The Black Line

By Matt McAvoy

Modern day London - a proud day for a very proud man, and why shouldn't he be? Boris has worked so very hard, and is now launching his new driver-less tube train on the pioneering Tower Line. But while some consider the line a triumph, not all are as pleased; in fact some, the more spiritually-attuned perhaps, are downright terrified.

For the line, along with its creators, hides a secret... a secret darker than the tunnels under the Thames, and darker than the stories around the bodies buried there. As dark as the blackest evil of which man is capable. Bear witness - in the tunnel there is no way out.
WARNING - ADULTS ONLY

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJV Literary
• Release date: May 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393284550

Matt McAvoy

Matt McAvoy was born in Hertfordshire in 1974. As a child he attended the Torquay Grammar School for Boys and started writing fiction at an early age.He has studied screen-writing and production, psychology, social policy and criminology; he has written several short stories, novels and screenplays, including "Kill the Witch!" and the critically acclaimed "Granjy's Eyes". He now runs his own editorial services company, MJV Literary Editorial Services.Matt lives in London with his wife Katherine.

Book preview

THE BLACK LINE

Matt McAvoy

SUNDAY 7.50 p.m.

ENFIELD UNDERGROUND STATION.

It’s not even black, remarks one amongst the crowd, without displaying the slightest hint of irony, it’s purple. 

Those within earshot shoot ridiculing glances at the evidently dim-witted youth; someone calls him a muppet.  He runs his finger defiantly along the newest colourful addition to Beck’s iconic diagram of the tube network, emphasizing his wisdom.

The crowd is varying in content; some jovial, absorbing the atmosphere as if it is almost carnival-like, some less so – angry; furious even.  And, in their midst, a small element is terrified.

Some of the crowd hold banners, some hold candles.  They scream and shout contrary protests; London’s diversity of mind and character epitomized in one limited location.  Close the Black Line, a section shouts; shouting in counter, a sub-group of black and Asian men and women (mainly the men; most of the women appear to be white and middle-class) shout back: Racists!  Conflict simmers beneath the surface, threatening continuously to spill over into violence, but, on this occasion, never quite doing so.

Union members are here, perhaps loudest of all, their leaders too – one holds a placard, crudely painted with the menacing warning: R2D2 TOOK MY JOB – YOU’RE NEXT!

Of those demanding the new line’s closure, many wear black t-shirts, specially printed for the occasion, depicting a crucifix tombstone crossed out by a diagonal line, overlooked by three smiling cartoon £ signs.

They direct their protest through the fencing partitioning the world from the overground southbound platform at Enfield Station.  Underground employees prevent their access into the station property itself, and the adjoining car park is as close as they are permitted.

Amongst the crowd, a dark, sinister minority; a collective of three: two elderly men and a woman.  A small number, but their presence no less tangible, and certainly not a little chilling.  A dark atmosphere permeates the crowd, subtly, underlying, and it emanates from here, from this very group, slowly seeping into the crowd and its surroundings, like an odourless toxic vapour.  The woman and one of the men speak quietly, monotonously, incoherently amongst themselves; the other in their group directs his attention elsewhere.  He wears a long white beard and very long hair, and a long, dark, dirty coat with a black hooded top underneath.  He too speaks, but not to his companions; he stares through the fence transfixed, quietly uttering to one particular individual: the man of power on the platform, who has yet to acknowledge him.

The graves of St. Peter’s charge have been stirred, the man utters, as though entranced; the spirits must not be released.  The man’s message is undoubtedly a warning of stark gravity; his demeanour and delivery of it, however, defies this, as though hopelessness has triumphed, and the man already feels defeated, that his warning has come far too late.

The target of his menacing vitriol, the man on the platform, is the flamboyant, eccentric and jolly Mayor Boris, flanked by two silent associates who look like accountants but probably aren’t.  He jokes and laughs as he always does when graced with the presence of a television camera.

Small crews from a limited number of selected channels have been permitted access to the platform – one has even been chosen to accompany the mayor onto the train, which patiently awaits his patronage, its doors expectantly open.

One news crew, perhaps more shrewdly, is infiltrating the crowd outside, the young suit-attired broadcaster spearheading the crew approaching individuals who talk willingly, gleefully, and some passionately, into his hand-held microphone.

Mayor Boris astutely notices the excitement the crowd has stirred amongst the representatives of the media, and the way many of the cameras beside him on the platform have turned away to film the mass of people through the iron fence, recording their ire, amongst other things.  This is okay; he does not demand attention overtly, but addresses each camera one at a time, in his own inimitable, charming and endearing way, eager to ensure that each present has the impartial benefit of his own viewpoint on the launch of the Tower Line.

And why shouldn’t he revel in his credit?  He personally worked extremely hard to ensure the dream became a vision, the vision a goal, and the goal a reality.  Made many sacrifices in the process.  Now, looking around at the sheer scale of opposition, for the first time an element of doubt creeps into his mind and he thinks it may have been one sacrifice too many.  But, ever the eternal optimist, he persuades himself that these doubts are not new to him; success would prevail and, as always, he would win over the crowd.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the dull yet penetrating glare of the long-bearded man, but ignores it, still smiling.  In his peripheral vision he sees the old man’s lips move, may even hear his words but, were this the case, chooses to ignore them.

The dim youth was right: the Tower Line isn’t black; on Beck’s map it is purple – a much lighter, more