The meeting had been disastrous. He'd sat ordering more drinks when everyone left, blotting out the more cringe worthy moments of his pitch. His tolerance was high. He'd been drinking a great deal since his wife left. Her fault he'd messed up at the meeting then!
Now his job was on the line too. As if she hadn't taken enough already!
He staggers out into the cold night air. This is an unfamiliar part of town and he hadn't really paid attention when arriving with his colleagues. He'd have asked the staff to call a cab in the restaurant but he's drunk his wallet dry and there'd been little chance of that snooty waitress helping him anyway. She'd given him the cold shoulder after he'd paid and asked for her number. Her look of distaste had depressed him more than any of the other events that night.
It's a cloudy sky, only occasional glimpses of a heavy moon. The chill penetrates his thin suit and cotton shirt. There's a dull but insistent ache in his bladder. He starts walking in the vague direction he thinks he came from after leaving the tube station earlier that day.
He's deep in disjointed thought and doesn't realise he's been staggering down the middle of the road until two headlights approach at speed. He jumps back to the safety of the pavement. His need for the toilet is now urgent, and he registers a small damp patch at his crotch. The car's windows are rolled down and there's music and laughter from inside. “Loser!” someone shouts from within, the word trailing off as they speed away.
He walks with greater care along the pavements. For some reason they're cobbled, and his footing isn't sure. He's searching for an alcove or alleyway. He has to relieve himself soon. Rounding the corner he sees a tube station. He's disorientated. This isn't the one he's been aiming for. The station's name is written in tiles above the partly shuttered entrance. "Hobbs' Pass."
There's an overalled man just behind the shutters, mopping the tiled floors. As he approaches, the cleaner drops the mop and puts up his hands, as if to ward him off.
“Don't worry mate,” he slurs as he approaches the shutters, “I'll not mess up your floor.”
He pushes past the man who is still gesticulating wildly, “No sir, you no want, you no want...”
Once inside the cleaner quietens immediately. In fact he carries on with his work as if nothing has happened.
“I'm just going to use the loo, mate...” he tries to explain in his slurred voice, but the cleaner is oblivious. He doesn't even look at him.
He walks further in to the dimly lit station. It has old fashioned tiles from floor to ceiling. A closer look at the posters on the wall reveal a by-gone era. “Underground – for business or pleasure.” says one. 'What about relief?' he thinks to himself and chuckles. “Keeps London Going!” proclaims another.
He knows what the deal is here. This must be one of those pre-war stations they've unearthed. Probably going to be a visitors centre or something. Not quite ready. He turns to ask the cleaner but he's gone, the shutters pulled tight. 'Moron's locked me in!' he thinks.
He looks down the white-tiled corridor and catches movement just at the end.
He heads down the corridor - his footfalls too loud. He feels vulnerable and self-conscious. “Hello?” he calls feebly but the acoustics amplify it and carry the greeting down the corridor and into the depths of the station.
Somewhere deep below him there comes a low rumble in reply. He feels the vibrations through the soles of his shoes. Are there trains running? Shouldn't be at this hour, and surely this line has been disconnected?
“Help you sir?” enquires a voice in his left ear. He jumps, startled. Spins on his heels and almost overbalances, still very much inebriated.
The rumble comes again from beneath his feet. A little closer this time it feels.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks shakily, spittle on his lips.
“I'm the station master, sir.” says the figure that's appeared behind him.
He is a small man, wearing wire rimmed glasses and a classic uniform, including the hat.
“Very authentic!” he says cynically.
“Yes, I'm exactly as you'd imagine me to be,” chuckles the station master.
“Well I need ...”
“The lavatory. Yes. I know.” says the station master, cutting him off.
“How did...”
“...I know? You proclaimed as much when you entered the mouth of the station. Sound carries well here.”
“Listen mate, I've had a terrible night, I'm a bit lost and I happened to find this station by mistake. I'll just use the loos and I'll be off.” he says, surprised by how pathetic his voice sounds.
“Oh sir, you are indeed lost. But it's no mistake that you're here.”
The station master sounds convivial but there's a hint of something else. There's a subtext to this conversation he doesn't understand and is starting not to like. His bladder burns. He turns to go - heading back to the entrance, forgetting the locked shutters.
He's taken a few long strides when he's stopped. There's a firm grip on his upper arm.
“Please hold on sir,” comes the station master's voice from down the corridor. “We've not concluded our business.”
The voice seems too far away. The grip on his arm is tight, undulating. There's no pressure where fingertips should be digging in. He looks at the arm and his bladder let's go. A warm stream soaks his suit trousers and splashes onto the cold white tiles.
The long tentacle that enfolds his arm stretches back down the corridor and disappears up the sleeve of the station master's uniform. That uniform now bulges unnaturally and the man's face is stretched in an impossible grin. His next words bubble from his (its?) flabby throat.
“The fare's fair. We pay the price to keep London moving.”
The station master begins to retract the tentacled appendage, dragging him backwards through his own mess.
“You're the last passenger tonight, sir.” he says as he pulls him closer, the words now guttural.
“The Old Ones used these tunnels long before your kind walked on two feet. They permit you to use them whilst they slumber. But even a hibernating creature needs... sustenance. The fare is fair. You pay the price to keep London moving.”
“But...I don't want to die!” He pleads, the ammonia stench of his own waste giving way to something far worse as they move towards to end of the corridor.
“Sir, there are worse things than that,” the thing that was the station master says, almost sympathetically. “Far worse.”
Below him, the rumble comes again and this time seems to last an eternity.
