As they pull into King’s Cross a bunch of apprehensive-looking Yanks board the tube. They probably booked their trip months ago and by the time the bombing campaign got underway found it was too late to cancel. Hook smiles at the idea: all sat on the plane as it lands, wondering what they’re in for.
Seeing them with their suitcases on wheels Hook decides he’d like to visit London as a tourist: quaffing fine wines, eating sweetmeats with ladies and overlords, clutching at bright parcels from Harrods and Harvey Nicks, catching taxis, attending dire musicals, sleeping sweetly in faceless hotels.
Monica changes at Euston. Hook kisses her hard on the mouth and she seems surprised, waves awkwardly from the platform as his train whizzes into the tunnel.
The morning heat’s stifling when Hook emerges at Embankment, but as he walks up the steps and crosses Hungerford Bridge towards the clamped London Eye a slight breeze cools him through his short-sleeved shirt. Halfway across the bridge he passes a dark, Eastern European tramp staring intently into the water and considers talking him out of it, but that will make him late. He can’t save everyone.