Pestilence crossed his legs as the train rattled through Chancery Lane station. He’d been on the tube since South Ruislip and, apart from a 6-year-old girl who had wrinkled her nose and peered at him with saucer eyes, no-one had looked at him twice. His dirty robes spilled down the seat and onto the foot of the dead-eyed woman slumped beside him.
“Forget horses – this is how we should travel when the end comes,” he said out loud, “No-one will even notice us until it’s too late.”
The crumpled banker sitting next to him coughed and hunched down further into the refuge of his newspaper.
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Simon John Cox 