After a final drink in Molly Moggs Hook feels he’s had enough. At Leicester Square he descends into the bowels, liver spiking and weeping. When the northbound tube thrusts through, Hook hops into the quiet first carriage and pulls out the fold-down by the driver’s door. Newspaper headlines fill the empty seats but his eyes water too much to read so he stares down the carriage, chest heaving, one hand ensuring the BlackBerry is still in his jacket.
As the tube accelerates out of the station he watches all the light, noise and dark being sucked out of him like a long intestine. The past isn’t a foreign country, decides Hook, it’s another world, where people don’t just do things differently but become their own guilt-edged ancestors.