His name was there, on the Northern Line, between Tufnell Park and Highgate, printed on the Map where Archway should be.
He blinked hard, glanced around at the empty streets soaking in warm yellow lights, and looked again at the map, following the black line upwards: Kentish Town, Tufnell Park...
Tom shook himself down, loosening his tie and pulling his trenchcoat tighter around him. A breeze rattled a smashed milk bottle in the kerbside, the stench of sour milk stinging his nostrils. He’d had a drink, and a sip of that cocktail Muezza had bought him, but that was it. A drink. He definitely wasn’t seeing things, and he knew that part of the tube map like his own home, because Archway was his stop for home. It had said Archway that morning when he’d left, hadn’t it?
Tom drew himself up: only one way to find out what this was about.
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