No, HALF AN HOUR!"
"WHAT? Oh! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yeah! Good one!"
Suddenly he stops and stares as a huge circular spaceship appears overhead, blotting out the sun and emitting a low, throbbing sound. A round hatch opens in the bottom as a lime green beam of energy spears the hapless phone user, dragging him kicking and screaming up through the air and through the hatchway before as quickly as the ship appeared, it is gone.
Susan Cartwright, waiting for her trip to the bright lights of Kennington, faces a dilemma. She's not sure whether the plan of action forming in her head would be wise. They might find out, she thinks. These people are professionals. They'd see through her right away, she'd never be able to bluff it. She closes her eyes and tries to think of the abuse, accusations and recriminations that would inevitably follow. It's a crime even to be thinking of it. She'd be punished for eternity, deprived of all the good things he holds so dear.
Oh, you're only young once. To hell with the diet mafia, she thinks, and drops 50p into the chocolate machine.
Flying down the platform stairs, arms waving madly in an attempt to be noticed, a man in his thirties finally gets to the train as the doors sweep shut in front of him. He bangs his fist on the closed door as the train pulls away, leaving him behind. "Bugger!", he exclaims to the world at large, and sits on a bench to wait for the next one.
He picks at his jeans in frustration, pulling thread out of an unravelling seam. A shy-looking woman next to him remarks, "Bad idea, that. You don't want your trousers falling off in public, do you?". He looks at her in surprise and attempts to find a witty comeback, but the words suddenly aren't there.
Eleven months later they are married. Her parents don't approve.
The platform is strangely still and quiet as Simon Jefferson, trailing a briefcase and a Daily Mail, arrives to catch the first train. He nods to the small cluster of people already there and sticks his hands in his overcoat pockets against the cold. Laura doesn't like him getting up this early -- she says the bed is too cold by the time she gets up two hours later -- but he doesn't have the choice. Have to start early, get yourself ahead of the competition. Avoid the crowds.
Banking's a cutthroat business, he thinks to himself as his breath condenses in the cold morning air. Other guys all after my job and my bonuses. Get in early, get them before they can get you.
He tries not to think of his dangerously overextended mortgage as the bright interior of the empty train bangs and rattles into the platform to begin its own workday.
Welcome to Four Foot Eight, a reincarnation of my old project, The Tube. My plan is to post one story more-or-less every day, until there's one for each station on the London Underground - 270-something at last count, if I remember.
I have 70 or so stories in hand from my last attempt at this, but they're going to be somewhat edited and remixed for this new format as some of them were badly written or sloppily edited while others were just plain bad.
There's an RSS feed available as well as a LiveJournal feed. Comments are welcome (provided they aren't too expletive-ridden - I reserve the right to delete as necessary) and mail is welcome too. Feedback is what keeps projects like this going.
I'll keep administrative posts to an absolute minimum. Any random blathering which doesn't belong here will appear in my main weblog instead.
Enjoy!
Mike