The Black Line

It was a while before he even realised she was on the platform at York Road. He’d been running on autopilot. It was… God, what? Five years since he’d last seen someone there.

Neville applied the brakes and brought the train to a halt. He was secretly delighted that the cab eased to a stop directly in line with the black London Underground roundel on the platform wall opposite. Okay, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t done this, but it was always satisfying. Even more so with an audience.

He turned on the door camera nearest to his mystery passenger. She must have seen it move because, to Neville’s growing excitement, she pulled a plastic pass from the inside pocket of her suit jacket and held it up for him to see.

That excitement evaporated the moment he looked at it closely.

It wasn’t right.

Neville knew what he had to do. The same thing he had done five years ago. And five years before that. And five years before that. The pass wasn’t right. He could see that. There were rules.

And yet he didn’t. Instead, he opened the door.

If the lady on the platform felt any surprise at this turn of events, she didn’t seem to show it. Neville watched her…