writing_shadows

The Central Line. By far the longest line in the London Underground system, it stretches for 47 miles of track. It is the second-busiest line, and the system's most westerly, easterly and northern points are caked in red. Of its stations, less than half are actually underground.

On carriage A34-56, part of train CL(W)54, Si was sat on the furred seat nearest the clear glass that separated the carriages seats from the doors. The train wasn't that crowded, but all but one seat was already taken. Even the arse-perches at the ends were occupied.

He popped a wayward headphone back into his ear and went back to his own world of...well, happy music. Almost everything on his iPod was pre-1960s, mostly old musicals with catchy, upbeat tunes. The world above had long forgotten what music was all about; it had stopped being a celebration, and started to be pronouncements of how much you'd had to drink, how demeaning you were to women, how hard-my-life-is-so-please-can-I-be-famous-or-get-a-job-that-requires-no-effort-because-I-am-feckless-and-lazy.

Give me Judy Garland any day. She might have been just as messed up as the modern day “stars”, but at least she had the class not to sing about it.

The carriage pulled in to Liverpool Street. Above the track change he heard the pissssh of the doors, watched as businessmen forced themselves out, elbows first, into the crowd, or forced themselves in, not giving a damn who they trampled to get on to the train; waiting another three minutes for the next one. He shook his head, closing his eyes as he rubbed a dirty fingernail against his scarred and weathered face. He was coming off shift, and knew all too well he was covered in grime. The muck created a barrier, an invisible cone that meant no one invaded his personal space.

He felt pressure on his work boots and blinked his eyes open. A young businesswoman had stumbled, her shoe's heel driving into his foot like a scorpion's tail. She was young, pretty enough, modest beauty achieved through a tidy hair cut and precise makeup, a comfortable, curvy physique under her business suit.

She blushed. “Sorry,” she said. Si shrugged, watching as she gazed desperately around the carriage, before realising if she wanted a seat, she had little option but to plonk down next to him. He sighed as she finally came to that conclusion, and dropped down, inches away from his dirty work clothes.

She didn't have to make it that obvious she didn't want to sit there, did she? I'm not some freakish monster, I'm just a bloke who works shifts.

Silence in the carriage. Or, as silent as the tube gets. A rattle and a whoosh, a cough from further down the carriage , no doubt spreading disease to more City workers. A tinny cacophony coming from someone's mobile. The flip of a page turning, probably a Stieg Larsson book. A sigh of boredom.

What the hell. You can't spend all your life disconnected from the world, even if you want to. Just ask. When was the last time you even spoke to a girl? Two years? Three? Just ask.

“Uh,” he grunted, fumbling for words. His mouth was dry already. Wow, this was hard. His heart raced, his toes snapped back and forth in spasm, his stomach started gurgling as it put into operation it's usual movements designed to scupper any hope of social contact.

He stopped. 'Uh' was not a good start. Wait for a moment and try again.

He turned to the woman next to him, smiling as best he could. It still came out as a pathetic scowl. “What's your name?”

Wow, that wasn't good. What's your name? That's just about the worst way to start you could have come up with. Been in the tunnels too long, haven't we?

The woman's head didn't move. Instead, her eyes swivelled, moving like searchlights, trying to find out who had interrupted the sanctity of the 'don't talk on the Tube' unwritten rule. She realised it came from the filth-covered worker next to her, and somehow managed to blanche and blush at the same time. Then her head turned away, and she tried desperately to pretend she hadn't heard the question.

Failure. You are truly crap when it comes to... social contact. All of it. Dickhead.

The train lurched again, pulling in to Bank. The woman rose, mistimed it, and tumbled. Immediately, Si's hand shot up, catching her own to steady her. Their palms locked, hand in hand for a moment. Their eyes met. Their hearts pounded rapidly, synchronised drums.

Then she pulled her hand away, recoiling, not even bothering to thank him. In seconds she ploughed through the elbowing businessmen, headphoned students and middle-aged women with oversized bags full of clothes. Then she was off down the platform, and... climbing in to another carriage.

Si sighed. This is exactly why his world was underground. He belonged down there. Everyone else didn't.