Hot, loud, the wheels seem to shriek at each turn as the souls of the damned ride from Ealing Broadway on the west end to Epping in the northeast, and points in between. Some of the trains take off on a loop siding for other points east that sound as ominous as anything Dante himself invented; Chigwell, Barkingside, and Fairlop.
One learns ones fate too late for salvation as the doors are closed and the carriage is already moving when the announcement is read on the intercom:
This train is bound for Chigwell. This train is bound for Chigwell. And I sing to myself, this train is not bound for glory, this train. The carriage rocks as it hurdles down the tube, the vents open in a vain attempt for relief from the heat, but this only admits bits of soot from the fires below which clog the nostrils and soil the clothing.
Souls of the damned crowd aboard at Bond Street, mashing a great mass of humanity together including demonic looking folk with pierced lips and eyebrows, hideous paints on their bodies and wooden loops crammed into the ear lobes and nostrils.
A voice comes to me and answers: “You have traveled to London England in the Summer”, and I know I am among those souls who will not rise to the surface again. I am damned to ride the Central Line of the London Underground for eternity.