Dawn is just starting to prickle around the eastern edge of the sky as the man slumped beside the station entrance peers dolefully at the book he's carrying and looks in his bag to see if there's anything else to read. I should, he thinks, have remembered my keys yesterday morning. I should, he also thinks, keep a spare set of keys somewhat closer than Brixton.
He checks the time of the first train again. Only an hour or so to go until he can head down to Brixton. When he gets there he'll find a cafe, get an early breakfast, and after that it should have reached a sufficiently civilised hour to knock on his friend's door to get his spare keys.
What he doesn't yet know is that the friend concerned is actually away for three days on business.
It's late at night as the last train pulls in and the final stragglers stumble off and out into the rain. The driver notices a slumped figure in one of the cars.
"Hello! Walthamstow! End of the line!"
"Uh.. nnngh.. er.. sorry?"
"We're not going anywhere else tonight. C'mon, time to go home."
"Oh, um.. where are we? Walthamstow? Oh, shit.."
"'Fraid so. I guess you didn't mean to come this far?"
"Gragnghngrrk. No. Meant to get off at Seven Sisters."
"Better get walking then, I'm afraid. Have a good night!"
The driver heads off to put the train to bed. The sleepy passenger heads off to find out how long it's going to be until he can put himself to bed.
It's 0856 as a train leaves the tunnel, emerging into the morning sunshine and surprising Laura Wilkins as her mobile phone starts to ring only a few seconds later. Hum, she thinks, looking at it. Number isn't familiar. Wonder who it is at this time of the morning? Must be something to do with work.
"Hello?"
"Hello. Who am I speaking to, please?"
"Laura. Laura Wilkins. And you are?"
Odd. They've hung up. What was that about?
Ah, well. Late for work, anyway. Best hurry. Hope he locked the flat up properly before he left. He's a nice guy, really. But too guilty. Always worrying about his wife. Admirable, really, that he's so committed. He really does love her. He'll never leave her. And that's why I'm going to have to let him down gently next time I see him. It's the right thing to do, she assures herself as she steps out onto the platform.
In the A&E waiting room of a North London hospital, Jane Bradfield puts her own phone down and looks again at the list of recently dialled numbers on her husband's handset.
The northbound platform is its usual crowded self, but the dark grey figure has plenty of space to move about in and a great view of the legs and feet of the people waiting to head into town.
Sometimes lots of people wait here. But more importantly, sometimes they leave things behind them which he can pick up and make use of. It's always warm down here. It never rains, but there's an everpresent puddle of water a short walk away in the tunnels that provides for his needs. He's rarely bothered by anyone else, though it can be dangerous if you're not careful where you walk.
His ears fill with the hissing and thundering which announces imminent danger, and he scurries back to the dark corner where the rest of his family wait nervously. Once the danger has passed, he sticks his nose back out into the open and twitches his whiskers at the newly empty platform.
Got up with a terrible hangover, which is very odd as I don't remember actually drinking very much at all last night. Must just be the result of a very long day. Molly giving out about bringing strange men into the house and asking why I didn't introduce them. Thought she was asleep when I got back, I explained. Little memory of yesterday except for bar of now somewhat gooey soap left in pocket. Also lost button on trousers somehow, plus potato seems somewhat bruised if not a little mashed. Mysterious yet oddly familiar stain on shirt. Cat seems strangely distant this morning.
Tube station very busy. Almost got pushed off platform in front of train. Driver blew his whistle at me. Young man with a stick grabbed my arm and helped me get my balance back, so the loss of one of advertising's greatest minds was fortunately averted.
A man hangs around outside the station, weighed down by an enormous rucksack. He seems to be deep in thought.
So, this is it, he thinks. I've done this journey twice a day for the last five years. Into the City in packed, standing-room only cars. Work all day in those bloody stifling offices. Back out of the City in packed, standing-room only cars. Microwave, television, beer, sleep. But this is the last time. Maybe the last time ever I'll walk through these gates. Never coming back. Too late to change my mind now, of course. A leap in the dark. Wonder what I'll be doing in five years? Oh well. Only one way to find out. Best be getting a move on. No time to hang around. Here goes...
He walks through the station gates, buys a single to Heathrow, takes a last look behind him and heads off down the escalator.
"Bec? What the hell's a Bec?"
"Not what, who. The station was named after a famous musician."
"A musician?"
"Yeah. Brass musician by the name of Rebecca Stone. She was the first trumpeter in the world to play non-stop for over twelve hours. Earned a
place in the Guinness Book of Records at the time, but of course modern instruments and breath control techniques have improved upon that many times since, y'know?"
"But why the name?"
"Well, she used to practice near here. She'd spend a half hour or more every morning busking outside the station before getting the train into town for her day job. Of course, it all ended in tragedy. While attempting to break her own record, she had a heart attack and dropped dead. And that was the end of Tooting Bec, as the locals used to call her."
"Gods. What a sad story. Is that really what happened?"
"No, not really, you dimwit. Had you going there, though."
Author's Note: As it is often difficult to work out what (may be) really being said in conversations of this nature, a translation in useful italics has been provided to aid the reader, not to mention the characters...
A young man sits on a bench, embedded determinedly in a paperback book.
A young woman walks up to him. She doesn't speak for a few moments.
"Hi! How's it going?" (Hey! You! Can't you see me here?)
"Oh, hello! Didn't see you there, sorry." (Damn. She's noticed me.)
"Lost in your book, eh?" (You're supposed to be looking at me instead, dumbo.)
"Yeah, kind of. How have you been, anyway?" (I've been trying to avoid you.)
"Fine, fine.. keeping busy, y'know how it is." (Have you been avoiding me?)
"Me too. Work's been non-stop recently. Completely mad." (God, I adore you.)
"Tube's terrible at the moment, isn't it?" (Are you going to ask me out, then?)
"Awful, yeah. I've been waiting at least half an hour." (Umm...)
"Bloody stupid. I'm supposed to be in town in ten minutes." (Oh well, see if I care.)
"I hear one train got stuck in a tunnel outside Bank for two hours recently." (I want to kiss you and hold you in my arms forever.)
"Yeah, it was a couple of months back." (I want to hold you in my arms and kiss you forever.)
"Hey, a train! Wonders will never cease.." (Phew. I don't have to humiliate myself this time, then.)
"It's for the wrong branch, of course, but it's a start.." (You're going to get into another carriage, aren't you?)
"Ah, well, see you soon. Bye!" (Saved! Saved from inevitable rejection, at least this time..)
"Yup. Seeya!" (Oh well..)
The platform is packed, with the departure boards showing no trains on the way. People are getting hot and bothered and generally irritable, sufficiently impatient with the situation that for once they'd rather be in the office than where they are now. They mutter and grumble and rustle their newspapers as the station staff make an announcement in an attempt to alleviate the situation.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We apologise for the delay to your journeys this morning. The service is currently suspended due to passenger action at the next station, Clapham Common, where the police are in attendance following an incident. We hope to get the all clear shortly. Once again, our apologies for the delay."
At half past nine in the morning a man in a crumpled grey suit who obviously stayed out far, far too late last night stumbles onto the platform and slumps onto a bench. His head lolls forward as his will to stay awake dissolves in the fatigue washing over his body.
As he dozes a small, odd-looking man with pointy ears seems to appear out of nowhere, creeping up to the sleeper and peering at his clothes. He pulls a slightly battered flower out of his pocket and squeezes a couple of drops of a gooey substance out of the end, using a finger to dab it gently onto the sleeper's eyelids. He wipes his fingers on his trousers, mutters something under his breath and retires to the far end of the platform.
A few minutes later a station assistant notices the man sleeping on the bench and walks over, gently shaking his shoulder to wake him with a "Sir?". An ecstatic smile spreads across his face as he looks up at her...
An elderly woman is waiting alone on the platform, on her way into the city to do a little shopping. This is noticed by the young man in a black jacket who looks around, sees nobody else on the platform, and quickly strolls up to her.
"Afternoon. Nice day outside, eh?"
"Why, yes, I suppose it is. Not the day to be down here, really, is it?
She looks down to notice that the young man has pulled a knife out of
his coat and is waving it at her in a threatening, if rather unsteady,
manner.
"Definitely not the day to be down here. So, how's about you staying nice
and quiet, and just handing me your purse and.. yes, and those two rings?"
"I beg your pardon? I think I'd prefer not to, really."
He leans a little closer to her. "I don't give a shit what you think. Now
give me the stuff, before I start to get annoyed."
Hmm, she thinks, yes, he appears to be serious -- can't think of many
satisfactory outcomes to this situation. Ah well.
Out in the corridor, a staff member who's spotted the situation unfolding on the security cameras hears a couple of yells followed by a thud and a muffled whimper before the noise is drowned out by an arriving train. He rushes onto the platform to see an elderly lady waving cheerfully at him as she gets on the train, and a rather distressed young man doubled over and moaning softly as he clutches at his groin.
In the afternoon quiet a man approaches the ticket window. Strange looking pale guy, thinks the clerk - is he singlehandedly spearheading some retro fashion thing or something? Weird hat, long coat.. very odd. Still, you get all sorts of people through here, and he's seen stranger than this.
"Can I help you?"
"Good afternoon to you. I understand this is the departure point
for the new underground train to the City?"
"Well, yes.. we're on the Northern Line, if that's what you mean."
"Ah, excellent. Well, a friend and I have a small wager, which I
intend to win. One ticket to King William Street, if you will."
"King William.. don't know it. Whereabouts is it?"
"Why, in the City, of course. Adjacent to the Bank."
"That'll be Bank station, then. Two pounds twenty, mate."
The man's eyes widen in surprise. "Sir, I intend to travel on your railway, not purchase it outright! I certainly cannot burn such an amount on a simple wager. I must say I fear for the future of the City and South London Railway Company if you consider such an amount a reasonable fare. Good day!"
The puzzled clerk shivers as the man turns and walks away, shaking his head. The room suddenly seems warmer.
The group of police at the station are getting ready for action in the late afternoon after receiving word from control. There's been an upset in the match, and they're bracing themselves for the worst that a hard core of violent cricket hooligans can throw at them. Reinforcements of officers in riot gear wait nervously in vans just around the corner.
Soon the fans start to arrive at the station, and the police immediately notice that something's afoot. Usually in these cases the groups of fans are easy to identify. The victorious fans will be in party mood, whereas the defeated team's fans will be more despondent and downcast. But this time it's not like that. Both sets of fans are quietly trooping into the station and down the escalators looking stunned. Very few people are speaking at all, let alone looking likely to start a riot.
An officer collars a passing England supporter to ask what's up.
"We, uh, won..." he explains. "This can't be happening... it never
happens..."
He can't get a word out of any of the West Indies supporters.
A grey-haired gentleman wearing a regimental tie strides towards the lifts, taking a good look at the blue-uniformed staff member in attendance at the barrier as he passes. Shabby, he thinks. A disgrace to his unit. Cap on askew. Shoes that haven't seen brush or polish in weeks. That stubble's definitely not regulation. Should be drummed right back out onto Civvy Street.
And this floor. Unswept. Discarded tickets and mucky patches everywhere. If this was my command, I'd have that shower of idle layabouts out scrubbing this place with toothbrushes until it shone. And this lift! Doors squeaking, no good. Need to get the sappers out. No place for squeaking doors. Give position away to the enemy, battle lost for want of a dab of grease. Can't be having that.
He steps onto the platform. More shabbiness! Muck between the rails. Should be polished until he can see his face in them, get men with brushes and dusters down there every night. Bit of spit and polish never hurt anyone. Bit of military-style discipline needed here. Spruce things up a bit. Make trains run on time. Not rocket science running a railway. Officers and men all need a rocket up the behind. Just teach them a little efficiency and discipline. Oh yes, he thinks, if they put him in charge of this place for six months it'd be running like clockwork.