CHAPTER ONE Page One

Eva looked at other passengers with pity at their miserable lives and contempt that they put up with it.

An old man with beard, rucksack at his feet, was reading papers from a folder. A woman was scowling. A second glance showed she wasn’t scowling but just had a naturally fierce expression. Not unusual on the London Underground. Another woman, who was texting, took an apple out of her bag and rubbed it on her trousers. The trousers looked like they were acrylic and Eva wondered if you could start a fire doing that. A build up of static. That would at least provide a break from the tedium. Woman spontaneously combusts on the Piccadilly Line. The apple-grower blames it on the trouser-maker and vice versa. A fire was unlikely, though. The thought flew out of Eva’s mind as quickly as it had come in.
There was second old man, with long hair. The oldest swinger in town. He saw Eva looking at him and she looked away sharply. No eye contact. Whatever you do, never be caught looking at someone on the tube. What’s she staring at, he must have been thinking. If only he knew. He’d be a good choice.

Culling, they call it.

What?

A young man with beard was reading The Sunday Times, even though it was Thursday. Apple Woman continued with her texting and took a noisy bite from her apple. Shut it with that bloody thing, thought Eva.

The young man with beard’s phone rang. But it wasn’t a ring, just an irritating noise. What is it with Londoners? Eva wondered why everything they did, from eating an apple to choosing a ring tone, seemed to specifically designed to annoy her.

He put down his newspaper, not without some trouble as the newspaper was large and had many sections, and answered the phone.

“Hello? Hello, hi. Yeah, well, we’re not going back there tonight. See you soon.”
End of call. What was that all about? Not going back where? Why not? A restaurant where there had been some sort of incident? An irrevocable family rift?

There was an announcement. “South Kensington. Alight here for museums.”
Alight. That’s what Eva would like to do. Set the whole place on fire. And not just museums. But them as well.

No, she thought, she was only joking. She didn’t mean it.

What Eva really wanted was some space. She prayed for some of these people to get off at South Kensington. Apple Woman, get off and go to the Victoria and Albert and see if it shames you into getting rid of those acrylic trousers. Sunday Times Man, get in the Natural History. Ponder the thought that there was a time when anything interesting discovered anywhere in the world was brought back to that very place to be allotted its place in the scheme of things. And it’s all free. Whatever you do, all of you, Eva thought, just get off this train and give me some space, some air of my own to breathe.
They all stayed where they were. The woman kept on scowling, and the young man went back to his Sunday Times. The texting continued.

Gloucester Road. Earl’s Court. Baron’s Court. Eva started to tense up. It was decision time. The train was arriving at Hammersmith. Eva looked to the other side of the platform. If there was an Ealing Broadway train there, or one on its way, as indicated by the electronic display, her dilemma was over. She would get off the Piccadilly Line and transfer to the District, which was more comfortable, had a higher ceiling and therefore more air, and was altogether a more acceptable way to travel. Slower, though.

The District and Piccadilly lines run alongside each other in this part of west London. But while the District Line stops at Ravenscourt Park, Stamford Brook, Turnham Green and Chiswick Park before it gets to Acton Town, the Piccadilly hurtles through those four stations as a sort of unofficial express train. Therefore, passengers travelling from the Baron’s Court/Hammersmith area to Ealing Broadway have a decision to make. The sensible thing to do was get off at Hammersmith and wait for an Ealing Broadway train. It might take a few minutes longer, though not necessarily, but it was bound to be a whole lot more comfortable.

But this is London. The capital city. Those few minutes could be spent watching the television, in the pub, or arguing with someone. People like Apple Woman don’t wait for the slow train. Sunday Times man would get through the paper by Tuesday if he took the slow route every time and then what would he do for the rest of the week. In London, people gambled. They would stay on the Piccadilly at Hammersmith and hope it would overtake a District Line before it got to Acton Town, where they would get out and wait for it to arrive. That could save them ten minutes. If you didn’t overtake a District Line, no harm done. Might as well wait at Acton Town as Hammersmith. At least you had given it a go. You tried life in the fast lane. No one would ever criticise you for that.
So that’s what Eva did. There was no sign of a District Line at Hammersmith, so she stayed on the Piccadilly.

But what everyone also knew was that it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Yes, the Piccadilly didn’t stop at those four stations. But it quite often got stuck behind other trains queuing up to get into Acton Town. Which could mean that a slow District Line train, which was hers for the taking at Hammersmith, could trundle by on the inside of the Piccadilly queuing to get into Acton Town. And she’d miss it. Instead of gaining ten minutes of her life, she’d lose ten.

But Eva didn’t worry about that. None of them did. The prospect of minutes gained dazzled her. It wouldn’t happen again.
Eva’s Piccadilly built up some speed and raced through Ravenscourt Park and Turnham Green, just as it should. It was through Stamford Brook in a blur and onto Chiswick Park. Perfect.
No.
Is it slowing down?
No.
Yes!
The train ground to a halt. And only just past Chiswick Park. That meant there could be any number of trains ahead queuing to get into Acton Town.
Eva cursed herself. Why hadn’t she been patient? Why hadn’t she learned the lesson from last time?

Even if she did save herself ten minutes on the Piccadilly Line, was it worth it? It always took twenty minutes to settle her nerves afterwards anyway.
She had been seduced by the prospect of a quick journey home but now she started to feel sick. The headache returned. She could feel her heart rate increasing.

A noise was burrowing into her head. But there wasn’t any noise. No one was speaking. Of course they weren’t speaking. This was the London Underground. If they won’t even look at each other, they are hardly likely to start chatting about the meaningless of existence.

The noise was coming from the fluorescent lights. A buzz. Like a dentist’s drill.
The old man was looking at his papers again. That was sensible. He had something to do. Eva had no papers, no book, no newspaper and certainly no personal stereo. That last one was a point of principle.
The train was still at a dead stop.
The woman with the apple took another noisy crunch. How long does it take to eat an apple, screamed

Eva to herself.
All Eva could do was stare out of the window. But there was nothing to see. Thick wires alongside the track, conducting the electricity. Beyond that, an industrial estate.

Eva turned her attention back to the passengers. She looked for an ally, someone who had has much electricity charging through their veins as her. There was no one. Eva felt they could all sense that she was on the edge. She knew it. They wouldn’t show it, but they knew what she was going through.
No sign of movement from the train. Just the buzz of the florescent lights and the thought that thousands of volts of deadly power were only feet away. Eva knew that her fellow passengers had got used to it. Once, they had been like her. Now, after years of waiting on a train stopped at a signal, they were inured to it. Eva would never get used to it. She didn’t want to.

A crunch of apple echoed around carriage. How long can it take to eat an apple? Eva hoped she choked.

No. Eva didn’t mean that. How did that idea get onto the electric wires of Eva’s thought processes? She couldn’t stop it. It had arrived there all on its own. It wasn’t the first time the idea of violence had come into Eva’s mind recently. Even on this train in the last few minutes, she had hoped Apple Woman’s trousers caught fire, and that the whole train would go up, and now that she would choke. It worried Eva. She wasn’t a violent person. Well, she quite clearly was. Okay. You know what to do, she thought. Meditation. Imagine your face, scowling, angry, as it is now. Look in every corner of that face. The edges of the mouth, clinched and tense. The eyes. Okay. Turn over to the next page. Now imagine your face smiling, happy. Imagine how that will make other people feel. Which do you prefer? It worked. She started to feel better. She shut her eyes and tried to go somewhere better.

No. That won’t work. Why should she? Then she’ll be just like the rest. Putting up with this. That’s the problem with the Eastern way of thinking. You learn how to cope. You never change anything, but you just put up with the misery. The Western way was better. Our minds may be all over the place but at least we do something about our misery.

Then there was a noise. From a train. But not the one Eva was on. A sickening feeling. She knew what it meant. It was a District Line train. The Ealing Broadway-bound one that she should be on, if only she had had the patience to get off at Hammersmith and wait for it.
She looked out of the left side of the carriage. There it was. Proof. The District Line, the tortoise of the London Underground, was once again overtaking the hare of the Piccadilly Line.

No!
The noise of the lights seemed to get louder.
The District Line plodded past, slowly but reliably on its way to Acton Town, Ealing Common and Ealing Broadway. And then home. Without Eva.
Eva had one hope. One solitary, slim hope. That the District was delayed itself. Or the station controller at Acton Town might be sympathetic. He would know all about the dilemma Eva had been in. He could hold the District Line there for a minute or two and wait for the Piccadilly people to sheepishly crawl off, stumble across the platform and climb onto the District they should have waited for at Hammersmith, if only they had the slightest speck of patience in their bodies.
The Piccadilly Line started to move again.
Yes! There was hope.
No.
It stopped again.
Another crunch on that bloody apple. Eva would like to get a crossbow, William Tell-style. Put the apple on the head of the woman, even though it was now not much more than a lipstick-encrusted core, aim the crossbow at it, and accidentally on purpose shoot the woman in the forehead.
There we go again. Another violent thought. Intruding from God knows where. Normal people don’t think thoughts like that.

But Eva did want to . . . let them know. That this wasn’t life. Human beings were not supposed to behave like this. They were alive, they were hunters, gatherers, shaggers, thinkers, do anythingers. Whatever purpose the human being has been put here for, it wasn’t to sit on a Piccadilly Line train queuing up to get into Acton Town. These people, all of them, even the old bloke with the papers, they didn’t know they were alive.

Eva wanted to slap them, kick them. She wanted to shout and tell them what their lives have become. She didn’t, of course. Eva did not believe that they couldn’t sense her pain but it was probably true. They would think she was just the same as them, if her existence had registered with them at all.
The train started again and this time Eva felt some relief because she somehow knew that this time it was going to get into Acton Town. Something about the sound of the train as it gained speed. She just knew.

She was right. It rolled slowly into the station and . . . yes! She took it all back. The District Line was still there.

But the elation was very soon replaced as the knot in her stomach tightened. Would the Piccadilly get into the station, open its doors and allow Eva enough time to get over the platform before the District Line left? They had to let her do that. Please.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Eva was like a dog on its way out for a walk, trying to prise the doors open with her nose.
“Ealing Common and Ealing Broadway only. Mind the doors.”
No!
They couldn’t do this.
As the doors on the Piccadilly opened and Eva hurled h erself out, the District Line doors started to close.

Eva arrived at the District Line just as the doors squeezed shut. She considered hurling herself at them, maybe getting her hand in the door. They’d have to open, and let her on. No, they didn’t do that. Too

late now anyway, the doors were closed.

There was a second when they could have opened again.
But they didn’t.
The District Line started to move. Eva could see the people sitting in the airy carriage. They weren’teven looking at her. They didn’t even know. They couldn’t even see her. All these people, all cocooned in their personal stereos, papers, books, thoughts and non-thoughts.

The train was gone.

Eva’s eyes widened. She was going to shout. She was going to scream. She was going to push into someone and tell them, just tell them. What, she didn’t know, but she was going to tell them anyway.
But she didn’t.