Man on the tube

I looked at my watch, 8:23am. Later than I anticipated but not late. Walking down the stairs, it was announced that the Hammersmith & City line and Circle line workers were on strike. The main tube barriers underneath King’s Cross station was closed so voyagers snaked through the tunnels into the canal entrance, walking down the idle escalator.

As the train doors closed behind me, I ducked my way through to reach a rare space on the opposite side. Leaning against the transparent pane, I caught my breath. The air smelt musky, with a hint of smoke — a rare scent for the Victoria line. I tilt my head down to see an outstretched foot, on it a big, chunky, black boot. The laces were undone. Following the worn, long, cargo denim, my eyes reached the freckled beard of a man. He was tall, standing up, probably close to 6ft2. His shoulders broad, covered by a padded black jacket. Across from me, a man in his 40s glanced around before one hand over his nose, the other holding a damp umbrella.

The man arched his back down and reached for something in his backpack, slouched on the ground. A long rectangular box, opened to reveal a small pair of spectacles. Leopard print plastic, with the lenses encased in a scratched black. Sitting back up, he too leaned against the glass pane, reaching his hand for tissue, pulling out a small corner. Wiping the left piece, the white corner floated to his foot. Another piece of tissue. He put the frames on his face. Peering, a man in his 30s wearing large headphones flicked his eyes left and right. The less time, the less noticeable maybe. The man, the door, the man, the door, the man, the door, the man the door. His pupils gliding in front of my chest each time.

‘The next station is Green Park.’ 8:41am. Good, I have plenty of time. He wears an Orthodox cross on a turquoise and silver beaded chain. The woman sitting across him doesn’t bat an eye. The man rests his head on the glass pane and closes his eyes. The doors close behind me.