"I still don't understand why we have to do it this way. What are we doing here?"
"You know the rules. Transporting directly into the middle of the city would be too risky - it's almost impossible to find somewhere where we can arrive unobserved."
"Okay, whatever the Captain says. I guess we should head to the rendezvous, then.

They walk into the station. Then they walk out again.

"What exactly did he mean by "cash or valid Oyster card"?"

"For the attention of the children on the northbound platform - please note that ball games are strictly prohibited on London Underground stations for safety reasons. Please stop playing football and pick your ball up immediately. Thank you."

One missed pass later the players discover that in a match between a football and 160-odd tons of train, it's usually the train which wins.

After too many pints he staggered in and fell asleep, then woke up late and had to rush out of the door feeling lousy. He's also reeking slightly due to not having time for a shower. And why the hell is Laura's mobile engaged for so long at this time of the morning?

When a northbound train appears he looks up from his book and smiles to himself. Where on the train shall I sit today?, he wonders. Commuting against the flow. Yeah, that's the way to do it.

A couple of teenagers walk by chattering loudly, and she frowns at them. When a man passes by talking on his cellphone she slams the notebook and pen down and leaps to her feet.

"If you don't MIND...", she shouts, "some people here are trying to CREATE."

As the train pulls in she can see that it's nearly full. Not good. The doors open and she rocks on her feet as a hundred different minds start shouting at her about work, about hangovers, about whatever someone's listening to on their iPod. A flood of raw, conflicting emotion tugs her this way and that as she concentrates hard, painfully forcing her own consciousness to regain control of her body enough to get her on board the train.

Sometimes it isn't easy being London's only genuine telepath.

The driver sees the figure a couple of seconds before reaching the platform and whistles frantically, but too late - the train hammers out of the tunnel and sweeps all before it in a screaming whine of hard deceleration.

Silence. The doors open with a rumble. The figure opens her eyes and steps onto the train through the open doors in front of her. She looks around to see a nearly-empty carriage, smiles nervously and takes a relieved seat.

It's a start, she thinks. Not much, but it's a start.

As the train pulls out of the station a traveller arrives on the platform. While mentally cursing her luck and checking when the next train is due she notices something odd about the sound of the train as it sweeps past.

Weird, she thinks. I've heard tube trains make a lot of noises, but they're usually clattering and banging-type noises. Definitely not oompah-type noises.

Up he paces, then down again. Up and down in an aimless yet amiable manner he wanders. He turns round to peer at the "next train" display, takes a few more paces and suddenly realises he's run out of platform.

Just managing to keep himself upright he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding planting himself head-first across the live rails. He looks perturbed for a few seconds before pulling himself together and resuming grinning and pacing, only this time paying just a little more attention to where he's going.

"This is Edgware Road. This train terminates here. All change, please, all change. This train terminates here. For eastbound stations including Euston Square, Kings Cross, Liverpool Street, Aldgate, and all stations to Plaistow and Upminster, please cross the platform. Once again, this is Edgware Road, this train terminates here. All change, all change."

As passengers pile off he shuts the train down, grabs his bag and starts walking through the train to change ends before returning to Wimbledon. A young man is sitting by himself in the third carriage from the front.

"Excuse me? Is this train going to Kings Cross?"

The picture's original owner notices that it's gone on his way home from work. It's gone, he thinks. The last picture. That last picture, taken just before she left to walk home to her parents' house.

Okay, there are pictures of her which were taken later by the police, but those aren't the sort of pictures which I'd want to remember her by.

He closes his eyes as flashes of pain and horror lash out across the decades, still raw and bleeding even after this long - the laughing kiss goodbye, the knock on the door and the pale, nervous policewoman, the silent, sobbing phone calls, the detectives and statements and reporters, the grey, shellshocked faces at the funeral. All these images resolve again and again into the same thing - a cold, bloodied, broken body lying on a mortuary table. As he turns away the vision finally fades into the background - for the time being.

"Can I see your ticket, Sir?"

The old man idly waves a hand. "You don't need to see my ticket."

"I don't need to see your ticket."

"I can continue my journey."

"You can continue your journey."

He strolls through the gate and heads for the Jubilee line. The assistant looks at his retreating back, starts to say something, then shakes his head to clear it and shuts the gate.

He waits.

He looks up again.

He waits some more.

After what seems like forever, the train arrives. He wanders across the platform to the train, finds a seat, and sits down. As the train leaves, he stares vacantly across the carriage until it disappears into the tunnel.