Twelve months on. Sat on the Northern Line heading south towards Kings Cross on a rapidly emptying train. Eleven thirty pm. The clubbers disappeared at Camden, leaving a scant hard-core population of drunks, shift workers and loners, just like John, scattered throughout the train.
His eyes slid shut. He was permanently tired these days, rarely sleeping for more than an hour at a time. Sleeping meant dreaming, Dreaming meant remembering the bloodstain on a London pavement left by a plummeting body. Alcohol helped, but not always. Cat naps were preferable, when he was never asleep long enough to dream.
This time, he awoke to stillness and near darkness. The disorientation faded as he inhaled the scent of Tube dust and brake fluid. There was a flicker of light further down the carriage from the phone of a woman sat with her back to him. The vividness of the phone screen gave her the suggestion of a halo, illuminating her with a brittle whiteness.
Another scent arose, wandering between aromatic and acrid. Smoke. John's tiredness snapped away. He pulled out his phone and used it as a torch to locate the alarm. The smoke was visible now, drifting through the open windows at the carriage ends, He tried to work out how far they were from Euston. A matter of yards at a guess, but with no real chance of escape unless the driver responded.

Which he did, just before John's hand touched the alarm. "Ladies and gentleman, we apologise for the delay. This is due to an electrical fault. We will get moving in a few minutes, but this train will terminate at Euston."
John sat down as the lights returned. The smoke was still there, like an unpleasant whisper. Why hadn't the mentioned it? Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps he didn't want to cause a panic amongst his quietly exhausted passengers.
The train began lurching forward into Euston. As the doors opened, it was clear that they had arrived in the middle of a security alert. Transport police and Underground officials awaited them on the platform. The smell of smoke intensified, although its source was unclear.
John joined the weary stragglers as they left the platform and snaked off towards the escalators. The scent of smoke followed them vaguely. As he trudged onto the escalator, the sudden closeness of others tightened his chest. He could feel the panic rising in his chest. His leg grew watery. His right palm grew slick with sweat. His grip on the handrail became increasingly insecure. He was not even halfway to the top. It was all too easy to visualise the ridged contours of the tread below, beneath and behind him, constantly moving. There were people behind him too. If he fell, so would they, like a pile of broken dominoes. God help the one at the bottom.