As he moved forward there was a bump. He looked out the window as the
train rolled forward, still slowing as it dragged itself over another
bump. Or was it the other carriages stepping over the same bump?
The doors opened, a surge of bodies washing past him, he stepped outside.
“Mind the Gap,” a big voice said as the doors closed, driven by
deafening beeps, and the train was swallowed again by the dark tunnel.
He noticed a small rat appear suddenly and move with grace in grime
along a track. It was joined by another. In a moment both were gone
and the crowded platform was empty.
Taking it all in, his mind tumbled with the visual onslaught of
platform posters and the weary memories of his journey as another wave
of passengers flooded the platform and tumbled his thoughts like a rag
doll. Engulfed by it all, and taking care to hold his breath, he had
to find out. There was was no sign of sunlight above and no bubbles
travelling upward but EXIT signs to follow. Arrows directed him
through tunnels as he kicked his legs to gain momentum against the
flowing crowd.
Finding a giant current stacked with sardines in folding steps, he
followed it like a conveyor belt. Counting to calm and focus his panic
prone mind, slowly he was coming up. Kicking again as he left the
flow, he faced the final barrier to break before he could surface –
the steel jaws of the turnstile. Banging through them as they
swallowed his ticket, he felt a burning in his chest and was about to
gasp. Steady now, only a few more seconds, he told himself - hoping
that really it was less than one, he exaggerated to drown the panic.
An explosion of light engulfed him in the ticket hall. The ceilings
were rising, the spaces expanding, but not fast enough. He felt the
fire rising in his chest as he held himself from breaking into a run.
“Euston Road, South Side,” said the sign, and he was charging up the steps.
As he broke surface with a wild gasping for air he breathed in a
wailing siren and a honking of horns. There was a rush of arrested
traffic, darting bicycles and weaving motor cycles, buses with their
own lanes and a choking fumes of smoke and street. And through it all
was a little pitter patter of darting footsteps in every direction.
Still breathing heavily as he bobbed slowly up and down, his hand swam towards his
pocket for the directions. And he was off.
- from the collection, Little short stories by stuart barnes
