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Fiction

Makes You Paranoid

Terry Hand takes an Underground ride into a psychological abyss.

Sleepwalking to work, Morden via Tottenham Court Road, Northern Line train, Charing Cross Branch – mind the gap, move down inside the cars, whoosh, thud.

“Excuse me.”

“Oi, mate, watch who you’re pushing!”

“Excuse me!”

“For Christ’s sake, make some room over there, it’s so tight here we’re all breathing at the same time.” There’s always a comedian.

The tube is packed as usual.