PICCADILLY LINE:

The Ratman grins, catching my elbow as I weave along the platform,
looks me in the eye like I know him. Starts a conversation about the
weather, toes in perfection against the yellow line, impish. For a
second I think I recognise a rearranged face whose lips part,
revealing unfamiliar teeth. They dance a rhythm that makes me recoil,
walk away, glancing back, to make sure I’m not being followed, scared.

The Ratwoman stops me at the other end of the platform, dressed in
chamois leather yellow, off the shoulder, two-piece smiles. Wind blows
up the line carrying her perfume, not good, not bad, reminds me of a
building I used to know.

A crowd waits for something to happen. Another slow train.
Another long cold night on the rails.

Listening to Sir Shina Peters & his International Stars

(K)