Defecating in the bush and wiping with leaves he leaves the park in search of food and water for his pill, feeling unclean, wishing he'd remembered his passport to prove he belonged. He walks down empty Tufnell Park Road and crosses the usually rammed five-way junction. As he draws nearer the deli he smelled barbecued meat and his stomach moans: Maria's corpse, tied to a lamp post with wire, burned. Alive or dead? Does it matter? He barely knew the girl, once shouted when she overcharged for her divine Fettuccini.
The tube station's gates are padlocked but someone or something has bent and torn the metal lattice like chocolate. He looks round. Above the smashed Boston pub smoke rises and from the direction of Archway soft ululations: pagan chanting. Squeezing through he goes down 103 steps to the southbound platform. Empty. The indicator board flashes up gibberish: