Every line tells a different story …A troubled young woman travels across London to end an abusive relationship. An agitated father gets lost in the city with an injured toddler. Two men – who unknowingly cross paths every day – finally meet one life-changing afternoon. A sudden death on the platform at Blackfriars sparks rumours of murder.Underground, we are at once isolated and connected. We avoid eye contact and conversation while our lives literally intersect with those of strangers. As we stand on the tube, it becomes possible to travel far further than expected – and this sense of possibility lies at the heart of this stunning collection.Twelve writers explore life on the London Underground through eleven short stories and one memoir, commissioned to mark the opening of the Elizabeth line.
Оглавление
Various. Underground
Copyright
Dedication
Note from the Editor
ELIZABETH. The Parade. James Smythe
DISTRICT. Blackfriars. Matthew Plampin
CIRCLE. Joanna Cannon
PICCADILLY. The Piccadilly Predicament. Lionel Shriver
NORTHERN. Kat Gordon
WATERLOO & CITY. Number Five. Joe Mungo Reed
CENTRAL. Worm on a Hook. Tyler Keevil
JUBILEE. Layla AlAmmar
VICTORIA. Green Park. Janice Pariat
METROPOLITAN. My Beautiful Millennial. Tamsin Grey
BAKERLOO. London Etiquette. Katy Mahood
HAMMERSMITH & CITY. She Deserves It. Louisa Young
NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Publisher
Отрывок из книги
For London
Title Page
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I went to all of these places, and yet to none of them; I remembered them all perfectly, a lifetime in just the blink of my eyes; just as people said happened. A flash, so bright in that extended moment as to be almost entirely blinding.
I met Alex when he was already lying to his wife. A friend of mine that I knew online told me about an app, and he explained how to install it onto my phone, and from there I met Alex. He was ten years younger than I was, but he spoke about time as if he was some sort of master of it: the things that he had done, the people he had known, the life he had lived. He had two children, but he never spoke about them and didn’t want me to either, as if my saying their names might somehow alert them to my existence. He had a wife, whose name I was allowed to say, but only in a way that suggested I was appreciative of the pain he was enduring by staying with her. ‘Oh, Deborah wouldn’t understand,’ he would moan, hyphenating every syllable with his breath for some sort of extreme emphasis. ‘She’s known about my dalliances before, but this?’ He stroked my arm. ‘This love? She wouldn’t understand that.’
