The Pied Piper

Hemingway was distraught at the idea of travelling alone in the busy underground of the polluted greying city, London. His eyes flickered back and forth in every direction, watching out for the usual pit-pocket or thieving tramp that was after a bit of dosh.

Alone, why did it have to be alone? The chamber man could quite easily have had one of his men accompany him to St Pauls, but he was too busy to realise that he’d told Hemingway to travel via tube; the most dangerous and vile form of transportation.

As he stepped closer to the platform among the filthy Londoners a police officer ran past waving and shouting at someone who Hemingway could not make out from where he was, though he was sure it was a child whom the officer was cursing. The chase caused several people stood by the stairs to push forward; allowing the officer the space he required to get through. This in turn nudged those stood at the front to move all the closer to the yellow lines; and before you could say ‘pop’ a group of travellers were knock down onto the train tracks just as the central line train approached. Screams and a dark maroon colour went everywhere. The police officer abandoned his chase immediately and pushed forward against the crying, puking people only to find himself joining their revulsion.

Hemingway ignored the fuss and climbed onto the train, which was purely oblivious to the mess and distress it had just caused. Hemingway placed his buttocks onto a seat opposite the central doors. The chamber man had not wanted him to make a big deal about the situation but it was too difficult not to. It was clear that something had to be done about the pollution levels in the city, which was far beyond the disturbing cases of Bangkok or Hong Kong for that matter.

The point that the chamber man had missed, the most important thing of all was that, with all the hospitals full of dying people from the poisonous air, and all the infertile people, it was blatant that the city had to be abandoned in order to save it. The chamber man however lived, a luxurious life out in Kent and only had to deal with London on Wednesdays when he came in to check on one of his businesses before leaving for home again. Now sat suspiciously on the central line he wanted to lurch. He was not going to go to the courts by the abbey, instead he would visit his brother who lived not far from Notting Hill Gate; at least this way he wouldn’t have to change trains; he couldn’t bear standing at another platform, not with the new plague about; he wasn’t taking that chance.

To Be Continued...