It's the beginning of the evening peak. The station is largely quiet as two trains approach simultaneously from the south - one from Bank bound for Edgware, one from Charing Cross bound for High Barnet. They pull into the northbound platforms to stop more or less simultaneously, and as the doors open the station comes to life.
Commuters burst from the doors, sprinting for the connecting passageways linking the two branches of the Northern Line as if their lives depended on it. In a way their lives do depend on it - every minute they have to spend waiting for the train is a minute they're not spending at home putting their feet up, having a bath or being with the kids. Passages which were deserted twenty seconds earlier mill with pushing, shoving commuters who simply want to go home.
Some of them make it to the other platform in time and leap onto the northbound trains which will finally take them home. Others arrive too late and look irritatedly at the indicators, wishing that they were somewhere else as the trains pull away.
"Excuse me, which platform do I want for Acton Central?"
"Acton Central? Dunno, mate. What line's it on?"
"I was just told to change at Kentish Town for Acton Central."
"Never heard of it. Let me check the map. Well.. there's North Acton, West Acton, East Acton.. keep goin' south and change to the Central. Or there's Acton Town. Change at Leicester Square, Piccadilly line."
"No, it's definitely Acton Central. Look, here are the directions I was given."
"Oh, see - that says Kentish Town West, not Kentish Town. You want the main line station, mate, not the Underground. Here's Acton Central, see. On the North London Line. One stop away from South Acton."
"On the Northern Line? I thought you said.."
"No, no. North London Line. Different thing."
"Right. So it's the main line station here?"
"Nope, Kentish Town West. Different station entirely. Map on the wall somewhere should have it. Bit of a walk, mind."
"Oh.. right. Any idea how often the trains go on that line?"
"Sorry, mate. You want Network Rail for that kind of info."
"Network Rail run those trains?"
"No, Silverlink do, I think. Network Rail just own the track. Oh, and someone else owns the trains."
"Er, right.. so who'd know when the train's going?"
"Don't ask me. Not my place to speak for, Network Rail, it's not Underground business. Probably at least one an hour, though."
"This is why I love London, you know. Getting around is so simple and uncomplicated. Anyway, better get going and find this other station. Thank you so much, you've been.. very helpful."
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.